Decimation Island

by Damien Boyes

  She smiles and shrugs and brushes a stray hair from her forehead, looking up at me with hooded eyes. “I wanted to talk to you plenty of times but could never work up the nerve.”

  The adrenaline swerves and turns my stomach. My cheeks flush. She’s hitting on me. I could deal with her trying to kill me, but this…

  “You can’t believe everything you read on the link,” I say, keeping my voice light, but finding it hard to make eye contact. I reach back and absently scratch the skin around the cuff secured to the base of my skull. “A lot of that stuff is exaggerated.”

  “I asked Shelt,” she counters. “He said it’s true.”

  I look past Sofia and see Shelt. Everyone else has left and he’s watching us, an expectant grin on his face.

  Son of a bitch. He set this up.

  “Shelt’s a smart guy, but even he doesn’t always know what he’s talking about.”

  She smiles and leans in. “Well then, maybe I can find out for myself. How about I help you clean up and then I’ll buy you a drink?”

  Dammit, Shelt. Why’d you put me in this position?

  I press my lips together and I guess she knows what I’m about to say because her face falls. “That’s kind of you to ask,” I say, trying to be as gentle as I can. “But … I’m involved with someone.”

  Her head jerks to the side and she glances over her shoulder at Shelt. He isn’t grinning anymore.

  “But Shelt said …” Then her brows knit together and she takes a step back. “I’m sorry,” she says, embarrassed. “I didn’t know …”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, trying to reassure her, then raise my voice so Shelt will hear. “Shelt shouldn’t have said anything.”

  She gives me a weak smile. “Well, good night then,” she mumbles, sets her cup down and rushes out of the room without a look back.

  “What the hell, Shelt?” I yell the moment the door shuts behind her.

  He’s already walking toward me, hands raised like what did I do?

  “My life is fucked enough as it is, how the hell do you think I’m supposed to bring someone else into it? You knew I’d have to let her down—how’s a cold cup of rejection supposed to make her feel?”

  Shelt sighs. “She’s new to the life and having trouble connecting to the person she used to be, and I thought maybe you two could help each other. Twenty minutes of real human interaction wouldn’t have killed you.”

  “You should have asked me first. I know you’re trying to help, but all you did was make us feel like shit.”

  “What, you have something better to do tonight?”

  “As a matter of fact I do,” I blurt, but immediately wish I hadn’t.

  “What?” Shelt asks, suspicious. His skyn’s taller than mine and he cranes his neck down to glare at me. “The only time you leave your pod is to come here. What could you possibly have going on?”

  “You don’t know everything about me,” I say, and even I hear the petulance in my voice. I sound like a teenager arguing with his mother.

  Shelt smirks. “I’ve seen inside your head, remember?” he says. “What could you possibly have left to hide?”

  I don’t respond. Don’t know what to say that won’t make me sound like a brat throwing a tantrum.

  “So,” Shelt prods, “what’s this big event?”

  I don’t want to answer, but Shelt won’t let this go until I do. “If you must know, I have a date.”

  Shelt straightens, momentarily surprised, but then he shakes his head. “With who?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

  “Connie,” I say. “At a telecafe.”

  I’ve got a reservation at a place down the street that’s set up for people to have virtual meet-ups in the real world. And I know I can see Connie anytime I want, she can superimpose her sprite over my vision and appear anywhere I am, but no one can see her but me. At the cafe, I can sit across from her and have a meal like we’re out on a real date. Pretend for a moment that our relationship isn’t all in my head.

  The telecafe’s designed for people in different cities or countries to hang out, but there’s nothing stopping me from using it with Connie’s sprite. People do it all the time. I’m not the only one in a relationship with a virtual entity. It’s only weird because it’s my dead wife. If I was in love with a big-eyed, squeaky-voiced manga character no one would bat an eye.

  “So you’re taking this thing with Connie out into the world now?”

  “Yeah, I am,” I snap back. “So what? Plenty of people have virtual relationships. Why can’t I?”

  Shelt throws up his hands. “I’m not judging,” he says.

  “Sure as hell sounds like it.”

  Shelt’s big dark eyes narrow. “You know me,” he says. “I’d never tell anyone how to live their life, or who to love. Hell, be a polyamorous purple dragon if that’s what you’re into, I don’t give a shit. I just want to make sure you understand the difference between”—he points to my forehead—“in there”—then raises his finger and spins it in a tight circle—“and out here. Confuse the two and you may never find your way back.”

  I take a breath and it comes out as a long sigh. He’s trying to help, I know that, but he needs to back off this one. “I appreciate your concern,” I tell him, “but I know what I’m doing.”

  “If you say so,” Shelt replies. But I know this isn’t the last I’ve heard from him about this.

  “I’m late for the reservation,” I say, glancing at the table. “Can you finish here?”

  “Sure,” Shelt says. “Say ‘hi’ to Connie for me.”

  I give him a dirty look but let him have the last word. There’s no point in arguing. We both know he’s right. This thing with Connie isn’t healthy, but what else can I do? I love her, and her sprite is all I have left.

  After everything I’ve lost, I can’t lose her too.

  GAGE, FINSBURY

  20:01:32 // 3-JUL-2059

  I think Connie a quick note to tell her I’ll be ten minutes late, hop on my bike, and let the battery get me up to speed. Usually when I’m feeling like this, all confused and edgy, I work the pedals myself, fight back against the nervous energy corroding my brain by exhausting myself, but the air’s been hot and swampy in Toronto for weeks, with no sign of letting up, and just stepping outside is enough to overheat my temperature-tolerant skyn. I don’t want to show up for my date dripping in sweat.

  The green lanes are thick with Skütes and wheelz and other bikers, and it’s slow going up to the virt cafe where I’m meeting Connie. I should probably just call it off. I’m already late for the reservation as it is.

  There’s part of me—a big part—that knows Shelt’s right: this isn’t natural, what I’m doing with Connie’s sprite. I’m treating an artificial construct of the woman I love like we’re in a real relationship, like she’s the person I married and not a virtual approximation of her. A damn close approximation, but still. I know it’s perverse, but I can’t stop—and the worst part is, I don’t know if I even want to.

  It’s hard to stay out in the world for long, and it’s not just the heat, or my problems with Connie, or the general disarray of my life that make me want to stay in hibernation. My brain is broken, and the neural governor in my Cortex keeping Deacon on lockdown makes me feel like I’m thinking through cheesecloth, with all the fine details stripped away. I want to be out here, but it’s so much easier living in my head.

  In there, everything is just as I want it to be, or as close as I can get. My thoughts are clear. I can jump into any world I want—past, present, or future. Play out endless lives. And Connie’s right there with me. I know I need to stay connected to reality, but how can I when virtuality is so much easier in every possible way?

  One step at a time, I guess. That’s what Shelt would say—get out of your head and do what you can. It’s one of the reasons I set up this date. Instead of shacking up with Connie in my headspace, we can be out in the world together. It’s not the same as if s
he was here with me, but for now it’s the best I can do.

  The telecafe is tucked into a short strip of stores up on Donlands Avenue., between a Mennonite butcher and a Sea Feed & Co., one of those algae-based chain restaurants, and I lock my bike to the rack out front and head inside. It looks like a typical coffee shop, with a long bar and customers sitting at an eclectic mix of old Formica tables in mismatched chairs, except all the tables are split in half by a transparent screen. Most of the tables are full, with people sitting on either side, but they’re not talking to each other—they don’t even see the person opposite them—instead, they’re chatting with whoever’s on their screen.

  Connie’s already waiting at our assigned table. I slide into my chair and there she is across from me. She’s got her hair pulled up in a loose bun, showing off the sweep of her long slender neck, and her red top is conservatively buttoned all the way up, but it hugs her body in just the right way. She’s frowning, but I know she’s only playing. I don’t think she could be mad at me even if she wanted to.

  “It’s about time,” she says in a mock-hurt tone. “I’m beginning to think you like Shelt more than me.”

  “Never,” I say as I sit. I want to reach across to grab her hand, but even as real as she seems, I know that’s impossible. One more reminder that this is all a fiction.

  There’s a beer waiting for me, the glass wet with condensation, and I pick it up and take a long swallow.

  “How was the session tonight?” Connie asks. She’s got a glass of wine in front of her and she raises it and takes a sip.

  “Good,” I say with a shrug. “Shelt was in fine form. He tried to set me up with someone.”

  Connie raises her brows and leans in. “Oh yeah? Was she cute?”

  “I guess,” I reply. “Seemed nice enough.”

  “And?” she presses. “Do you have a date?”

  “Of course not,” I answer, maybe a little too quickly, like her question was a subtle test of my loyalty even though I know I could go on all the dates I want and Connie wouldn’t treat me any differently or be upset in the least. This relationship is entirely one-sided and all in my head. I’m the only one holding us to it. I take another swig of beer, frustrated. “I’m not ready for that. Besides, I have you. I don’t need anyone else.”

  “That’s sweet,” Connie says. She flashes her teeth, reaches up, and pulls a strand of hair back over her ear. “But you know, if you ever wanted to go out on a date, I wouldn’t mind. It might do you some good.”

  “I …” I don’t know what to say. First Shelt sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong, and now even Connie is trying to shove me back into the dating pool. “We only have the table for an hour. We don’t get to be together like this much. Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

  “Whatever you’d prefer,” Connie says. As programmed. “I do have something to tell you—your friend Ari Dubecki sent you a message. He wants you to help him with something.”

  My first instinct is to say “no” before I even hear what it is, but I fight down the urge. I first met Ari Dubecki—Dub—in the same counseling session where I met Shelt. He was only an amateur fighter back then, spent all his life savings to buy himself a top-of-the-line skyn with dreams of making it to the New Gladiators, the high-stakes reszo fighting league. Then, after everything the other version of me did, when I was restored the second time, Deacon had hijacked Dub’s killer skyn and tried to use it to force his way back into my head. When that failed, Deacon walked Dub’s skyn in front of a train to hide the evidence.

  At first the authorities thought it was a suicide, and tried to get him disqualified from the Gladiator trials, but when I took down Deacon and everyone believed it was a rogue AI that had been killing reszos, the Gladiator Commission relented and allowed him to compete. Eventually he earned himself a spot in the arena, fighting for Humanitech’s Gladiator team. I haven’t talked to him in a few months, but I’ve followed his career, and he’s racked up quite a kill streak in the arena. Undefeated in one-v-ones last I saw.

  “Did he say what he needs help with?” I ask. Dub and I aren’t exactly close, but we’ve been through a lot, and after what Deacon did to him, I’ll help however I can. I owe him that at least.

  “Nope,” Connie says. “Just that he’d like you to meet him at the Ludus Humanitech tomorrow.”

  “I guess that’ll give me an excuse to get out of the house again. Two days in a row even.”

  “Careful,” Connie says with a sly grin, “you might decide you like it out here.”

  “I like it out here just fine,” I say. “As comfortable as it is in the cabin, there’s nothing like the feel of real flesh.”

  “Then you should get out more,” Connie suggests, absently stroking the hollow of her throat with her index finger. There’s absolutely nothing sexual about the gesture, but even still my pulse quickens and a tension throbs in my groin. Another reason to appreciate reality: it’s analogue, and rife with contradiction. Flesh isn’t always rational.

  And, maybe, that’s what we need—I could get Connie a skyn of her own.

  I’ve been toying with the idea, just in the back of my mind, and I know it’s crazy but the more I think about it… Why not?

  Other than the fact I’m basically broke and skyns run into the millions, and modifying a Cortex to run a sprite instead of a psychorithm takes some doing.

  What’s more troubling is how fucked-up the idea is. It’s one thing to cling to a dead loved one through a personality sprite, but it’s a whole other level of messed up to contemplate a flesh-and-blood replacement body. I know I’m not the first person to ever consider this. I didn’t come up with the idea out of thin air—there are plenty of stories about people who’ve recreated lost loves or dead children. Sure, no one thinks it’s a particularly healthy thing to do, but who cares what people think?

  I want to get back out into the world, and having Connie here to help would make that easier. So, other than the expense, and the considerable social stigma, and the questionable effect it’ll have on my mental health, what’s stopping me?

  I sigh and take another drink. Connie’s watching me, her face placid, endlessly patient. She’ll wait for me forever, never lie to me, and never, ever leave me.

  Arg. I can’t, and I know it. I can’t be that guy.

  “Something bothering you?” Connie asks. “Why don’t we talk about it?”

  I shake my head. This isn’t something she can help me with.

  “Why don’t we order,” I suggest, but as I’m bringing up the menu there’s a crash outside, then the pap-pap-pap of a semiautomatic weapon, and before I’m out of my seat to see what’s happening, an explosion lights up the night.

  AniK@

  00:16:40 // 93 Players Remain

  You huddle against the low stone wall of a balcony outside Building Three, crouched on the balls of your feet, staying silent, waiting for any hint of where your opponents might be. Unless they’re complete Hanzos they’ll know you’re here too, know exactly where you landed and likely where you’ll be posted up. They’ll be waiting for you to make the first move so they can take shots at you, so you need to stay still and hope you spot them first.

  You glance up and to the right and two rows of plain white text slide out from the edge of your vision. The countdown shows seventeen minutes and six seconds gone, with ninety-three players still alive. Only ninety-nine hours, forty-two minutes, and fifty-four seconds to go. For this round. Then you have to survive nine more.

  That’s what it’ll take to win the Grand Century. Survive ten games—one thousand hours—and take home the massive prize that comes with it. No big deal, right?

  Except everyone agrees it’s next to impossible. Vegas puts your shot at a million to one, and that’s being generous. There’s a higher chance you’ll be struck by lightning on the island than you’ll win ten games in a row. The closest anyone’s ever come is a guy called OVRshAdo. He’s put in almost two thousand hours on the live gam
e alone, who knows how many simmed, and he’s still never won. He came close once, made it eight hundred and eighteen hours, until an unlucky headshot took him out early in game nine of his run.

  He’s a legend, best who ever played, and just your luck he’s in this lobby right now, starting his three hundredth hour with this drop. For sure he’s the deadliest enemy out here, his name’s already graced the kill-feed twice, but if you want to win, you need to be better than the best.

  Not that you have a choice. Losing isn’t an option. The prize money for completing a Century is nearly twenty million dollars, free and clear, not including everything you bet on yourself to win—and you need it, need all of it. Rael needs it. The money will pay for the treatment he needs to survive, without it …

  Your eyes mist up and you swallow the sudden stab of heartache, fight the grief back down. You can’t let the audience see you weak. Rael still has time, remember that. It’s why you’re here. You have the chance to save him.

  It took everything for you to get here. First fragging your way up the leaderboards to earn an invite, then gambling the rest of your savings on the entry fee and the bets on yourself to win. Plus, you’re still not entirely comfortable when fleshed. Even after the pregnancy and caring for Rael this past year and a half, you still prefer the cool sterility of living digital. You grew up virtual, been grinding crypto from a trodebed since you were a ward of the Alabama Foster System. And even after you escaped you chose the refuge of the digital life, immersed yourself in the virt mesh and abandoned the brutal uncertainty and ever-present pain of reality.

  Forever, you thought.

  At twenty-four you went reszo, sold off your perfectly healthy body for parts, and took all the money you’d earned over the years of tubing and bought yourself a one-way ticket to a purely virtual existence. Sure, you could have continued as a tuber without transitioning, even then the trodes had improved, the resolution was tight and the feedback had progressed from a simple one-way controller to completely interactive, and the implanted versions were even better, but you knew nothing would compare to living in the mesh as a native—as a psychorithm. Purely digital. Immortal. Protected from reality, and unable to be hurt by anyone.