Heir of G.O'D. Revelations Read online

  “Watch the footage, see just where the first shots come from.”

  “I did, and I saw Musa running off with Sol-Corp wasps.”

  “They arrested her. We only just got her back. She’s injured…”

  “But she’s alive?”

  “Yes, broken ribs, swollen knee. Regardless, M refunded your money.”

  Before I can reply, a bullet finds its way through the shield from underneath, and Samir winks out. I black-screen a second later.

  -25-

  Before I can leave the cluster-zone, I need to sort through the rest of the loot. Avatars around me begin jeering and heckling me. I switch to anon, and ghost, so I can’t see or hear anyone. Strangely, someone took a food voucher with them, so I pick that - it’s only a two per cent discount voucher, but it’s better than nothing. From the remainder I select whatever is the highest value, close the menu then settle in to wait for DiscipleJanus to select what he wants from my stockpile. With the promontory now unprotected COGOD begin to sweep out from the town, moving in small coherent teams to take out anyone not part of the Church’s flock. I hold my position at the top of the Kills charts, but it’s close.

  Of my other bets, I think all bar the fracking Mouse have black-screened, so that was a washout. While I’m waiting, I get an incoming message from Samir wanting to talk. I’m itching to check the footage again, but I can’t, not in the limbo of the cluster-zone. The message arrives, confirming that Janus has looted. I was expecting him to take the ring, but he took the food voucher; realworld wins out over in-Sim goods, even for the fracking Church, I guess.

  I port back to my apartment with mixed feelings over the voucher, then watch the downloaded footage from the aborted Celal meet again. There is something wrong about it, but after watching three more times, I can’t figure out what it is. With my frustration waning a little, I sort through the piles of loot. The Sol-bay prices are heart-breaking, in-Sim items are almost worthless, even the rarer items are trading for trifling amounts. The ring, if I sold it, would pay for a month of Pro-Bars at best. I make a reckless decision and keep everything that used to be of value, along with all the enhanced items like the bags of holding (plus anything that I think looks cool). I pull up all the other duplicates, the Sol-fluff, the weapons and the items that I’ll never use—like the medieval stuff, and hand to hand weapons—and click trade. I make under 10,000 $uns for over seven hundred items. Even last year, the same haul would have earned a few hundred thousand (which is why Dastards Dastard). Not me, though, not Dastarding. At least, not until today. I overcome the guilt a little by convincing myself that my current desperate situation warranted the tactic (and was most certainly a one-off).

  Unless I still need $uns before Friday.

  My plan to forget about being a Dastard lasts for the precise amount of time it takes to open my messages, which are awash with a sea of abuse from victims and fans alike. Ex-fans, I guess. I ignore them all and swipe a rule to junk anything that mentions ‘Dastarding’. The only message I read is from Escrow. Musa has sent a refund for her part of the failed engineer transaction and added a little extra to cover the cost of the original transaction fee. As soon as the Sol databases update, the $uns should be credited back to my account. Closing my messages, I head to the roof. As I’m pulling up the port menu, an unexpected message from Nyffenegger pops in:

  Great performance today. You might make the total after all. Good news, I did build your current visor. I can make upgrade components for Friday, subject to your deposit. One million $uns upfront, in Escrow, balance on fitting. OstermondGlanz.

  She’s attached her Sol-Escrow details, so the moment the refund from Sol-Escrow clears, I can make the deposit.

  Instead of the glee I should feel at making enough $uns for the deposit (and more besides), I feel a roil of inner turmoil as I head to my regular spot in New York, overlooking the bay.

  The moment I arrive, I realise it was a mistake to come to Governor’s Island. The last time I was here it was busy, now it’s a seething mass of avatars. I remain anon and, as an afterthought, change my green fatigues to a pair of black leather trousers and a red jacket, which would not be out of place in a Cyberpunk movie. It’s the best I can think of to avoid the attention of the plethora of COGOD followers who have invaded the Island. I make my way through the crowds and climb the hill to my spot, which, to my relief, is still vacant. Below, a COGOD bishop rants about the end of the 3arth, and tells the throngs about life after Sol, the Creator’s will, of salvation and what the Church will do for them.

  I’m utterly baffled by the COGOD doctrine; to me, it just sounds like a string of contradictions. After the Devastation, modern technology such as mobile phones, satellites and planes, and the technology that worked off them, like GPRS, began to fail. Amid the technology breakdown, Gary O’Drae, the founder of their religion, somehow managed to get Sol back online and keep it running, flourishing even. But he also coded Sol to end. So, the termination of Sol should surely see an end to the religion, right? Wrong. Apparently, it marks the start of the religion, or at least the next phase of it. According to COGOD, O’Drae’s ultimate vision was for people to escape the slavery of Sol, to focus on real Earth, reclaim it from the corporations and conglomerates, and build new lives. But G.O’D. is just another dead genius who created a new world, Sol. Then, like some crazed fanatic, he planned to blow it all up in spectacular fashion. And this somehow saves people? I don’t get it.

  From the podium, the bishop bleats on about the will of G.O’D. It’s disturbing to see how many people gathered seem to agree, and it’s not just COGOD Disciples. I would laugh at the scene if the entire scenario were not so grim; it reminds me of the old movie The Life of Brian, “Blessed are the cheesemakers!”.

  “You came,” Samir announces as he sits down beside me. He’s wearing his familiar in-Sim jeans and white t-shirt, his straggly beard lacking the white that peppers his realworld one. “Did the refund come through?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I don’t know what else to say, so we sit in silence, the droning of the distant bishops irritating me as much as the squeaking of a Nele-fracking-Mouse. The COGOD fanatics are starting to make me feel uneasy, so I climb to my feet to leave. Though none of the weapons they carry can actually be used outside of the Arenas, there are just so many militant followers, something doesn’t quite feel right.

  “Their fervour’s increasing as much as their numbers,” Samir says, laying back and looking up at me.

  I nod. Across the bay, Liberty still stands proud, the green light in her torch blazing in the twilight sky. “How many of these frackers do you think actually want the torch to turn red?” I ask, sweeping my arm to indicate the congregation of avatars gathered below.

  “The torch? Hmm. Most, I would say. COGOD are not trying to save Sol. If anything, their hackers are trying to stop us.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Have you read The Ordinance?”

  I snort before I can stop myself, I made a conscious decision years ago to avoid the COGOD ‘Bible’ at all costs. “No. Why would I?”

  “According to them, O’Drae didn’t want to bring Sol back. He was pressured into it by the corporates. He used his own company, Umbra, to make sure that everyone had free access to it, and then he coded a termination date. His specific aim was to prevent long-term corporate control.”

  “If he made it free for everyone, then why would he want it to end?”

  Samir shrugs, his face falling into shadow as the sun sets over the city. “He coded Baktun, Gana. If the Heir doesn’t come forward, it will all be over, and the Church will be proven right.” We watch in silence for a short while, the ebb and flow of the water, mirrored by the amassed people. “You’ve found another engineer somehow, haven’t you?”

  What is it with people checking up on me? Why do they think they can tell me what to do? Annoyed, I start to walk away.

  “We know her. OstermondGlanz.”

 
; “How do you know it’s her?”

  “We contacted her too. Before we found Celal. She wanted double what Celal was charging. Worse, she wanted your DNA upfront, not on the day.”

  “Yeah, so she could check her records.”

  “It’s bull-frack. Providing your visor details from the config, would be enough.” I stay quiet, and flop back down feeling slightly defeated. “You gave her your DNA, didn’t you?” I respond with a small nod. Samir gently pats my shoulder. “We know you’re desperate, Gana. Why else would you resort to Dastarding? But what about everyone else?”

  “What about them? The Rumble is a free-roll.”

  Samir’s mouth twitches, his skin adopting a sickly green shimmer from the distant torch. He falls silent, and I wonder if he’s talking to someone realworld. “Do you remember when you moved from the junior ranks to compete with adults?”

  “I was nine. But…”

  “That first free-roll, Spring Equinox if I recall, you made the top 100. What did you do with the $uns?”

  “Bought a weapon, from M...” I almost say Musa, a grave mistake with so many COGOD frackers around. “From M0n1ck3r,” I complete, using her tag. I can remember it well. Clutching an introduction note from Omar, I found her warehouse, then hung around outside for hours plucking up enough courage to enter. I needed a better gun, and the mainstream stores were too expensive. Musa must have seen me hanging around, she came out to find me as I was staring at something in the shop display that I will never forget. Not a gun, but a small fridge. The price was so far out of my reach that it was laughable. It took me another three years to save up enough for one.

  “And what did you have before that?”

  A lockable space in an orphanage, then a space in one of Hamilton’s containers, I think to myself. I don’t speak about it though, I’m not sure I can. “All these people can see, Iphy. When Sol goes, what will I have left?”

  “A lot of these people still have nothing, Gana. If we can get your visor upgraded, you will see for yourself.” He reaches up and takes my hands in his. “We will help you to get your $uns, but you need to trust us.”

  I decide to change the subject, “You mentioned the news stream. What’s wrong with it?”

  “The sniper, it wasn’t Sol-Corp, that shot Celal. The sniper fire came from the wrong direction. It wasn’t us either.”

  “Then who did?” I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  “Think about it. Who else was there?” Before I can respond, Samir stands. “I have an incoming call. Musa would like for you to join us in the Remembrance Eve Team. Unless you have a team already?”

  “I don’t… Okay. I guess.”

  “Great. We want to help. But no more Dastarding, agreed? There are some ways that I don’t mind helping,” he says, tapping his arm where his realworld ID chip is implanted, “but that tactic just hurts the little people. You’re better than that. Focus on your real enemies.”

  With Samir gone, I decide to abandon Governor’s Island to the COGOD frackers and get as far away as I can. I return to the port and make a snap decision to go to Uyuni. It’s a place Musa told me about a few months back, and I’ve dreamed of visiting ever since. I arrive in a small, empty town high in the south-west corner of Bolivia. The Salar de Uyuni is a massive salt flat, so high in the Andes that if this was realworld, I would be struggling from the altitude. Thanks to the skills of O’Drae and his team, Sol replicates the seasons just as they used to be. A thin sheen of water covers the salt crust and, when it happens, the Salar transforms into the largest mirror in the world, over a hundred kilometres wide. I hire a Jeep from the Sol-Corp depot and drive down to the flats. Even from the shore, the view is incredible. The centre of the Milky Way arcs over the immense lake and, with no light pollution, I can see every star, dust cloud, and comet.

  I scan across the skies and spy Halley’s Comet hurtling towards 3arth, still a spec in the sky, but nevertheless visible.

  A huge flock of flamingos arrives to feed as I climb out of the Jeep, settle down at the water’s edge and watch the Milky Way slowly rotate above me.

  Tuesday, Halley 23rd, 2044

  Remembrance Eve - 6 days before Baktun

  And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day. Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them. And on the seventh day God finished his work that he had done, and he rested on the seventh day from all his work that he had done.

  King James Bible, Genesis 1:31 – 2:2

  -26-

  The feed pans back from the printed parchment to first reveal a leather-topped desk, and then Arm@g3dd0n lounging in his customary Chesterfield, puffing on an antique clay pipe.

  “The Bible. Genesis verses 1:31 through 2:2. God created the Earth in six days. Yet in six days, G.O’D. will destroy our 3arth.”

  Like the true showman he is, Arm@g3dd0n sits back and pauses for several seconds for dramatic effect. Behind him, his wooden bookshelves part like curtains, revealing a large black screen. A white blob appears in the centre and gradually morphs into a live image of Halley’s Comet. I catch glimpses of other objects glinting around it and realise that people—reporters and News Corps most likely—are tracking the comet with Sol space-drones.

  “The countdown to our destruction continues. Hackers the world over strive to break the code, without any real hope of success. Corporations continue with their ostrich-like behaviours and would have us believe that they will yet save Sol. And, we must ask, is COGOD simply waiting for a miracle? With six days to go until the lights go out, there is only one thing left to do. We must enjoy the Festival, the events, the shows. Enter the global lotteries and order any food and drink you can afford. Because, my beloved viewers, when the comet hits, I for one will be as pissed as a metaphorical newt in a cider vat. See you in the bars.” He raises a crystal glass and swirls the brown liquid before draining it in one quaff. “Arm@g3dd0n out.”

  -27-

  “That’s it, Arm@g3dd0n, rub it in,” I mumble to myself. I don’t blame him, waiting for the Heir to show himself is the worst plan I can imagine. As I munch on another Snail Porridge Pro-Bar, I port to my apartment and open the safe. The final Mass Rumble Kills table shows me in 4th, with the Mouse making the top thousand. Shuzo finished in 18th, which is a welcome bonus because I forgot I’d put anything on him. I total the two accounts, my own and Valette’s, and feel a rush when it comes to over 1.2 million. I ‘sell’ the detection ring to Valette, leaving 100,000 $uns on that account. Crossing my fingers, I send one million by Sol-Escrow to Nyffenegger, along with a message confirming that I’ll pay the balance on Friday.

  I swipe open my messages and finally find one from Musa, a long and profuse apology for what happened, along with a pallet of ammunition which will last the entire festival, and likely throughout the whole of next year if Sol survives. There’s also a twinked recurve bow along with a quiver and so many arrows that if I stripped off the heads and flights, I could make a giant matchstick house big enough to live in. I pull up the bow and delve it for information. As expected, it’s a handcrafted yew composite bow with fibreglass panels. Whoever she paid to code the bow, has designed it for my build and height. I test the pull on it, adjusting the tension so I can get a full draw.

  I’m competent with a bow, not brilliant, but I can hit a target and perhaps the new haptic gloves will work with archery too. I should really enter an RPG Festival qualifier later today and experiment with it, but I’m so exhausted from yesterday, I need to rest. Instead, I intend to place some more bets on some of the upcoming Remembrance Day events, maybe I’ll watch the tennis finals on Venus too. Tennis is yet another sport I tried, but lacked the skill to do any more than flaccidly pat the ball back (I do, however, excel as a spectator).

  I delete the junk messages without reading any of the hate-filled missives that roll in by the second, reassuring myself that I must do whatever’s needed bec
ause, as Arm@gedd0n said so aptly, there are only six days of Sol remaining. I clench my jaw and get into a rhythm of select… delete… select… delete, but annoyingly one message refuses to budge. Studying the metadata, I see that the sender has used a hack which prevents the recipient from deleting the message until it’s been read – now I’m intrigued. The sender, DiscipleShuzo, has never contacted me directly before. Nevertheless, I expect it’s just another tirade of post-Rumble abuse. The message is both very short, and very unsettling:

  G@n@le0. Let us meet. I have attached location permissions for you, along with a proposed time. I believe it will be beneficial to us both. According to the schedules you will be available at 10:00. May the will of G.O’D. be with you. DiscipleShuzo.

  There’s a whole book’s worth of standard COGOD propaganda attached to the bottom of the message, links to The Ordinance, choice extracts from their scriptures, and the like. I swipe open the permissions download, and close the rest without reading. I can’t imagine what COGOD would want with me, or why Shuzo would want to meet.

  Still feeling slightly vexed, I open the personally signed message from Arm@g3dd0n that I set aside to cheer myself up. Occasionally, I receive an invite to one of his parties, but a private invitation is a rarity. He wants to meet on Thursday at The Restaurant at the Edge of the Universe – while the restaurant’s name is an homage to a classic twentieth century Douglas Adams sci-fi book, our version sits close to the edge of the coded area of Sol, and resides on the surface of the dwarf moon Eris in the Kuiper Belt.

  Woefully short of my target, I really should be focusing on making more $uns, not contemplating joining Arm@g3dd0n for a chat, or meeting that COGOD fracker. But my eye sockets ache today, and I need a break before the team RPG event with Musa and Samir. I place a few swift bets on the exchanges using Valette’s ID, then head to my port. The HUD reads a tad after nine which leaves an hour before the meeting, and I can’t help being inquisitive. Being curious is fine, but the cautious part of me wants to scope out the meeting loc before I decide whether to wait there for Shuzo.