Throw on a baggy sweatshirt that hangs to my knees and head out into the corridor to the communal faucet, sliding into line behind the old techheads and grannies; the only ones up at this hour. Decide to browse the intelligible parts of my feed while I wait for my few drops of water, another rationing stricture instituted overnight by the gummies. My blade hangs comfortably against my thigh.
Flare-ups in northern Han, former Siberians still not accepting their new overlords. Pictures of smoldering craters half a kilometer across, burned-out shells of drones, mangled remains of bodies crumpled beneath flattened megaspires. The insurgents have heart, but that doesn’t mean much against a battlegroup with orbital support. One drone dies, they send in another, along with some tungsten. Takes way more time to grow new insurgents than it does to pump out another drone or kinetic, and the Han gave up caring about collateral damage a long time ago. Just like everyone else.
Another currency collapse in the Euroleague, third one this month. Lots of speeches from weak-chinned officials, spouting the same stiff-upper-lip shit as the last two times, but nothing’s changed. No one’s in the market for past glories, just for bread, but without access to arable land, all they can do is starve. The Confederation of African States doesn’t seem that interested in helping either, no doubt remembering tales passed down from their ancestors. A lumpy, pale-faced woman asks why no one cares about the starving. Tag that one under irony.
Closer to home, more riots in Ditchtown, this time in Southspire, nominally the headquarters of our gummie taskmasters. Couple security stations burned, armaments looted, nobody quite sure how or why it was done. Typical. I dribble some water onto the toothbrush, watch my water account dip down. Still enough to survive on. Stick the brush into my mouth and head back to the room.
I slip back inside, not bothering with the locks because I’m leaving shortly, and down a pouch of protein. It hits my mouth with the same disgusting sensation as always, because for some reason the corps can’t figure out how to make a protein pack that doesn’t have the consistency of jizz, but it’ll keep me moving, which is all that matters. Throw on my everyday wear—cargo pants, thin T-shirt, leather jacket, surplus tacboots—and head back out, locking the door behind me.
The Brown is quiet at this hour, younger misfits either still buried in their coding, red eyes twitching, or passed out from another all-nighter, their bodies refusing to press any further no matter how many stimulants zip through their veins. Stairwells yawn empty, free from the couriers’ tread. Mah-jongg boards sit in solitude, awaiting their relics, and the only sounds are those delivered by my staccato steps.
I make my way through the lower levels of the Brown and over to Sarah’s in Highrise, enjoying the illusion of peacefulness, the delusion that I’m the only living being in this honeycombed hive, free to wander where I wish. Tap off a message with my hapgloves to Wind and Slend, letting them know where we’re starting.
“Hey, Ash.”
Sarah greets me at the front door, switching her sign over from CLOSED to NOT CLOSED. Not nearly as welcoming as OPEN, but this is Ditchtown.
“Hey, Sare. How was the rest of the night?”
She chuckles, throwing an arm around my shoulder, walking me inside. I can feel her hips rubbing against me, the side of her chest against mine, and wonder if maybe I made a mistake.
No. Focus.
“It was fun. Found a spicy little number after you left, and what that girl could do with her tongue… ooooohhhh.”
She mock shivers, and I smile.
“Glad to hear it. Meant to mention it before, but sorry for not coming back in after we killed the dragon. Might have cost you some business.”
Sarah laughs, and plants a light kiss on my cheek before heading behind the reception desk.
“Ash, honey, I’ve been booked solid since you took that thing down. Everyone in Ditchtown wanted to use the same gear Ashura the Terrible was riding when she made history. Hoped some of your magic might rub off on their sorry Candyland asses.”
“Did it?”
“Not a chance. As much as I love my spheres, it’s the player that makes the stream, not the gear. You’re one of a kind, Ash, and as long as you want to keep coming here, I’ll always have a sphere set aside.” Sarah pauses, then winks at me. “Of course, you’re still paying for petro. A girl’s gotta make a living somehow.”
I smile and flip my hand at her.
“Never change, Sare. Never change. Which one am I in today?”
“C-5.” Sarah gives me one of her looks. “She’ll handle anything you want to throw at her.”
I flush and walk toward the door, feet moving slightly faster than normal.
“Thanks, um, Sare, but it’ll only be dailies today. Just, um, keeping in shape.”
I flush again and her airy laughter trails me into the locker room, echoing in my head as I pull off my clothes. Looks like she’s not planning on stopping the flirting anytime soon, but a part of me is glad about that.
Why can’t I have both? Ham won’t care. What’s he going to do about it anyway?
The unwanted thought creeps through my mind like poison, and I rub my hands against my face. Great. What a way to start off the morning—thinking about how to betray the one person absolutely devoted to me by taking advantage of the one thing he’ll never have. What the hell is wrong with me?
No. I love him. He loves me. That’s enough. It has to be.
Several contorted minutes later, I close up the molecular lock on my hapsuit, and grab my goggles. A short walk down the halls, and I’m at the scaffolding surrounding hapsphere C-5, dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from the sparse room’s ceiling. I tap open a commlink.
“Ready when you are, Sare.”
“I’m always ready, sweetie.”
I half smile and shake my head, a section of the sphere flowing aside to make an entrance. I climb inside and center myself on the floor, a dim glow of light filtering in from outside.
“Ready for diagnostics.”
“Diagnostics initiated.”
Sarah’s voice shifts to cool professionalism, and the sphere rotates under my feet, the opening sliding shut and plunging me into darkness. I snap my goggles into place and watch a wireframe grid form in front of me—the bare-bones visuals of syncing. The landscape starts to move, and I keep pace with the sphere’s rolling gait, slapping my hands against pillars that form at my sides, their dull gray bulk falling away at my touch, until everything falls still once more.
“Five by five across the board. You ready?”
I slide my goggles up, taking in the utter blackness surrounding me, then push them back down and wedge the scent emitters into my nose. Just me and my circular tomb.
“Let’s do it.”
Green fields unfold in front of me, thick grass underfoot. Wildflowers burst from the earth in multicolored sprays. Puffy clouds dot the perfect sky, and trills of birdsong drift on the wind. A jocular rabbit in a tuxedo bounds up to me, his overlarge eyes glistening with saccharine glee.
“Welcome to Cand—”
Wordlessly, I clench my fist, and obliterate the rabbit’s head in a massive punch. Pink and gray brain matter sprays across the gentle field, and then the sky pulls down tight, blue shifting to red, clouds warping into swirling vortices. A thunderous voice booms from above.
“Welcome to endgame, Ashura. Incognito mode is currently enabled. Please select a facet.”
The whirlpool clouds resolve into static images, one for each of the visible endgame shards. There are hidden ones as well, for players who know how to look, but I don’t need to access those for dailies. I point my finger at the picture of a spiral galaxy, and pull like I’m caressing the trigger of a gun. Suddenly, I’m drawn into the picture, perspective warping and distorting in smeared blotches. Clarity snaps back into focus, and I’m standing inside a space station, suited crew members bustling off to various tasks around me. A handsome spacer, laspistol dangling at his belt, slides to a halt in front of me.