Atlas Alone Page 23

  I nod. “I got a message from Carolina before the news came out. Is it okay to reply to her now?”

  “Yeah. Just be careful what you say to people about this. No speculation. It never helps.” He comes over, crouches in front of me. “I’m sorry if I freaked you out there. I just click into a different mode when something like that comes up, you know?”

  “I know. They made us that way.”

  His eyebrows betray how much that has hurt him and he leans in to embrace me. I accept it. I need to keep him on my side, after all. And when a little voice at the back of my mind suggests that it actually feels good to be held, I smother it with the sure knowledge that there will be a moment, sometime in the future, when Carl will betray me. Everyone does in the end. But I hold him tight and I pretend that I have forgiven him for being nothing more than I am: a cold collection of trained responses, pretending to be a person.

  18

  I WOBBLE IN high heels, trying to remember a time when I used to wear these semiregularly. The dress Carolina sent me is nice, a pale blue that goes well with my coloring; a 1940s tea dress fit-and-flare style, it nips me in at the waist and skims over my hips with a nice amount of swooshy hem that rests just over my knees. A flattering length, but without a full-length mirror in my cabin, I’ve had to ask Ada to mock up my avatar wearing it and project it onto the wall. It’s not a style I’d ever choose for myself, but it looks good. I feel like I’m wearing a weird skin for a new game.

  Looking down at my legs, I try to appraise if they look okay bare. The hair follicles were killed off long ago, and I scrubbed my legs in the shower to try to make them nice and smooth, but they are still pasty white. I shake my head at myself. Vanity doesn’t need much to reassert its hold over my confidence, it seems. Of course they look that way; they haven’t seen sunlight in months. While the food printers can add vitamin D to my food, they can’t magically make my legs look less blotchy.

  The shoes have been printed, as has the dress. I haven’t seen any nonfood printers on this deck and I was given to understand that the facility wouldn’t be available for anything outside of critical lab work. I think about that marketplace I only became aware of once I was employed again, once I was plugged back into the system. Perhaps there’s a way to buy printer access. Something doesn’t quite add up here.

  At least styling my hair isn’t as demanding as it used to be. I don’t have any makeup, I realize with a faint quiver in my stomach, and there isn’t time to print what I need. I’ll have to go and meet people barefaced, without having drawn on the version of myself that I want them to see. It seems I’m more vain than I ever appreciated before. Why should I worry about what I look like, though? I’m not trying to impress clients or represent a business or fit with my boss’s idea of how well-turned-out employees should present themselves. But then, my new boss has just literally sent me an outfit to wear.

  My stomach lurches at the memory of being given a new suit on the day I left the hot-housing center. The contracts had been signed by the company that ran the center and the company that wanted to employ me. The latter had sent a dress code. I remember staring at the suit on the hanger in my cell, thinking that I would never choose to wear that. And then thinking, in the next moment, that it didn’t matter anymore. No one cared about what I might want or not want. There was a debt to be paid, and that was all that mattered. That I had never chosen to acquire that debt in the first place was never factored into it. I hadn’t lived beyond my means. I hadn’t run up debts without caring about consequences. I wasn’t even one of the many people in that center who’d run up debts thanks to undiagnosed mental illnesses. All I had done was become homeless.

  A pain in my hand makes me look down. My nails have dug so hard into my palm that little half-moons of red skin have been left behind. I flex my fingers, breathe. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. It was a long time ago and all of the people who were part of that societal machine are dead or dying. So what if Carolina sent these clothes to me? She obviously has some sort of agenda. I merely have to wear the right costume to play this game. And that’s all it is. A game.

  I go to the end of the corridor and go in the opposite direction from the one I’m used to taking for my run. I haven’t been down this one since the day we arrived. That feels like years ago and yet, at the same time, like it was only last week. Ada informs me that she has been given the route and the lift will take me to where I need to go. Fine. I’ll go to this party, see what Carolina really wants and then come back.

  As the doors close in the lift I lean back, making the most of this time alone before I need to perform. And just as I feel like I’m getting into the right headspace, with its accompanying bright smile and perky energy, a familiar dialog box pops up, unwanted.

 

  The box disappears before I can even type in an expletive-laden reply. But it isn’t the fact that the beast is obviously stalking me—I’m used to that now—it’s the fact that it has sent me the one piece of information guaranteed to make this cold, dead gamer heart of mine excited. It’s like the ultimate quest, and even though I know I am being manipulated, I can’t help but want to find that room and see what’s in it. But how can I do that? Walking around with Ada pinging the server every second to find a dead spot will be flagged as suspicious behavior. But there is another way . . .

  “Ada, I want you to record everything at this party with full immersion.”

  “There is a privacy notice regarding activities on the fifth floor, precluding the sharing of any files recorded in social spaces.”

  “Can it be saved for personal use only?”

  “Yes, but an alert would be flagged if you tried to share it with anyone else.”

  “That’s fine. Save it to my private folder.” There’s too much data for my chip’s internal cache, so Ada will be forced to constantly upload data to my private server space. The moment the connection is lost, an automatic alert will pop up, even if Ada’s comms are shut down. And if it’s supersophisticated and can’t tell me in real time, an examination of the mersive afterward will at least give me a clue about where that dead space is.

  By the time the lift comes to a stop and the doors open, I am ready to play. I step out, see that Carolina is waiting for me and give her my best smile.

  “That dress looks awesome!” she cries as she strides over for yet another bloody hug. She’s wearing a red dress that is far more fitted than mine, with similar shoes in a different color. Probably the same printing pattern. “Thanks so much for coming!”

  We’re in a corridor that looks exactly the same as the one I just left, but there is a difference. The scent of perfume hangs on the air, and not just the subtle floral scent of Carolina’s hair. There are different perfumes and aftershaves mingled together. And a low hum of conversation and music not far away. Where I would expect to see the corridor stretch on and on, there’s a set of double doors instead.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” I say automatically. “Did . . . did you hear the news? About Commander Brace?” I know she must have; Carl will have spoken to her no doubt, but she doesn’t know I’m friends with the investigator and it seems the most polite way to broach a difficult topic.

  Her cheery “let’s go and party” expression melts away. “Yeah. Apparently he went back onto the server after we all came up. I mean, there are rules about that for a reason. Even so . . . I don’t know how it happened exactly.” She touches my arm. “I do know it couldn’t have been our game though. I don’t want you to worry about that.”

  I just nod. “Thanks,” I add. “I wasn’t sure whether to come or not.”

  “Most of the people in that room don’t know what’s happened yet, and I’d suggest
you don’t mention it at all. Nor anything about the leet server. My grandfather knows what happened, and if he asks you about it, then obviously, say what you feel comfortable saying. But I don’t think he will mention it. It’s his birthday party and no one here wants to bring things down.”

  She’s invited me to a family party? This feels rather strange, but then, maybe this is my Noropean reserve showing. At least she’s giving me the rules of the game—the explicit ones, anyway. From the way she looks when she mentions her grandfather, I have the feeling that impressing him is both a subquest and an implicit rule. Not mentioning the leet server is interesting though. Maybe it’s a clique thing, and if some stranger turns up as her leet gaming buddy, that might put some noses out of joint.

  “The layout on this deck is a little different from what you’re used to. It’s more . . . open plan. The restrooms are through there.” She twists to point out a set of doors a little way down the corridor behind her. “And the party is that way.” She points ahead, over my shoulder. “It’s just a party,” she adds. “Nothing more. Just have fun!”

  I don’t believe her for a moment, but I still smile as if what she says has relieved any concerns I might have had. It’s the social cue she is waiting for.

  We head to the doors that were behind me. It feels like I’m about to go to one of the many parties I had to go to in my old job. I didn’t mind them too much; the ones for the investors and upper levels of management usually had proper handmade canapés made out of real food and had actual musicians playing real instruments. The social aspect was less enjoyable but nothing I couldn’t handle. I just found it tiring, like having to play a massive game of chess over several boards for hours after a full day of work. But I did always appreciate the opportunities to learn more about my colleagues once they were drunk enough to let their guard down. As long as I managed to keep a minimal safe distance from my boss and made sure that I was never alone with him if he couldn’t be avoided, I didn’t mind going to them at all.

  “Open plan” feels like an understatement after the months of living in a tiny cabin and running around low-ceilinged corridors. Here, the ceiling is the same height but it feels higher when coupled with the space. There are pillars at regular intervals, revealing the infrastructure of the ship, which is much harder to see in a space stuffed full of cabins. The walls are all smart screens, showing panoramic outdoor scenes through fake windows, giving it the impression of being a huge hall in the middle of some paradise filled with trees and exotic flowers. The lighting is brighter in those areas, to mimic sunlight streaming through the false windows, with the space farther inside the room softly illuminated by fixtures inserted into the pillars. If I didn’t know I was on a ship, I’d be fooled into thinking we were still on Earth.

  When I look across the crowded room I realize I’m at a severe disadvantage here in comparison to those previous parties. Here I can’t spot the most important people by sight alone, or plan how to navigate my way toward them through successive conversations and introductions to people closer to them. I think a command to Ada to activate the full social Augmented Reality option, something I never used at home because I found it irritating and clunky to have to try to read names and top-level profile information without the other person noticing. I should have planned better for this; if I’d considered it earlier, I could have refined the settings and got Ada to help me zero in on the most important people in the room according to my own criteria, rather than the default pay grade or command position information she is using now.

  Nevertheless, some of the new arrows that appear to float over several heads in the room are very useful. I scan them as Carolina leads me over to a table laden with drinks and food. Ada has picked out the captain as the most important person in the room, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with pale brown skin and a buzz cut. She is talking to a man who is shorter than her, and she has the physical stance of someone who is extremely fit and knows she can take anyone in the room. If this were a mersive, I’d feel the way she looks is too stereotyped.

  Ada has also picked out the founders, all ten of them, giving them blue outlines as if they are being backlit by a powerful stage light. As I look around, I find some of the faces familiar, no doubt from that first foray into their data when I was trying to learn more about my targets. My face is a mask in front of a mask. I will not show any of the hatred I feel for them, any of the disgust at the way they must have given the orders to Captain Ashby, and certainly not my wish that they were all as dead as the people they murdered on Earth.

  “Ada,” I think to her as I pretend to dither momentarily over which drink to try first. “How many of the people in this room are CSA members?”

  “One hundred percent of the attendees are members of the CSA.”

  “Apart from me,” I clarify.

  There is a strange pause. “I’m sorry, I cannot resolve that clarification. Would you like me to verify your membership status with Atlas 2?”

  Thank fuck I have taught Ada to be very cautious about verifying anything personal with the biggest local AI. “No, that’s fine,” I think.

  Why is there the difficulty? There’s no way I could be a member of the CSA, but there is obviously some data point somewhere that has suggested I am to Ada. Then I remember the first game I played, the traumafest involving finding the pin and Bobby Bear telling me that some changes could be made to my chip to trick the system into thinking I was a member. Has that bled into the real world? Given that death has, a little entry in a database somewhere is small fry.

  I pick up a glass of what Ada informs me is nonalcoholic punch. Now I’ve got a rudimentary grasp on the room’s social currents, I pay attention to the food. It’s all printed, by the look of it, but still very fancy. I find it reassuring; if this looked like the food from the posh parties back home, it would mean there was catering set up that would be absurdly space and resource inefficient on this ship.

  “Try that one,” Carolina says, pointing to what looks like a tiny hamburger. “They’re better than they look.”

  I do, popping it into my mouth. The texture and taste are incredible; it’s really like a miniature burger. Not that I’m sure I’ve ever eaten a real one. But I’ve had real bread before, and this matches it perfectly. “Mmmm.” I nod and make sure I convey the enjoyment through my eyes. She grins and takes one for herself before recommending a tiny salmon mousse affair with some sort of creamy topping I simply cannot identify. It tastes good though.

  “Come and meet Pappy,” she says, steering me away from the table.

  She smiles and says hello to people as we pass them in little clusters. I have my profile set to private as default and haven’t changed it, as she doesn’t seem to have a problem with that. Perhaps she sees me as some sort of poor cousin and doesn’t want any of my data to confirm that. The sense of being an outsider here sharpens with every passing second. It’s not just the fact that they all know one another; it’s also the fact that they are part of an organization with an ideology, one that I don’t share. I need to make sure I watch my language. I know some of the religious types in the US don’t like people to say JeeMuh or take the Lord’s name in vain or whatever.

  It soon becomes clear who Pappy is, being the only person with a blue glow in that part of the room. JeeMuh, her grandfather is a founder. Shit, I’m going to have to actually talk to one of them. Does she have any idea what he did? No . . . I don’t think anyone knows, only me, Carl, and Travis. How can this man look his granddaughter in the eye, knowing he was one of the people responsible for the deaths of billions of people?

  The profile that comes up when I look at him for longer than three seconds details that he is 101 years old today, is called Theodore Parks and had a string of high-profile corporate positions on Earth. There’s a Bible verse listed in his “favorite quotes” section, but I don’t have time to ask Ada to tell me which one the numbers refer to.

 
He looks fit and healthy, a barrel-chested man with a full head of white hair slicked back from his face. His eyes are the very pale blue of an elderly man, something he obviously doesn’t care enough about to fix artificially, and there is still a physical confidence and vitality to him. He is surrounded by men, one of whom seems to be telling some sort of story or joke to the group. As we reach them he delivers the punch line and all of them laugh a little too loud a beat after Theodore guffaws.

  “Ah! Here’s my girl!” he cheers at the sight of Carolina pushing her way through the uneven wall of bodies. “Give an old man some time with his favorite, will ya?” he says to the men, who all smile and nod good-naturedly and disperse, making my presence behind Carolina easier to spot.

  “Happy birthday, Pappy,” Carolina says, giving him a hug and a peck on the cheek. “This is my friend Deanna.”

  She stands aside so he can see me better and I watch those still-sharp eyes with their faded irises track up and down my body, like he’s appraising goods, before he finally looks into my eyes and says, “Well, hello, Deanna,” with a smile. “How about you give this old man a happy birthday hug?”

  So he’s one of those men. Skating the edge of lecherous in the way that only the most privileged can, milking his age as a false defense, encouraging all the women around him to no longer identify him as a threat. As much as he disgusts me, and as hard as it is to hide my feelings about him as a founder, now that I’ve pegged him I feel more able to cope; I know how to play men like this, and even better, they want to be played. They like it when women know exactly what is going on and hold that line with them, giving them just enough to make them still feel virile and powerful and special, in the way that old white men always want to. This man has power, he’s important to my new boss and I don’t have any reason not to play this game. I flash a smile as if he is the best-looking man I’ve seen since leaving Earth, move toward him with just a touch of extra sway to my hips, rest both my hands on his shoulders and give him a kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Mr. Parks.”