He froze and listened, trying to ascertain proximity and intent. It was difficult over the muffled sounds of war outside, but it sounded like two sets of footsteps. Enough to justify a grenade. He stood back in the far corner of the kitchen with line of sight to the corridor where the stairs terminated. He changed grip, disengaged the grenade launcher’s safety, and put his finger on the trigger. Then he waited. His mind wandered for a few moments as he thought about how he’d found himself in this place. Next thing he knew he was out of his daydream, his mind alerted by the tinkling sound of two separate hand grenades that had rolled along the floor to join him.
“Shit!” he cried as he jumped to his feet and powered towards the kitchen door. He slammed the door behind him but, milliseconds later, the grenades exploded in quick succession, blowing out the windows and shocking him into a daze. He looked up across the grass towards the barn and the squad of enemy soldiers raising their rifles at him. A second later, the bullets from three of them struck him at supersonic speed—one in the head and two in the chest.
His time was up. Game over.
He removed the VR headset and reached down to unclasp himself from the harness.
“Wow, that was so cool!” he exclaimed.
***
Saturday, March 14th, 2043 10:00am: Arcon Exhibition Centre, London
Roman Sinclair was forty-one years old and still loved video games. He’d gotten his first computer at the age of eight from his Scottish father and Russian mother and had been hooked ever since. Now the bespectacled, self-confessed geek was balding, short, and flabby around the midriff. Not that it stopped him having a string of attractive girlfriends. It was probably something to do with the four hundred million pound fortune he’d made from his company, E-Vision Entertainment. He’d started it straight out of college all those years ago and still owned a controlling share and still ran the show. The CEO may have been at the helm, but it didn’t stop him getting involved with the details of his company’s latest games. The latest and greatest in his opinion was Mercenary Wars. Some of the games press that had tested pre-release copies had called it ‘just another shooter’ but they were in the tiny minority. Most raved about it and it had even garnered a good deal of mainstream press attention, not so much for its photo-realistic sound and graphics but more for the type of hardware it could support and its innovative business model.
The Logicon VR Runner and the way Mercenary Wars integrated so seamlessly with it had really wowed the testers. The VR Runner consisted of a cylindrical frame not much bigger than a shower cubicle with a runner base and upper body harness. The runner base was made up of hundreds of ball bearings arranged in a grid on which the player could run, turn, jump and crouch. There was even a larger model that allowed the player to lie prone, but they did not expect sales to be high due to their inherent size. What made the bearings lend an air of realism to the VR headset-wearing players was the way their resistance was individually adjusted according to what the player was doing in the game. For example, if the player were standing still they would give very little. Once the player started walking they would rotate more freely, though still provide some resistance. Once running, they would be as frictionless as they could be. The harness ensured the player stayed relatively centred and didn’t fall over. It was all too easy to lose one’s balance—especially before they got used to the world through their VR headset. The business model was the other innovation. It was one of a kind and Sinclair hoped it would attract market segments that might not otherwise be interested. The game was subscription based, but with a difference. The player could accept missions—either single player or multi-player in a squad—and earn back their subscription and more. Obviously, he and his team had set it up so the house always made a net gain, but they predicted the idea itself was enough to drive sales.
It was the weekend of the Gaming Times Expo—an annual event held in London’s Arcon Exhibition Centre on the South Bank. All the big names in entertainment gaming were there and Sinclair’s E-Vision was one of the world leaders. Mercenary Wars would go on sale the following weekend and this was all about getting exposure for what he hoped would be Game of the Year 2043. As he arrived on the rooftop landing pad in his top-of-the-range aero-car, he saw his PA, the lovely Wei-Lin, waiting for his arrival by the lift entrance.
“Hello, Roman. You’re on in half an hour.” She smiled, her pretty eyes twinkling in the morning sun. She wore a fitted black dress—business-like, but still sexy as hell in Sinclair’s opinion.
“It’s okay, Wei-Lin, I know my lines,” he replied in a light Scottish accent. He’d spent an increasing share of his time away from Scotland as his success had grown, neutralising his native accent somewhat. Nevertheless, the company’s main base of operations was in Dundee, a minor centre for the games industry.
“As always, Roman,” she beamed, stroking some stray lengths of hair behind her ear.
She’d been with her boss—both literally and figuratively—for two years so knew him well. One of the things she knew was that he was equipped with one of the most powerful implanted computer systems around. So he never needed notes and he never forgot a face, or a fact or an appointment. Sometimes she wondered why he needed a PA at all, although he couldn’t get everything done just by thinking it.
They entered the elevator and took it down to the ground floor where the exhibitions were set up. Gaming industry types and gamers packed the large convention hall. The wall of a thousand voices hit them as they made their way to E-Vision’s prime spot in the far right corner, near the main entrance. No one recognised Sinclair—it wasn't that kind of industry. Fans knew the games, not the people behind them. They passed booths full of computer displays and VR headset-wearing gamers playing the latest and greatest. The displays served to mirror what the gamer was seeing—headsets alone were simply not visual enough for what amounted to one big advert, as the many competing games and manufacturers vied for attendees’ eyeballs. Although many different hardware options existed for gaming, many gamers preferred—or could only afford—the old-style display, headphones and gamepad. But since Sinclair had been interested in the industry—some three decades—he’d seen a shift towards increasingly immersive hardware. He already had all the hardware he needed in the form of his ICS. His implanted computer was powerful enough to play even the latest games at full frame rate, resolution and the rest. Just by the power of thought he could access the game world of any modern game. And he often did. Sometimes he wondered why he still bothered going on physical holidays, although he knew the reasons why: no one had yet modelled the entire planet in all its diversity and detail.
He’d never succumb to the gamers’ condition of disassociation with the real world. Some alarmists said it was a growing problem—especially with ICS users. A so-called ‘exposé’ he’d read the previous weekend said that, while the game world was exciting, vivid and gave the player purpose, when they went back to real life the world seemed drab and pedestrian by contrast. Whatever, thought Sinclair, like any tech, there are some that can't handle it. But for most people, ICS technology was out of their financial reach. Miniaturising a computer and its peripherals for use inside the human body and then interfacing it with the brain was no trivial matter. And an upgradable ICS as powerful as Sinclair’s was only afforded to the very rich. Some quarters called it the ultimate privilege. Again, he had little sympathy for this line of argument. There had always been inequality and, in his view, a thriving economy needed some of it to provide incentives for social mobility. After all, he thought, we are creatures driven by the social pecking order and status. Successive governments have done enough to tax the arse off me and it’s only gotten worse with the BIP in power. Too much of a populist, that Faraday! He knew he wasn’t the only one who felt this. His circle of similarly super-rich friends all resented the so-called “drive towards equality.” What a load of tosh it all was—just stealing from the rich so the poor could waste it on booze and drugs.
The
re was another, very different kind of exhibitor there that weekend and Sinclair and Wei-Lin had to pass it on their way—the British Army. It was no surprise to Sinclair as he stopped to look at the large, green-dominated booth. One sidewall had a collection of military hardware mounted on it and on a table next to it—assault rifles, a MANPAD, body armour, some kind of weird domed device that Sinclair had not seen before. A young man toyed with a handgun that he took from its mounting on the wall. Sinclair sincerely hoped they were replicas. On the expansive rear wall was a large sign reading, ‘British Army,’ and below it, ‘The Future Is Coming.’ Below that was a display showing rolling footage of his friend, Victor Zane’s, products in action on the test range. A four-metre-high Sentinel walker was advancing down a street of two-storey grey concrete commercial buildings—a test village somewhere. It was peppering the upper floor windows with heavy calibre gunfire while taking round after round from unseen adversaries. The incoming rounds seemed to just bounce off its armour. It was a menacing sight. A squad of four Centurion HIUs advanced from the cover of one ground floor doorway to the next when, suddenly, some plasticky-looking robots came out of the opposite doorway across the street, firing with assault rifles. Must be test drones, thought Sinclair. The Centurions ripped the three test drones to shreds whilst the Sentinel continued pouring covering fire into the window above them where another hapless test robot had tried to target them.
Further along the large wall were four more displays. Three of them were mirroring what the two young men and one young woman were seeing in their VR headsets. It was some kind of game—or simulation as the army preferred it—with them controlling a Centurion HIU.
“Are you interested in seeing what it’s like as an operator?” asked the pretty young blonde in army uniform. “We’re recruiting heavily for the new army,” she smiled pleasantly.
Sinclair smiled and Wei-Lin answered for him. “Afraid not, my dear. Mr Sinclair is too busy running his company these days.”
A mid-thirties man came from the back of the booth. She got the feeling that he knew Sinclair. Wei-Lin knew he was well connected—Unsurprising when you’re as rich as him, she thought. But she didn't think he knew any army officers like this guy. He wore a uniform and a red beret and was tall and handsome with a warm, genuine smile. Wei-Lin liked the look of him. He walked over to Sinclair and Wei-Lin and nodded politely to them both.
“Good morning, I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Becker.” Guess they don’t know each other then, thought Wei-Lin.
They made some small talk about the operator recruitment and training programmes and how they needed ninety-thousand operators in all. Some would come from existing members of the army—many of them former Regulars. But they would draw many from the general population. It was a popular option for a youth population that had turned increasingly to immersive, interactive entertainment rather than the passive movies and TV of yesteryear. Get to fight real enemies controlling state-of-the-art robots, make Britain great again and get paid for it—that was, to Sinclair at least, the basic story of the army’s recruitment. And according to Becker, it seemed to be working. He was the coordinator for the new robot army and they were ahead of recruitment targets. He’d explained that it was a far cry from the trouble they had getting real combat troops. Different type of person completely. Real soldiers, real fitness, and real bravery.
They walked towards the E-Vision zone and the stage that Sinclair would soon speak on.
“Do you know Colonel Becker?” asked Wei-Lin curiously.
“Never met him before, but he seems a thoroughly nice chap though.” Never met him, but my ICS tells me I know a man who has, he thought.
***
In what had come to be known as ‘Steve Jobs Style’, Sinclair strode onto the black stage to Wei-Lin’s introduction.
“And now please welcome founder and CEO of E-Vision Entertainment, Mr Roman Sinclair!”
The two hundred or so gamers, press and staff clapped him as he smiled his way into position at centre stage. He gave a brief wave back and nodded to a few familiar faces in the crowd. He noted the cameras were there too—one with the BMC logo and another with GNN’s. The enormous projected image gradually started lightening from black as he started.
“Today E-Vision is pleased to bring you Mercenary Wars: The Game That Pays to Play!”
He turned to face the image behind him as the games logo resolved into existence before giving way to some stunning in-game scenes. They should try it on ICS! he thought, as he scanned back to the crowd of faces. He was pleased to see that they were engrossed in the on-screen violence and suitably impressed. After a minute, the demo scenes died away to black and he turned to speak again.
“I think you’ll agree that the graphics are spectacular!” he cried, and started clapping. The shills in the crowd followed suit until two hundred-odd onlookers were applauding.
Sinclair detailed the game play and the hardware compatibility then turned to the payment part of it. That was, after all, what the mainstream press were interested in.
“So it’s called Mercenary Wars for a reason—just like real-life mercs, you, the player, can select missions and get paid for them.” Or earn back some of your subscription if you’re lucky, he thought.
“Here’s how it works,” he started, as some graphics flew onto the screen behind to illustrate. “In the main menu, first select ‘Pay for Play Missions.’ A list will magically appear, like this one behind me. There you’ll find a mission description, whether it’s single or team-based play and how much it pays. Only subscribing players can take on these missions—free players can only play training and basic missions. If you’re good you can earn back some or all of your subscription. The best players will actually make money from this gig! Woo!” he exclaimed, as his shills got the crowd applauding and cheering too.
He knew he’d be cheering even more if this thing took off. Just like in gambling: the house never loses, he thought.
***
“It went really well today, Roman—a very positive reaction from the crowd I thought,” Wei-Lin enthused, flanking him towards his autonomous aero-car. It was just after midday and both of them were several glasses of champagne worse for wear.
“Yes, just as I like it—everything went to plan,” he replied, placing his arm around his petite assistant. “Thanks for your help in pulling it all together.”
She smiled, pleased she had pleased. The last time he’d bought her a personal auto-car complete with maintenance plan. Not many people actually owned cars in the 2040s since they were autonomous, making it was relatively easy to hail one. This was one machine technology that was too established to outlaw. She just hoped he didn’t suggest paying for her to get an ICS like he had. Sure, it’d help her become super-smart like him, but she just didn’t like the thought of it. She’d also read that it drove some people insane—she looked at Sinclair and wondered… She’d never known him without it so she was in no position to judge. He was a decent enough guy and last time she’d said no to the ICS he respected her stance on it.
He thought open the gull-wing door to his red aero-car. Then he thought-opened the passenger’s side. “Coming?” he asked.
“Where to?”
“Spot of late lunch at my apartment. And some afters,” he grinned.
Although she liked him as a guy, he was far from physically attractive to her. Not repulsive, but no oil painting. He was just an overgrown schoolboy who had never grown out of computer games and toys. Good for him, he can afford it; and he can afford me some luxuries too, she decided. Still, she felt she could not refuse and replied with a demure smile, “Sure, let’s go.”
The aero-car took off vertically into the clear London sky. She enjoyed the view and thought what a life it could be if she got more permanent with her boss. A far cry from her modest one-bedroom apartment in the east of the city. She’d still have time to see her real date later. She was set to meet him at the local pub and knew Sinclair had what she called a
‘power meeting’ with his circle of super-rich posers: Victor Zane, John Hardcastle and probably some others she didn’t know. They made even Sinclair’s wealth look ordinary. Thick as thieves, she thought. She wouldn’t need to schedule it as they were all technically cyborgs with their damned perfect memories and mind-talk. The more Wei-Lin thought about it, the weirder it seemed.
6
We have to distrust each other. It is our only defence against betrayal.
Tennessee Williams
Saturday, March 14th, 2043 5:35pm: Sinclair’s Apartment, Central London
“Well, let me put it this way, John,” said an irritated Zane, “it wasn’t what I imagined when I bank-rolled your lot into office.”
“Gotta second that one,” added Sinclair, joining Zane’s glare at Defence Secretary Hardcastle.
Hardcastle took a moment and watched a commuter boat passing the Palace of Westminster down below, across the river. The sun was low in the sky, casting a golden glow behind one of the birthplaces of modern democracy.
“The prime minister feels the new taxes are fair and the public supports them,” he replied, blaming Faraday for the new levies on assets and income of the super-rich like Sinclair, Zane and himself.
“Who gives a shit if the public supports them?” ranted Zane. He accessed his ICS and said, looking down on Parliament from Sinclair’s fortieth floor window, “The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter said a clever man named Churchill. Could not have put it better myself. Trouble with Faraday is he’s a populist. He needs to learn that the government are the adults in all this—we can’t give in every time the children want sweeties!” He shook his head in disgust.
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