Transcendence (55 page)

“
If this is your game, you will be punished.”

“
Justice,” Nadir said.

The man stared at Nadir, then spun and twirled his right hand above his head. He cried out something in a language Nadir didn’t recognize. A whirlyjet screamed to life, then another, then all eight of them whipped up a sandstorm. The tanks and armored cars lurched into formation, a few of the older models hissing as their fuel cells belched exhaust. The Sotoi Guntai soldiers started talking among themselves, helping up the EarthCo warriors they had just beaten.

“
Talk to those EarthCo units who marched with us,” the Chinese commander said. “Then we go.”

A single
crack-thup
sounded in the desert. Nadir, fearing the worst, opened an allband BW:

“
What’s going on?” he demanded. The 3VRD of a wiry boy in tan flashed to life before him.

“
We’re with you, Boss,” the young EarthCo Warrior said. “Anymore, we ain’t got a Boss of our own. I think the same’s gonna happen in the 11
^th
and 3
^rd
. If it don’t, we’ll take care of their Bosses for them.”

Nadir slapped Paolo on the back and set him running out of the village. The Chinese leader followed close behind. At that moment, a heavy firefight of EMMAs filled the air from the two other groups of EarthCo Warriors clustered in the distance. Everyone hit the sand except Nadir, who watched a handful of shadows collapse. The shots ended in seconds.

“
Boss?” another tan-uniformed 3VRD asked. The face was calm but the word shook. “What do we do now, Boss? We killed Boss Sosenko. Killed him!”

“
It’s all right,” Nadir said. “We’ll run an inquiry later, but I suspect you had the same trouble we did, eh?”

“
Sosenko was sick, man, sick!” another 3VRD said. Within seconds, a crowd of soldiers appeared 3VRD before him, most edited to appear calm, but a few clearly revealed their desperate need for him to speak.

“
It’s all right. You’re good warriors, that’s why you did it. Justice, that’s what we call it. You find a Boss has been fucking with you, it hurts even more than finding out what you’ve been doing. Now we find out who got them to make us do things we’d never do. Don’t think about it just now, move out!”

Nadir pulled Paolo to his feet and ran toward their open car. The others followed, climbing into their respective transports. Fifty armored NKK war machines, a flock of NKK whirlyjets, and ten light EarthCo troop cars filled the night with electronic screams.

“
Come with me,” the Sotoi Guntai Commander shouted to Nadir. He indicated the lead whirlyjet.

Paolo looked nervous, so Nadir smirked and lightly slugged the boy in the vest. “Come on.”

The two boarded the aircraft—something they would have dreaded to see only hours before—and the Chinese commander pulled the door behind them. And then they surged up and across the desert, the first combined EarthCo and NKK army, heading north, toward civilization and justice.

Pehr Jackson woke in an apartment—on Earth, judging by the heavy drag of his body to the bed. As he slowly faded into consciousness, he dreamed he had been dreaming that he was a space opera star: Captain Pehr Jackson, famous captain of the EarthCo
Bounty
. He felt excruciatingly fatigued, as if he had lived many adventures.

He dreamed he had waltzed into an alien artifact that had revealed his life and another man’s to him, as if they had simply held up their whole selves like a pair of full-sensory 3VRDs . . . no, even more so, as if he had lived those selves with the person whose life it was—as if he
were
that person. No need for explanations; Miru’s life was his and his, Miru’s.

Ha!
Nobody’s life was his now. His card was asleep. Apparently, the program had been over for some time. It all seemed so real, the people, Ryukyu floating island, the
Bounty
, Triton, the artifact. . . .

He sighed and sat up; genuine cotton sheets slid off his naked chest. Rubbing the fog of sleep from his eyes, he was struck with a poignant feeling of alienation, of loss. Even within the dream, the cyborg Eyes had mucked with reality. Where was he now? How did he get here? Who was he?

“
Miru?” he said, quietly. Silence. “Janus? Lonny?”

No one answered.
Of course not, fool
.

Waking up in strange places was not unfamiliar to him. Neither was waking up with strange women
. . .
or was that Captain Jackson? He couldn’t be sure. The dream—or feed—seemed so damned real. Who even was Pehr Jackson, sans Captain? What had he done since childhood? Where had his real life spliced with Captain Jackson’s?

Questions, questions, too many questions. He had to assimilate his surroundings; Pehr was not yet ready to commit himself to feedrapture treatment.

Tiny but clean apartment. Bare, chrome walls. He caught a glimpse of a reflection in the mirrored wall: The raw and rugged face there looked like someone named Pehr Jackson, but the hair was mussed and the face lined and pale. Washed-out blue eyes.

He quickly turned away. The bed was situated so Pehr could look a meter beyond his feet and see out a window. A personal aircar whined past. The ceiling issued a soft hissing of ventilators. Certainly Earth.

From an open doorway into another room, Pehr heard the jangling of a metal container bouncing off a porcelain-tile floor.

“
Shit,” a woman muttered. Another clue.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Hello?” he asked, cautiously.

No answer. Am I losing my mind?
Pehr wondered.
Am I a blasted rapthead?

He flicked on his commcard and repeated, “Hello,” in a full voice. His chest shook with weakness.

A woman’s 3VRD appeared before him. Something about her clicked in his memory—she was familiar, though he still couldn’t place how they had met. She looked calm, but fear paralyzed her voice, which battered Pehr’s ears like a shriek:

“
Who the hell’s that? Are you in my apartment? I’m reading that you’re in here. Get the hell out! I’ve already commed the building cops; they’ll be here any minute. Out!”

“
Hold on, all right,” Pehr stammered, angry and confused. “Don’t you remember me?”

“
Hell no!”

“
How did I end up here, then?”

“
You tell me!”

Behind the 3VRD, a woman stepped into the doorway. Her back was bent as if under a load. She wore scraggly grey and blue hair, and lines creased her face. One hand held a metal canister with the words “Dell Plasta” stenciled in red and a color image of a smiling couple. She wore an expensive poly 3-piece ensemble and white leather boots that stood as tall as her thighs. Around her neck hung a heavy gold chain with an antique-looking brooch dangling between her sunken breasts.

Pehr gasped. Suddenly the face fit into his memories, only altered with time.
It couldn’t be
—

“
Megan?” he asked.

The woman jerked straight and inhaled sharply. Then she cocked her arm and threw the can of orange alkaloid at Pehr. He avoided the projectile and asked again.

“
No!” she shouted, and ducked back into the kitchen. The 3VRD remained with him, impassive.

“
You remember me!” he exclaimed. “Megan, you remember me, don’t you? My name’s Pehr Jackson, right? I’m so sorry that I can’t remember how we got back together, but—”

“
We didn’t get together,” her 3VRD answered. “You must have broken in during the night; I sort of slept in the bathroom.”

Her voice softened: “Maybe I did let you in. I can’t remember, either. Oh, Pehr, why did you come here?”

“
I don’t know. I’ve
. . .
I think I’ve been having some
. . .
trouble lately. I can’t seem to remember anything about my life.”

“
Consider yourself lucky.”

Pehr ignored the comment. “I can’t tell you what a comfort it is to know you, and for you to know me.”

“
Please leave,” she pleaded. “I’ve called off the cops, but
. . .
well, I’m having some troubles of my own, and I don’t want you to see me like this. Remember those few glorious days of who I was, please dear Pehr, not what I’ve become. Oh, god, get out. Get out.”

The 3VRD faded. The kitchen was still. Pehr glanced around the tiny room, in search of his clothes. The floor was absolutely bare, except for a gelchair and some empty plastic wrappers. Sunlight, reflected off a building across the way, shone through the single window and glared against the chrome walls.

“
Megan?” he said, loudly enough for her to hear.

“
What.” Her voice was flat like a glove falling to the floor.

“
Oh, Pehr!” She was exasperated. “Did you come streaking into my apartment? How did you manage that, and breaking in, too?” Now she stepped into the room, intheflesh.

“
I don’t know what you’re up to,” she continued, not looking at him but behind the gelchair. “Whatever it is, I don’t want any. No relationships, no friendly good-old-times conversation, no friendships, no fucking. Nothing. All I want is to be left alone, in peace.”

Suddenly, she stopped moving and flicked on her 3VRD. Pehr was shocked by the contrast between the woman and her preferred image. The 3VRD looked much more as he remembered her, only older and wiser-looking and, perhaps, a bit sadder. Megan—the intheflesh woman—turned away and let the 3VRD do the work of communicating.

“
Did you love me? I mean then,” Pehr asked.

She ignored the question. “I think you know your clothes aren’t here. Please leave now, before I begin to question what’s become of you, too. Please stay the sweet young Pehr I remember. Yes, I loved you, but I don’t know what that means anymore. Leave.”

Pehr nearly obeyed, then remembered his state of dress. “Do you have something I can wear?” he asked, awkwardly.

Silently, she crossed to a closet and removed a large man’s pants and shirt, wrinkled and dusty. She handed them to Pehr with, “Here, these ought to fit.” The 3VRD shielded her from him.

Pehr dressed beneath the sheet, hurriedly pulling on the too large pants and too-tight shirt. He rose and reached for the door handle, only a step away from the bed. There he paused a moment.

“
Do you subscribe to a program called,
Lone Ship Bounty
”?

“
Oh, Pehr.” Megan’s voice was thick with pain. She kept her eyes on the filthy carpet. “No, not at all. I saw the ads, but I couldn’t stand to think of you running off to space and fighting for a show, like some fool. It turns out you’re worse than I suspected. The show was just a farce, huh? Advertised as one of the ‘real’ ones, but it was all as artificial as everything else. I’d hoped you were better than that, but you’re no more real than I am. Now get out before I find the courage to slap your face.”

In a sort of daze, Pehr stumbled in bare feet out into the hall. Minutes or hours later, he found himself at an elevator shaft. He punched the down button and waited, wondering. So he was an actor from
Lone Ship Bounty
. What did that mean? Had he escaped from some Feedcontrol center, amnesic with drugs or monofeed? Or had they released him at serial’s end, and it would just take a while to re-acclimate to reality?

The elevator opened with a click. Its floor level didn’t quite match that of the hallway. Pehr stepped on board and watched the doors close. On the inside was painted the number 107. No graffiti, no vandalism. The place seemed unreal, like no place he had ever lived.

“
Which floor, sir?” the elevator’s AI asked. It had no 3VRD, only a voice that spoke within Pehr’s head.

“
Ground level.” The car started down. A tremor began in Pehr’s legs.
Back dirtside
, he thought.
And who’s saying that? Heroic Cap’n Jack? Miru, TritonCo scientist? Pehr, EarthCo citizen and failed Crusader?

“
Who am I?” His voice trembled at the same rate as his legs.

And Megan—
Oh, what’s happened to her? What has time done to her, my darling Megan, memory lover? Who has she become?