Heir of G.O'D. Revelations Page 10

  “Let’s move it,” Denver responds, addressing the team who can’t hear me.

  My warning comes too late. The Arena table shows another dozen or so teams black-screen and the wall cuts through SCAR’s ruined building. Mika’s shoulder touches the wall and the team vanishes. The camera goes blank for a second and then reappears above Denver’s avatar. For the briefest moment SCAR appear to get lucky as they respawn not in the crater, but on a flat stretch of land to the south. However, it’s obvious from the number of teams fighting already that their position is no better, and cover on the flat stretch of sand is minimal to non-existent. SCAR try to move quickly, but a crossbow bolt streaks through the air and takes Mika in the thigh. His avatar staggers a little from the impact, and he dives to the ground to avoid being taken out. Omar crawls through the sand to him to lay hands, but just as he reaches his lover, Mika drops with a bolt to the head.

  Like that, it’s all over.

  “Fracking, frackerty, frack!” Denver’s mic crackles as he stomps his feet. Without warning he cuts the link to me and the channel falls silent. With SCAR losing so early, my interest has mostly gone. Musa would normally compete too, but she’s so swamped with work that she withdrew her team.

  I swipe my HUD to messages and try to open a live chat with Denver. It takes him less than a second to ignore me and close his comms.

  Alone in my container, I grab some food and head to my grassy spot on Governor’s Island. As I watch Liberty’s green torch flicker above New York, I wonder if Denver will actually take me tomorrow.

  Saturday, Halley 20th, 2044

  9 days before Baktun

  As the skies filled with dust, and sunlight was blocked from the Earth, the plants of the world died. The creatures who relied upon the plants to survive began to dwindle, and the animals who relied on other animals perished too. Even the creatures of Earth’s great rivers and seas succumbed, as the waterways cloyed with ash.

  As dust fell from the sky man breathed and died from the plague of silicosis.

  And then the rains fell as acid and etched the soil, and the land became poisoned. And all was lost.

  The Ordinance: Book of the Devastation (17:1-3)

  -15-

  I’m exhausted.

  When the reality of what I’d sold to reach my target sank in, I couldn’t sleep a jot. I was plagued by a mix of guilt over selling the voucher and constant angst that, after losing the Team Arena, Denver hadn’t come around or even messaged to say the trip was still on. Eventually I pinged Azeema, just in case he didn’t show up.

  My Sol alarm chimes for six, although I awoke an hour back thanks to the rollercoaster ride of anticipation churning in my stomach. After pulling on my visor and porting to Steins, I rummage through the back of my drawers for my barely-used llama wool outside clothing, then take a shower. The woollen tights are a little itchy and tug at my leg hair. I seldom need to wear them, but I’m going to need their insulation against the chill outside today. Inch by frustrating inch I tug at them until they’re snug on my legs. Over my vest, I shrug on the sweater, which is at least not as close-fitting. My combats fit tight around my waist, but are loose enough in the legs that I can move freely. Apart from my outdoor boots—and I don’t have a clue where those are stored—I’m ready.

  If today happens as planned, by sundown I will be able to see!

  The thought gives me a moment’s respite from the churning sensations continuing deep inside. I pull my visor on over my wet, tied-back hair, and immediately see a flashing Musa icon next to an incoming message. ‘Can’t wait to meet you, Gana. See you at the terminal, at one.’ It’s brief, but I take solace that the plans are still going ahead (at Musa’s end at least). Amongst the ever-increasing tsunami of sales messages from desperate Corps, there’s one from Denver (my stomach relaxes a little): ‘Got an escort, be there at eight.’ Denver is over-protective, but if him bringing an escort means he will take me, then I won’t complain. One other message catches my eye; Haptical Illusions made an offer on the gloves, promising a further ten per cent off the sale price. They must be desperate too.

  Having spent almost all my $uns, I’m going to need to earn more if only to replace my food voucher. While I wait for Denver, I open the sponsor ads for the Arena schedules. Today and tomorrow I’ll be travelling, and I can’t afford to enter straight into the Remembrance Festival Main events starting on Tuesday, Remembrance Eve. Aside from the Bounty Hunter Invitational, there’s also my weekly Marksmanship event on Monday.

  For the mass Bounty Hunter Arena, I’m going to have to go through the qualifiers. It’s galling, but there’s no alternative. The qualies are already running, but it’s going to be Monday before I’m back in my container to compete. I’d like to explore the world the moment I get the upgrade, but the reality is I need $uns, and there are limited days remaining for me to compete in Sol. I can scrape the cost for a couple of qualies from my remaining budget, provided I don’t need to pay to travel, buy food or replace a weapon if I lose in the main Bounties …

  I sigh. I need to sell some more stuff.

  As departure time looms, the frequency of my bathroom visits increases. I wander back and forth between there and my rig twice more before the number-pad bleeps and Denver enters, dropping a canvas bag by the door. I can see from the grainy CCTV image, that he’s dressed in black combat pants and heavy combat boots, with a military helmet wedged on his big head. He could be ready for an Arena, only the M16 strapped to his back is real this time, as is the pistol holstered at his hip. Denver’s kitted out as if he’s preparing for a battle, and he’s wearing an expression that’s so angry it could scare small children. And, annoyingly, he’s grinding his jaw like he’s chewing nut shells.

  The dull black rubber belt of a mobile Sol connection is secured around his waist. They’re called Sol-Lite kits and are only capable of processing hand movements from gloves and AV from a visor. Everything else, like walking, sitting and stuff like that is performed by hand controls linked to the unit by cables. Wireless ones are available, but they’re too easily hacked. As with everything else Denver owns, his visor is the top-spec Ray-Bans-inspired mirrored aviators; with most of the processing built into the arms and a strap that loops around his head.

  “Ana?”

  “In here,” I call from the bathroom. “Where’re my boots?”

  “I’ll get them.” It’s no surprise that Denver knows where my boots are, because he put them away last. I recognise the squeak of the little-used cupboard in the corner of the kitchen. They smell of leather and polish, rubber and a hint of outside. I don’t like shoes at all, I normally wear my soft, padded haptic boots inside. My fingers fumble with the laces until I drop both ends and snort in frustration. The third time I fail, I swear at the fracking things.

  “Here.” Denver lifts my foot and pushes the sole against his lower thigh. He tugs on the laces with a firm grip, tightening them across the bridge of my foot before knotting the ends. When I stand, my feet are trapped in weighty prisons that root me to the floor. It takes real effort to lift my legs, and every step I take is a clunking thump noisier than a water pump in the grumpy grandad competition. I pace between the rigs until the door buzzer sounds again, growing accustomed to the lumps on my feet. Denver bleeps the door open and the full stink of outside assaults my nostrils again. Worse is the din from the street, so loud I step back involuntarily, literally shaking in my boots.

  “What’s wrong?” Denver says, grabbing my arm to steady me.

  “That noise!”

  “Hey Ana,” Mika says, waving from the street.

  I watch him in the cameras, first in the one above the door as he steps in from outside, and then from above the door when he reappears between the rigs. He’s so large that he needs to duck to avoid banging his head on the doorframe. A new bushy beard is growing patchily on his acne-scarred face. “It’s the buggy. Omar’s driving.” He takes my small hand in his massive fist and squeezes. “And I, for one day only—or
perhaps two—am your boyfriend!”

  Mika performs some centuries-old bow as I bark with laughter, releasing all my swallowed tension. Mika’s expression drops and his shoulders wilt.

  “You’re serious?”

  “You can be so hurtful at times.” I know Mika’s jesting, but his playful thump on my shoulder is likely to leave a bruise. “You need an escort, and what better way to guide you around than have my arm on your shoulder? We’re giving you a comms unit for your ear too. If you follow my instructions, you should be able to walk as though you can see. At least, that’s the plan.” Mika smiles again, which he likely hopes is reassuring, but rather resembles a snarling bear (emphasised by his new face fuzz).

  I take the small earpiece from him, trying to ignore the fact that his hands are twice as big as mine. Lifting my visor a little, I remove the inbuilt Sol in-ear headphones and wriggle the comms earpiece into place. I try to replace the visor, but it won’t sit comfortably now, as the headset pushes painfully against my ear.

  “You’re going to have to remove that, Ana. It’s too obvious.” It’s easy for Denver to say, but the visor is my ultimate safety blanket and my face feels naked without it. The lack of visor is the last, and scariest, reason why I hate going outside. I loathe taking it off perhaps more than I loathe anything else in the world (except maybe O’Drae, in the moment that I found out he’s going to blow-up Sol). I determine to leave it on until the last possible moment.

  My visor is like a flag to any snert wanting to cash me in to Sol-Corp, but without something on my face people can probably tell I’m blind anyway.

  “Is she still fracking around? Tell her to get a fracking skate on, or we’ll leave her here. I’ve got better things to do anyway.”

  “You brought her?” I make zero effort to hide the venom thickening my tone. I lied when I thought that outside was the most hateful thing; nothing can be worse than Nele Mouse.

  “Shush, she’ll hear you.”

  “Like I care. Fracking Mouse.”

  On the camera I watch Denver usher Mika back to the street and shut the door behind the giant. He stands leaning against the metal panel, visibly drawing in breaths to control his anger. It’s several seconds before he speaks, and when he does it’s a diatribe lecture.

  “Ana. None of us want to go, it’s not safe for us, and it’s worse for you. But we agreed to do this, for you. I don’t give a frack about whether you like Nele, but we need her. Now, you can shut the frack up, do as you’re told and not cause trouble. Or you can stay here, we can all go back to Sol and not risk our lives.”

  “But …”

  “Enough. I mean it, Ana. Behave, or you can stay here and rot for all I care.”

  I bite back another retort. Surely Denver doesn’t mean it? But I can see him on the camera and he’s ready to leave without me. “Fine.”

  Denver studies me for a few heartbeats longer, then fetches the bag he dropped when he entered. “Call it an early Remembrance Day gift,” he says in a notably softer tone.

  I take it and fumble inside, exhaling loudly when I lift out a new visor, an exact match of my in-Sim sunglasses. “Thank you.”

  “I know they won’t work for you, but no-one’s gonna know. Check the rest.” Along with the glasses is a Sol-Lite kit, belt and hand controls, a helmet that matches his and a small backpack. “The belt should work with your visor, but you can’t use it in public. We can sync them later when we get to Musa’s.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Denver.”

  “Stop being a fracker to Nele, Ana, and listen to Mika. Remember it’s you who wants this. Agreed? And take off your visor.”

  “Yeah. Sorry, Denver.”

  He pats my shoulder and opens the door while I fumble about connecting the belt and shrug on the pack. Mika reappears, takes my visor and zips it away in the backpack, and my world goes back to black. He taps the device in my ear once, and the mildly irritating babble from Nele and Omar outside in the buggy crackles through to my ear.

  Taking a few deep breaths, I gather my faculties enough for Mika to lead me out into the unknown, beyond the range of my camera. We cross the metal sidewalk and down a step to the gravel floor which crunches unevenly beneath my heavy boots.

  My stomach churns and threatens a dry heave. I stumble, and my legs wobble as I take tentative shuffling steps. The sounds of outside are alien enough, but worse is the rancid breeze carrying the stench of people and refuse, which sticks in the back of my throat.

  “How do people cope with this?” I mumble, taking a moment to familiarise myself with my new surroundings. Outside is where all the untrustworthy people that Denver protects me from prowl. It’s rife with disease, criminals and danger. And I can’t see a fracking thing. Despite being only a couple of dozen short steps from my unit, I feel like I’ve entered an alien world.

  A constant rat-a-tat-tat echoes high above me, and I reflexively look up, even though it’s futile. Somewhere to my right the electric motor of a cart churns away, a loud screech echoes between the containers and, across the street, two men shout profanities at each other. I freeze in place. Outside is simply terrible, frightening and awful.

  “Are we moving or what?” The Mouse squeaks from somewhere in front of me.

  “It’s only rain,” Mika confirms in my earpiece. “Three steps, then pause.” I do exactly as I’m told, focusing solely on his voice. I feel his arm slip comfortingly around my shoulder and automatically lean in, my cheek brushing against his chest. “Reach out with your left hand. Left a bit, good. Now reach forward and grab the pole.”

  I feel something cold and metallic brush my palm and clutch it in a death-grip.

  “Step up, right leg first. Higher. Now forward a bit. Great. That’s the step into the buggy. Pull yourself up and turn to sit.”

  I clamber up, feeling the buggy rock beneath my feet, then gasp as Mika’s arm drops from around my shoulder. I feel a padded seat beneath my butt and flop down, struggling to breathe. The vehicle rocks wildly and I yell instinctively.

  “It’s the rest of us getting in,” Mika whispers, trying to soothe my nerves. “Remember those electric buggies on Europa, the dune racing thing we did for my birthday last Newton?”

  I do, but I’m too scared to speak. Mika sits beside me and the buggy lurches forward.

  The ceaseless journey through hell is excruciating, and I’m jolted around like a float in the useless in-Sim fishing games. “How much longer?” I squeal, as the buggy seems to drop into a cavernous pothole as deep as a crevice and struggles to clamber out. Our destination is the terminal of the red Metro line at Jebel Ali port, although in-Sim it’s still called UAE Exchange. According to Musa’s directions, we travel all the way to the other end of the line, to Rashidiya.

  “Almost there, Ana.” Mika squeezes my hand. The others converse sparingly in clipped military chatter, like they’re back in the Team Arena.

  “I hate this,” I mumble to myself.

  “Yeah, I know. But this was your idea.”

  I grind my teeth rather than respond, and clamp my jaw shut to stop myself screaming. After what feels like a lifelong torturous ride, Omar finally pulls the buggy to a stop. As the engine dies, I hear a cacophony of new sounds, like several people shouting at once. New smells assault my nostrils, some of them familiar, but many that I can’t place. I massage my aching jaw with trembling fingers.

  “We’re here,” the fracking Mouse announces (pointlessly to my mind).

  Climbing out is the reverse procedure of getting in, and continued focus on Mika’s mumbled instructions is all that keeps me sane. I’d run screaming if I could see where I was going, but instead I’m frozen to the spot like a statue. His arm snakes around me again and he eases me forwards into the terminal.

  “Stay close,” orders Denver through the comms, although I’m not sure if he means me or the others.

  The sound of our footsteps change from the crunch of compressed gravel to the slap of boots on more solid paving, then a
lter again as we enter a building. The din of people around us reminds me of an Arena cluster-zone, with numerous people holding many separate conversations all at once. But, instead of the constant buzz and cartoonish sounds from in-Sim Corps advertising booths above the babble of voices, here a few individuals shout about their stock or products – mostly food and baked grain goods.

  Mika steers me through the crowds, holding tight as I’m jolted and jostled numerous times by people I can’t see. This is by far the largest realworld crowd I’ve ever drowned in; it’s even worse than the few months I spent in an overcrowded orphanage. I become aware of my head twisting from side to side as I subconsciously follow new noises, my mind attempting to make sense of them.

  “… more steps.” I’ve grown so confused and disorientated I forgot to listen to Mika. I apologise and he immediately squeezes my shoulder. “Hold out your ID. We go through the barrier in three more steps.” As I focus on Mika again, I realise our pace has slowed and people press against me on all sides. “It’s just us. Raise your left arm.”

  I do as instructed and I’m immediately rewarded by the chime of a completed transaction as the basic train fare is deducted from my $uns balance via my implanted ID chip.

  “Move to the side, people,” barks Denver. “Now. Move it.”

  “What’s happening?” I begin to ask, but my question is drowned out by the loud hum of an electric motor heralding the train’s approach. Mika and someone else, Denver I think by their height, flank me, and move me to the side and back. I continue to move backwards until my back slaps into a wall that jolts the helmet strapped to my head. I’ve seen the trains in-Sim, so I’m less worried about the vehicle itself. Standing against a wall suits me, my primary fear is falling off the platform edge and down to the tracks, or getting pushed under a train.