Ward took a seat in the center of the front-facing couch. He began groping for a harness the moment he sat down. Given the speeds at which they were about to travel, and the fact there was little gravity to speak of in their present location, he naturally felt the need to be strapped in. Unable to locate a harness, he voiced his concerns to Emile. “Um, I can’t seem to find any restraints.”
“No need,” Emile explained, taking a seat on his right. “The cushions are polymorphic. In the event of trouble, they will support or restrain you as needed.”
“Really?” Ward sat up for a moment to get a better look at the seat beneath him. The skin was indistinguishable from a leather surface, with no indication of pores or particles of any kind. Yet as he had pulled away from it, the skin seemed to reach for him before settling back into its original position. It was the subtlest of movements, but he knew that if his relative velocity had been greater, it would have held on with greater force.
“That’s quite, impressive,” he said, retaking his seat.
“I think you’ll find a few things have changed since your last visit. Virtually all materials on Ares have been smartened in recent years. Once you’ve got your old augments back, you’ll be able to interface with just about everything around you.”
Emile tapped at his temple as he spoke, indicating neural implants, the kind that didn’t solely monitor you or spike you whenever you did something the prison guards didn’t like. Ward had expected the Formists would offer as much. If he was to be at peak performance to complete a job for them, implants were essential. After so long without them, he had to control a quiver of excitement at the thought of having access to them again. He wondered what it would be like to have fresh overlay to call upon again, and what they revealed about the world he was currently passing through.
Sighing lightly, Ward nestled into the couch, feeling the slightest sensation as the material welcomed his movements with accommodating shifts. The shuttle car began to move, the cushions shifting again to absorb him as he was thrown back. In no time, they were firing down the length of the Pillar, the thick central core that ran the entire length of the installation, navigating their way “south” relative to the station’s horizontal axis.
The path the shuttle car took afforded them a picturesque view of the Installation’s interior, looking down upon an entire world of parks, lakes, domiciles and hotels, all gently rotating below them. In the air, aerial vehicles of every size and shape could be seen, from personal flyers and gliders to aerial nanodrones. Here and there, Ward also caught sight of the El lines; the tracks ran closer to the surface and accommodated public trains.
Ward had guessed rather quickly from the path their car was taking they were headed for Sarak Lovelock, the residential area at the southernmost tip of Ares. Where else, but in the section closest to the surface – where Terra Meridiani, Valles Marineris and Hellas Plantis could all be seen like ducks standing in a row – would the leaders of the planet’s most powerful Faction set up shop?
The car sped along, heading for the equatorial ring – the junction divided the northern hemisphere of the vast installation from the south. Through the window, it appeared they were approaching a massive, solid wall. A small aperture in its smooth construction, barely visible, lay directly in their path, welcoming them with its blinking lights.
As they passed through it, the outside world vanished for a brief second. When it was readmitted, they were looking upon a very similar landscape, but moving in the opposite direction. Whereas the northern half of the installation provided the standard Martian 0.376 g by rotating clockwise, the southern section did the same by rotating counter-clockwise.
Such was the necessity of orbital installations that were tethered to the surface, and wanted to remain that way!
The entire journey passed in silence. Emile stared out of the shuttle car’s side window, toying with the ring as if he were deep in thought. Ward noticed the steady glow of the ring’s jewel and wondered if perhaps it wasn’t some sort of beacon or proximity device. Why someone of Emile’s bearing would wear such an obvious item on his finger, rather than a subtle subdermal one, was beyond him. Ward dismissed the thought as immaterial. Much about Emile was still a mystery to him.
Besides, Ward couldn’t be sure what he was experiencing wasn’t a withdrawal-fueled hallucination. Or perhaps it was all part of an alpha-level simulation being run by the Formists to keep him docile. Ward had heard of such things being done to the minds of convicts for the sake of interrogation. They weren’t legal by any stretch of the imagination, but he couldn’t help but notice that ever since he woke up in his cell, life had been getting progressively better.
When the universe presented unexpected gifts to the undeserving, how else were they to react except with sheer paranoia?
Sarak Lovelock eventually appeared, like a glittering band at the end of a tunnel. At this end of the Ares installation, the structures were a little taller, abutting the very edge of the installation’s hull. Some even extended onto the hull itself; the slats overlooking the Red Planet were also becoming visible.
Ward felt his breath quickening and his heart speeding up. Soon, he would be face to face with his prospective employers. And he imagined, one way or another, the lingering questions he had would be answered.
A wry smile formed on his lips as he hoped he wouldn’t suddenly wake to find it was all a dream and he was still languishing in his isolation cell back on the Rock.
“We’re about there,” Emile said as the car deliberately came to a stop. Ward looked ahead and realized they had come to the end of the Pillar. All that remained was for the car to change directions once more and begin descending “down” the width of the hull. For a moment, the effect of their downward trajectory conflicted with the increasing pull of the station’s gravity, making him feel weightless.
By the time they reached their destination, Ward was subjected to the full force of the installation’s 0.376 g. His boots responded by decoupling their seals, allowing him to walk freely.
“After you.” The door of the shuttle car slid open with a gentle hiss. Emile gestured for him to step out first. Ward stepped out onto a platform adjacent to what appeared to be the tallest building in Lovelock. He was struck by a current of wind. Closing his eyes, he drew in the dozen different smells characterizing the region.
“Son of a bitch.” he whispered. It was sweeter than he remembered. Spices and cooking aromas intermingled with the smell of evergreens, lilacs and hibiscus. And the cityscape, how much brighter and lovely it seemed when viewed from something approaching ground level. Grey and maroon sections of hull, long swaths of green, blue, orange and yellow reaching from one end of his peripheral vision to the other. Above them, the Pillar seemed faint, partially obscured by the moisture accumulating closer to the center of the immense cylindrical structure.
Ward was unsure how long he stood there, drawing it all in. When he finally realized he was lingering and looked at Emile, the Formist was standing there watching him. No smile to speak of, just a look of businesslike seriousness.
“Sorry. Got a bit enchanted there.”
“Not a problem,” Emile replied. “Shall we go?”
#
The second leg of their journey involved a quick descent down a lift, followed by a walk lasting several minutes which took them from one bright eggshell-colored corridor to the next. They passed several people as they went, all of whom were dressed in similar robes to Emile. The color schemes differed, but the shiny, filamentary structures were identical. Each one, it seemed, was interfacing with displays only they saw, and talking to people only they saw and heard.
Ward tried not to let his jealousy show. The Survey was like a beautiful world existing around everyone in the installation, but which only Ward was unable to partake in. The reality of being unaugmented in a Survey World.
“Is this where Pinter is kept?”
“Close to,” Emile said. “His sanctum is the heart of
our facility here. While he can manifest where he pleases, or as summoned, he prefers his own walls around him, and a comfortable setting.”
Ward frowned. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. Typically, constructs went wherever they wanted and enjoyed endless virtual spaces when not interacting with the real world. Being left active in a single room, which is what he interpreted Emile’s comment to mean, seemed completely counter-intuitive. One of the greatest perks of being an upload was not being bound by things like space and place. If such things were indeed a comfort to him, he might as well have chosen to live as a facsimile of himself.
They turned one final corridor, and were confronted by a door several meters wide. It was instantly apparent to Ward that whatever lay beyond it was enough to occupy most of the floor. Stranger still was the fact the doors seemed very much like an airlock rather than a doorway to another room. One look at them told Ward they were composed of ultra-dense material, seamless and airtight.
“This is it,” said Emile. He stopped at the edge of the door and raised his ring finger. Ward’s earlier suspicion was confirmed. The ring was glowing, alive with a light evidently coming from within. Emile touched it in such a way, and the doors opened. Ward recoiled somewhat when the interior became apparent, utterly dark and cavernous, giving him the distinct impression that what lay beyond was nothing but hard vacuum.
Ward gawped at the yawning entrance, then back to Emile. “Will you be coming in too?”
“No.” His reply was flat and totally businesslike. Gone was any trace of his earlier warmth and courtesy. "Pinter needs to speak to you alone. My presence would only encumber things.”
Ward viewed the door hesitantly. Between Emile’s suddenly cool demeanor and the appearance of the interior, he felt more than a little hesitant. “What is this?”
“It’s Pinter’s Sanctum, or more precisely, a Heilig room. I assure you, there’s no danger.”
Ward peered inside, looking left and right, searching for some semblance of solid walls. It was pointless. Even with the light from the corridor, it was impossible to tell where the room began and ended. It was almost as if the entire place was a curved segment of space time.
“I feel inclined to tell you, Mr. Ward, when one is given the opportunity to speak to my elder, they graciously accept. He is not one for bothering with just any person.”
Ward cleared his throat and tried to smile. “Thank you, I’m quite flattered.” Tentatively, he placed one foot beyond the threshold and let it touch down. Much to his relief, it contacted something solid. A second step inside yielded the same results. A third step, and the doors whisked shut behind him. Ward spun about, and found only darkness where his brain knew there should be a set of heavy doors.
Emile was gone. And with him, any sense of locality. The first small tremor of some deep, ethereal fear ran down Ward’s spine.
And then, just like that, the light returned. All at once, Ward found himself in new surroundings, every dimension and facet of the room filled with recognizable objects. Ward took in tables, a couch, and plenty of furniture. The side of the room furthest from him had a sliding transparent door opened out onto an azure seascape. Patently, he was standing in a studio flat, located somewhere on Earth.
Beyond that, he had no idea where he was or what was happening.
That was when he heard the voice.
“Mr. Ward.” He spun to look at the source. Standing there, wearing a completely unaffected ensemble consisting of a linen shirt and khakis, was a man resembling Pinter Chandrasekhar. He appeared much younger than in any of the pictures or videos Ward had seen.
“Are you?”
“Yes, Mr. Ward.”
Pinter extended his hand. Ward frowned, but took it in his. His breath caught in his throat as his fingers and then his palm registered the tactile sensation of touching another’s skin. He was equally shocked to feel the warmth of the other’s palm. Ward withdrew his hand a moment later and stared at the man standing before him, his eyes wide in disbelief.
“Pinter Chandrasekhar?” he asked.
A light chuckle escaped the man’s lips. “In the flesh, so to speak.”
Ten
Pinter released Ward’s hand. The hand lingered in the air for a moment. Much like the rest of him, it had been rendered temporarily immobile.
“I know this must be somewhat surprising. I assure you, it’s entirely explicable.”
“A Heilig room,” Ward said, echoing what Emile had said not a moment ago. His mind raced to recall the technical details. “Known also as a lattice quantum chromodynamics environment. A simulation that’s a perfect approximation, right down to the subatomic level.”
Pinter seemed somewhat impressed. “Ah, so you are familiar?”
“With the concept? Sure. I’ve never seen one before.”
“I’m not surprised. When you began your incarceration, these sorts of environments might only be simulated up to a few meters. It’s really only been in the past few years.” He glanced at Ward and appeared suddenly apologetic. “I’m sorry, I tend to get excited about the fineries we have here. I didn’t mean to touch on anything sensitive.”
“What? My incarceration? It’s all right. I’m actually enjoying not being in a cell for once.” Ward cast several looks around the expanse of the apartment, marveling at the detail of the projection. “So, where are we?”
“You mean in the approximate sense of the word?” Pinter said, chuckling once more. “This is Mombasa, or rather the old apartment I had when I lived there. Would you care to step out on the terrace?”
Ward regarded the sliding glass doors and muttered in the affirmative. He followed Pinter out onto the platform beyond, and was struck by a warm wind. His nose perked up, picking up the briny smell of sea water and the fresh scent of vegetation. These were not familiar smells, but his sensorium knew precisely what they were.
He opened his eyes and spied a structure in the distance. It was circular in shape, sitting in the water like a massive seawall. The waves lapped up against its outer walls. Above the uppermost level, tall turbines reached into the sky, spinning as they absorbed the sea winds. The skins facing the sun glistened with gunmetal panels.
“I know what that is,” Ward said. “I’ve seen it before, somewhere.”
“That, my friend, is Kisiwa cha Kimbilio. Or Kimbilio, for short. It’s one of many Lillypad arcologies my associates and I created back in our day.”
Ward nodded, but then shook his head. Merely knowing where they were did not resolve the better part of his confusion. “When was this, exactly?”
Pinter pursed his lips, humming thoughtfully. “I believe we’re at about twenty forty-seven. I arrived here at twenty forty, work was completed by twenty forty-five, and I chose to stay on to oversee the restoration of the estuary and the de-acidification of the coastal waters. But of course, time has a way of standing still in here. Everything you are seeing was reconstructed based on my memories; whenever I want to shift times or locations, I do so.”
“Did you choose this place for a reason, or are you always here?”
“You mean, did I choose it specifically for our meeting?” Ward nodded. “I suppose I did. I do enjoy coming here and enjoying the sights and sounds of my youth, but I believe my work here back in the day serves to remind me of something profound.”
Ward looked at him expectantly. He had learned long ago that in situations like this, people of power liked to put on a great show. They enjoyed being indulged as they displayed their wealth and shared their opinions, as if these things were somehow larger than life and needed to be bestowed onto other people. He steeled himself, summoning as much patience as he might, knowing this might take some time and would probably involve more than a little help from different Heilig-generated environments.
“When I was young, Mr. Ward, the people of my generation had but one goal. Stave off the collapse of civilization as we knew it. We went to school, we studied, and we worked with the knowledge that by t
he time we were old enough, the world would be calling on us to make a very big difference. We thought of ourselves as perhaps the most important and burdened generation in history, being tasked with finding a way to keep ten billion people fed, clothed, housed, and provided for without losing the very things we all depended on. We had to find a way to ensure the world itself didn’t implode under the weight of our own consumption.”
“Is that why you became a geological and mechanical engineer?”
Pinter appeared impressed again. “I see you remember some of your schooling. I always knew, someday, Martian children would be learning about my life.”
That much was undoubtedly true, thought Ward. Though the eBooks and archives had been a bit scant on the details of his life prior to coming to Mars, all schoolchildren were required to know about the great Pinter Chandrasekhar. Ward imagined someone who had paid closer attention or done their thesis work on him might have recognized their surroundings better, and even guessed the time period.
Such had not been Ward’s primary interest when he was still studying. With a start, he realized Pinter was still waxing lyrical.
“You’re right, of course. When I chose my career path, I did so with the expectation it would make me the kind of person who would help save our planet. Whereas many saw it as a burden, I saw it as a privilege. I dreamed of one day being able to tell future generations of children in the final days of the Great Acceleration, when the world was being rocked by famines, floods, wildfires, mass migrations and the subsequent humanitarian crises they all caused, I was there!”
Pinter allowed for a short pause, which Ward soon realized he was meant to fill. “So, what happened?”
“Same thing that always happens. Things began to get better. The projections became steadily less dire. In due course, those of us who had signed on to change the world began looking for new challenges.”
Ward knew what happened next. On this point, he and every other Martian were intimately familiar with Pinter’s history.
The Cronian Incident (The Formist Book 1) Page 9
