《The Game State》 PROLOGUE: THE TEMPLE Our species is a never-ending garbage fire. No matter how far we progress, how much we learn, and how good we become at spoiling ourselves useless, it always comes back to killing. Even here, in what most people in the megacity would consider a holy place, I opened the door to find nothing but cold death and dry blood. I lowered my shotgun, letting it hang absently from one hand as I stepped into the temple. The gunfighting had been over long before I got there, replaced by an oppressive amount of solemn quiet. Streams of incense smoke still coiled upward from various corners of the main room, but a little patchouli couldn¡¯t mask lingering smells of cordite and iron. This was a massacre by the numbers. Not a robbery, but a dynamic entry. Total breach-and-clear job.
Jakob? Please explain what we''re seeing.
I ignored the voice in my head. His curiosity would have to wait. The attackers killed the Clerics first. That much was obvious. Harmless pacifists, living in the temple as part of their Covenant, hiding away from ganger life or a stim addiction. Poor bastards got caught right in the middle of their morning meditation. Some of the corpses were still kneeling on their prayer pillows. Frozen, pale figures in the world''s grimmest statuary. Stepping toward the nearest hallway, I saw the first signs of an actual fight. The temple¡¯s Paladins, each with entry wounds in their foreheads. At least they''d had time to grab their rifles. The Paladins had gotten a couple of shots in before they all ate it, too. But six armed clergymen weren''t enough to stop whatever force had come through the door. Moving down the hall and peering into side rooms, I found every inch of the place littered with bloody boot prints and shell casings. At the end of the hall, I scooped a handful of brass from the polished com-crete floor. 10mm HotStop cartridges. Brutal and expensive. The kind of ammo you use when you want to end a life with one pull of the trigger, regardless of what kind of subdermal armor or cybernetic wetgear is on the receiving end. Tipping my hand, I let the casings tinkle back to the floor before kicking the burned-out husk of a stun grenade across a synthetic grass prayer mat. These monks never had a chance. All the high-end hardware was a dead giveaway. There might as well have been a note saying ¡®mass murder provided courtesy of Greysen Security, ZLC¡¯. Bunch of no-neck, jack-booted smoothbrains. A familiar sickness turned in my stomach. I¡¯d spent a year as a GreySec employ before moving over to Edison Motors, and twelve months in the uniform left scars on my soul that implants and chems could never erase. Visions of Mount Weather flooded in, reminding me that they''d signed lifetime leases inside my head. Memories that explained why a scripting geek accustomed to a posh corpo life at Edison could walk through a scene like this without puking his guts out. It wasn''t because joining the Order a few weeks ago had given me supernatural coping skills. All they''d given me was my own orange robes, a voice in my head, and a mission. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Nope. I was keeping it together because I''d seen this before. Different surroundings. Different time. But still...this. I shook my head and kept walking. There were enough ghosts in this place. No need to resurrect mine. The sanctum at the heart of the temple hadn¡¯t been spared GreySec''s violence. Not as many bodies at my feet in here ¡ª only a few Simsattvas, the temple honchos ¡ª but a hell of a lot of smashed-up tech. Their MiniMax altar was completely savaged, and a lot of hardware was missing from the server racks set against the wall. Whatever the GreySecs left behind was unusable. Piles of shattered graphene boards and wires on the floor made it clear that they''d taken a breaching hammer to whatever they hadn¡¯t seized. Letting out a deep sigh, I rested my shotgun on my shoulder. ¡°What now?¡± I said to the empty room.
One sec, bud. Calculating.
That was the voice in my head again ¡ª an A.I.-powered neurocom app named Koan. He''d been installed only a few days ago as part of my own Covenant with the Order. The ceremony had involved hooking my brain up to a MiniMax setup just like the one shattered all over the floor in front of me. I had agreed to it, but it was more of one of those ''take any skyport in a storm'' situations. ¡°Any day now,¡± I mumbled to my embedded companion. I didn¡¯t need to talk out loud to interact with Koan, but doing so made me feel less alone. It took the edge off of him living in the processor attached to my brain and felt more like a conversation with an actual person. And frankly, I didn¡¯t give a damn if anyone thought it was weird. Not that it was all that strange for street-level Hope Megacity. Finally, some text popped up in my field of vision, narrated by Koan¡¯s always-pleasant voice:
Quest updated! Seek the Sacred Child at Vilk¡¯s Temple of the Ordered Construct, Palace Park District (0/1). Distance: 23.6 km, as the drone flies.
Considering the salient bloodbath at our feet, Koan¡¯s cheery tone irked me. By being linked to my nervous system, he knew what I knew, saw what I saw, and his optimism in the face of our situation seemed wrong. And I felt wrong for envying his unshakable A.I. demeanor. I scratched the tight fade of hair around my ear. ¡°Hm. What are the odds that the other temple is all shot to hell, too?¡±
I dunno. Pretty low. So sayeth MiniMax.
¡°So sayeth. Right.¡±
Embrace the Game State, Jakob!
I shook my head. ¡°I¡¯m trying.¡± After a short silence, Koan chimed in with another question.
Jakob. What is a ''HotStop''?
I scoffed. "Unlimited access to my brain, and you have to ask me about a bullet?"
It''s not unlimited. Some of the memories you''re referencing now are buried quite deep. I can''t fully access them.
"Good. Leave them alone," I said, bending down to examine one of the dead Simsattvas. After a short search, I lifted a fully-expanded HotStop round from the pile of bloody robes. Like a metal sea anemone about two inches across, with spikes so sharp that I had to be careful handling it even with my cybernetic fingers. "This is a HotStop, Koan. A bullet filled with metallic nanofluid. When it hits, it crystallizes into a ball of tiny spikes. Against bare flesh, it turns into a meat shredder. When it hits armor or bone, these spikes shatter. Become their own projectiles." Half the spikes had broken off the expanded bullet, probably after hitting the back of its victim''s skull. I silently hoped Koan wouldn''t ask me to flip the body over so he could examine the exit wound.
No need for that. But you could tell me why this bullet is tied to your memories of the Summit Riots. You have so many buried memories there, Jakob.
"Maybe later." I sighed, tossing the HotStop to the floor. "Now''s not the time." Taking a final, lingering look at the mess, I mourned the loss of the one good thing about being banished from Edison''s employ and putting on the orange robes. Namely, that I wouldn¡¯t have to deal with this kind of shit any more. That was the plan, anyway. But this is Hope Megacity. We''re selfish, angry animals. And it always comes back to killing. TWO WEEKS EARLIER Three. Two. One¡­ The naked hologram on my dash dropped her arms, and I mashed the accelerator to the floor. Six cylinders sprung to life, as hungry pistons devouring sprays of high-octane petrol infused with cold methanol. Spent aldehydes and carbon blasted through exhaust valves and into the polished manifold, spinning a turbocharger turbine the size of a ramen bowl. The waste energy from exhaust gasses forced horsepower-doubling compression into the cylinders before roaring out through the downpipe and into the street. My stomach wrenched as raw horsepower tried to push me through my seat. By the time my car''s mechanical music hit its straight-piped crescendo, I was flying down Concourse Frontage Road at a hundred and fifteen miles per hour. Through the window to my right, the sparsely-lit ghetto of the Quarters District zoomed by. Over my left shoulder, a hundred-year-old abandoned skyport surrounded by heat-scorched North American wilderness. "Primo launch, Jakob," came the voice of Danny, piped directly into my brain through my neurocom, "but watch out for Caio. He''s torquing hard to the right. Bet he loses it in turn six." "Gotcha," I replied, too focused on trail braking through the first corner to think that far ahead. Danny ¡ª quiet co-worker by day, street technician by night ¡ª was on to something, though. When Caio''s car accelerated out of the turn, his line turned to slop. Punching the throttle must have shifted weight off his driver''s side wheel, throwing off his balance. If that happened in turn six, the first hairpin in this circuit, it probably would understeer the Brazilian''s car right off the track. "His corner weights are all jacked up. Suspension tuning FTW," I mumbled, flicking the paddle shifter and exiting the turn behind him. Too bad. I''d liked to have beaten Caio on technique instead of tuning. The Rio native was always a funny little chungus in the staging area, and I preferred racers who were quick with a joke to the ones that talked trash nonstop. Now, I had to avoid being next to him when his Akira Moonray inevitably went apeshit into a wall. I blinked it out of my mind. The nighttime neon and holographic halos of Hope Mega streaked across the sky around us, but all I could see was Caio''s damn brake lights. At least I didn''t have to worry about the other four cars in this race ¡ª we''d left them dogging in our rear cams during the first straightaway through the Quarters. But Caio''s PAC-era coupe was too quick out of the turns for me to overtake him. "Danny," I com''d, "how shitty is it that I''m hoping he wraps that loud-ass soy burner around a bollard?" Danny chuckled through my neurocom. "Pretty shitty. But five coins is five coins. One of which is mine." "Pft. I didn''t forget," I replied, wondering for the hundredth time why anyone would bet on another man''s driving. I mean, I was good behind the wheel, but nobody is good enough to put your own scrip in their hands. Especially a whole coin. That''s like three months wages for Danny. I blinked, gathering my focus as we raced toward corner four. Downshift. A little left-foot braking kept me tight alongside the Moonray ¡ª and gave the streaming fans at home an exhibition of brake biasing that made Caio''s off-platform turn look like a sea cow trying to pirouette. "Hairpin coming up soon," Danny cut in after my smooth glide out of the apex. "He has to know what''s up by now. If he panics and tries late braking to compensate¡­" "Yup. I don''t want to be on his outside when he lets off." Honestly, I didn''t want to be anywhere near Caio''s car for that turn. Inside, outside, any side. I knew what he had to be thinking, and none if it would lead to good decision making. If he went into the hairpin smoothly to keep his platform level and hold traction, I''d overtake and he''d be done. But if he went in hard the way he''s been doing, he''d never be able to keep his front tires loaded enough to stay on the course. With crypto on the line, he''d probably risk everything rather than hand the checker over to me. Personally, I loved my car too much for that kind of risk. When you wheel a rare classic from a make that hasn''t existed in a hundred years, you don''t cross your fingers on corners and wish for the best. You tune your damn suspension so you don''t have to wish. Or you pay Danny to do it. I hit another straightaway, this one taking me down from the elevated highway to the Quarters District''s abandoned streets. Turn six broke left a few meters after the original Hope Immigration Project headquarters. "Two klicks ''til you hit turn six," Danny com''d. I chuckled. "You writing a cowboy song, bro?" "Hey, keep it tight¡­hold up." Danny paused. "Lotta chatter on the police channel." Weird. The race sponsors always paid for HMPD to block off the courses for these night runs. Normally, the badgers just sat at the intersections downing NuTrio bars and earning bonus pay. "Oh skitz!" Danny continued, "Some gangers just zeroed a bunch of badgers at one of the roadblocks!" He didn''t need to tell me which roadblock. Just as turn six came into view, I caught sight of a HMPD Lowboy cruiser with a lot more fire pouring out of its windows than would be considered normal. I swallowed a painful lump in my throat. "Fuck, Danny¡­I''m coming into the corner hot. What am I supposed to do?" "Stop, fragwit!" Danny''s voice exploded in my head. "Turn the fuck around!" Against all of my racing instincts, I braked, swinging the ass end of my car around to put the burning cruiser behind me. "Com the other drivers, Danny! Make sure they don''t plow into me!" Caio and I had left them behind, but they would still be coming. Shit. What happened to Caio? My eyes snapped to the rear monitors just as the Brazilian''s tofu-burner skidded sideways into turn six. Just like I called it, he oversteered, but somehow managed to bring it to a stop before nailing the burning Lowboy. A spark of relief kicked up in my stomach, but burned out just as fast when Caio''s Moonray burst into flames. "Engine fire in Caio''s Moonray, Danny¡­" Caio jumped from the car right away, but three muscly goons in black leather stepped from the shadows and emptied their handguns into his chest. Pretty sure he was dead before he hit the ground. "Oh, shit!" I gasped, simultaneously smashing the accelerator flat to the floor. No time to appreciate the harmonics of a finely-tuned motor on this launch. I burned my tires practically to the rims, and spent a hell of a lot more time looking behind me than I would normally at a start line. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. The huge black cloud of burned rubber I''d left wasn''t enough to mask my escape. One by one, a quartet of chromed-out motorcycles broke through the smoke, roaring toward me like my car was standing still. "They''re on bikes, Danny!" I com''d. "They''re chasing me! What the fuck, bro? Seriously!" I clicked through gears as fast as the engine would hit redline. The four bikes still closed in, the roar of their torquey ICE engines pouring in through my open windows. "Who''s chasing you?" my tech came back. Even with his voice transmitted digitally and streamed directly into my brain, I could hear his own panic seeping through. "Those fuckin'' ganger trash that live in the Quarters," I replied. "And their bikes are fast as hell!" As if illustrating my point, one of the bikers took a whack at my rear quarter panel with a studded club. I cringed at the sound of carbon fiber shattering and instinctively yanked the wheel to avoid another hit. The riders swerved like pros to avoid my maneuver. "Holy shit, a whole precinct just rolled up here," Danny added. "There''s badges headed your way, too, but it sounds like these gangers are going after checkpoints all along the course." I side-eyed a bike pulling alongside my right and braked, juking the wheel to bluff an attempt at sideswiping him. The rider didn''t let up, probably knowing that I''d avoid smashing the hell out of my most prized possession. I cursed, blinking sweat out of my eyes before noticing oncoming headlights. For sure, one of the other racers, speeding toward us like he had no clue what was going down. The driver figured it out quick, though, and stood on his brakes. The souped-up old Eurogen hatchback fishtailed into a slide. I managed to avoid his rear bumper by a few inches, but the rider beside me slammed him at full speed and went ballistic over the Eurogen''s roof. Hopefully the racer was alright ¡ª the ganger trash was definitely a smear on the road. "Eat that!" I yelled, letting off the accelerator. More cars would be behind the hatch, oblivious to chaos roaring up the highway from street level. Or worse¡­ I locked my brakes. More headlights came around the winding elevated road, but they were singles. Three of them, and shaking from the roar of oversized motorcycle engines. "You gotta be fucking kidding me," I muttered. That Eurogen hatch hadn''t been blindly continuing the race ¡ª he''d been running from his own set of bloodthirsty bikers. Now they were bearing down on me, and I was completely boxed in by the three still on my ass. It wasn''t like I could drive through their heavy-ass bikes with a car made mostly of carbon fiber and aluminum. It''d be crushed like a HeadRush can with me inside, flailing around like an idiot. Nothing to do but stay put and wait for the badgers to show up and earn their lousy overtime pay. "I''m about to die," I com''d Danny. "So, tell me again why the hell we''re not allowed to carry hot steel on these races?" "Chill, man," he replied. "PD is close. Just¡­lock yourself in or something." I chuckled in spite of the six inked-up and angry goons dismounting their bikes around my priceless 2053 Nippon Suprema GT. Priceless. Maybe Caio''s mistake was getting out of his car. They might not shoot me if it meant hurting their prize. I grabbed the strap on my five-point harness and yanked it tight. "Get the fuck out!" one of the goons yelled, waving a huge, silver revolver over his head. Swallowing the resulting throat lump was like choking on sand. "Blow me!" I yelled through the window. "You''ll have to shoot me. And good luck getting my blood out of the ostrich leather." A couple of the bikers laughed, but it didn''t really feel like my joke landed. They were still circling like sharks, weapons in hand. The bastards were close enough now that I could make out the patches on their leathers, a few flat-black cybernetic limbs, and tattoos all over their faces. I fought to keep my breathing level. I had one chance, according to Danny. Stall until the badges showed up. And that wouldn''t happen if I passed out. "Alright, corpo-prick," the nearest biker continued. "Lemme help you." He lunged both arms through the window and grabbed at my harness. A numb-nuts mistake. My pair of wetgear arms were top-shelf tech, not like the refurb, spray-painted shit and organic meat he was sending my way. And with my harness practically fusing my torso to the Suprema, I had a lot of leverage. Wrestling with his busy hands took a quick second, but I managed to lock his wetgear limb under my armpit. A quick scissor movement with my free hand did the rest, snapping his fiber bundles backward at the elbow. The scumbag howled and pulled away, but I held tight. While he grappled with trying to free his busted cybernetic arm, I took hold of his organic hand and squeezed. This time, he squealed like a castrati. When I released, his hand looked like a NuFoods lab experiment gone tits up. Biker bolognese ala Jakob. I unclenched my armpit and let him fall backward out of my personal space. Scanning my surroundings, I counted five other leather dirtbags jumping to join in. Two of them nearly knocked themselves unconscious trying to dive in through the passenger window, and a third took a flying leap onto my hood. He was the biggest problem. More specifically, the huge revolver he was pointing through the windshield was the biggest problem. "Get the fuck out now!" he growled, thumbing back the hammer. I raised my hands and nodded, knowing that there wasn''t much more stalling to be done. Though I did make a conscious effort to unlatch my five-point harness as slowly as possible before opening the door. Once out of my car, I still had four guns trained on my head ¡ª one biker was too busy dragging his sobbing, mutilated buddy away from the scene to make it a hard five. "You really wanna die for a car?" the one with the revolver growled, shoving the muzzle into my chest. "Why not?" I said, grinning. "You''re about to." A few more laughs came from behind me, but Mister Revolver''s sense of humor must have run out. In one swift movement, he flipped the hot steel in his hand and cold-cocked me across the cheek with the grip. I dropped like a sack of bolts, the hazy headlights and neon skyline melting into a spinning blur. "Real fuckin'' comedian, here," the biker said, spitting on my chest. Turning to his greasy buddy, he added, "Jericho, hack the ride. Clock''s ticking, brother!" Struggling to my knees, I tried to snag the scumbag sliding into my Suprema. I missed, landing face-first on the rough pavement. Revolver was kind enough to roll me back over with a jab from his synthleather boot. "Got a closing joke, comedian?" he said, pointing the handgun at my face. "Sure do." I coughed, working my aching jaw into the most wise-ass grin I could manage. "Chirp, chirp." The biker smirked. "Who ''dis?" "Heywood." "Heywood, who?" A chorus of submachinegun fire erupted, filling swirling darkness with fire and smoke. I flinched against the flashes just in time to avoid a spray of warm blood in my eyes. Revolver''s corpse collapsed on my chest, forcing my already shallow breath back out of my lungs. I shoved him off, rolled over, and puked into the puddle of brains he''d left on the pavement. "Heywood you look at that," I said, wiping my mouth. "The badgers made it in time, you piece of shit biker trash." I laughed, since no one else was around to. Revolver''s buddy Jericho was zeroed, hanging bloody over the Suprema''s open door. No sign of the others. Just a ring in my ears and the smell of iron in my nose. "Suspects down!" a gravely voice rang out from the other side of my Suprema. Shouts for medivac and perimeter security followed, along with enough running bootsteps to shake the street. A pair of HMPD officers in patrol armor helped me stand up. "You alright, sir?" one asked, wiping blood and dirt from my fire suit. "Medicos are on the way. Just hold tight." "I''m good," I said, pushing away the officer''s grabby arm so I could get a look at my car. "Oh, for fuck''s sake!" I shouted, running my fingers over a string of fresh bullet holes in the quarter panel. "You smoothbrains pocked my ride!" The officers just curled their lips, while their cohorts buzzed around the scene, kicking away the downed bikers'' weapons and checking their bodies. "Jakob?" Danny''s familiar voice cut through the ringing in my ears. "Yo." "You alright? What''s goin'' on out there?" "Dirtbag knocked out my teeth. And these fragwit badgers shot the Suprema full of holes. Nothing special." I climbed into my car, firing the engine to life with a MiFi signal. "She still purrs, though." Danny chuckled. "Damn, you''re one lucky SOB." "I feel lucky," I said, spitting a wad of dried blood on the pavement before shutting the driver''s door. "I''m gonna get HMPD to escort me back to the staging area. We''ll give the girl a quick once over and head back to the garage. I need sleep." "Wilco," Danny said. "I''ve got a bottle and some notes waiting for you." "Notes?" "Yeah, on your stand-up. ''Heywood''? That was a terrible joke." I scoffed. "Right. But for the record, I was not standing up when I told it." Two low-pitched revs from the Suprema got the nearby officers'' attention. I waved back toward the start line, and two badgers hopped into a nearby black-and-white Lowboy to clear a path for me. I followed, fighting to keep my eyes open. Thinking about the thousands of creds I couldn''t claim because of a botched race didn''t help. What did wake me up was the sudden, brain-splitting whine of directed thrust motors overhead. Craning my neck out the window, I watched three GreySec ARVs ¡ª like metal hornets with room for eight heavily-armed troopers ¡ª booking toward TaoCom Skypillar. One of the seven immensely tall buildings that not only housed the prominent Global Corporations, but held up the city in the clouds that only the best of the best called home. "Jeebs, that''s N-TAC," I gasped, still com''d with Danny. "A whole platoon of ''em. Something going on at TaoCom?" "Uh, I got more chatter here on the open comms," he replied. "PD is closing the streets around their pillar. Making room for the heavy hitters, looks like. Can''t pick up N-TAC on the scanner." I shook my head and whistled. "Someone pissed off the Chingies something fierce." My brains were bashed in, my car was cheesed, and I had to go to work in the morning ¡ª but I still wouldn''t have traded places with whatever losers were dumb enough to hit the Dragon''s Lair. I guess that was something worth drinking to. THE FARMERS checkpoints. Red Mirror did The Luckies? You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. my my did
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Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Brother Jorge mala herethere narthex know Everyone FikePierce. Mala If can would anything THE MONASTERY Brother Fike suggested a tour of the refuge before getting deeper into the specifics of joining. "Seeing is better," he added, leading me through the central archway into a long room with vaulted ceilings and rows of synthwood benches. Colored light filled the space from both sides, where tall faux windows projected stained-glass portraits of people I didn''t recognize. "This is the nave," he said, leading me down the center aisle. "It''s where we gather for morning prayer and hold public services every week. Lockdowns not withstanding. It''s been a little empty in here this week." Gazing around the spacious nave, I took note of a few orange-robed disciples sitting in random benches. They were silent, frozen in position with their heads tilted down and eyes closed. "Why does it look like this?" I asked, waving my arm. "I mean, I get that it''s meant to look like an old church or something, but¡­" Fike stopped at the end of the aisle, just short of an elevated platform with a lectern. "But we''re not really a church," he said, running his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, it can get confusing. The Order isn''t a religion, but we adopted various themes for the benefit of the laypeeps. Different setups in different Refuges. There''s one a few blocks away that looks like a mosque, and across town there''s an indoor Shinto shrine with a garden." I scratched my chin. "So¡­people call this place a church?" Fike nodded. "Technically, we call it the Monastery on Amber Street. This is one of the largest Refuges in the mega. Based on an old monastery in some country that was swallowed up by the PAC a hundred years ago." I scoffed. "I''m an engineer, Fike. History and religion are probably my two weakest subjects. What does this have to with an old Simulist cult?" "Right off, you got to stop calling us a cult." I threw up my hands and nodded. Old habits, right? He''d understand. "Good. So, the design choices were all about linking to tradition and familiarity. Churches, shrines, temples. Most of us wear Arhat robes that historically never went within a thousand miles of a Christian monastery. In a way, it''s all marketing. The Order isn''t a religion in itself, so the different styles can appeal to different peeps and still carry the message." "I always assumed you guys were a full-blown religion." Fike smiled. "So did I. Most people probably do. You''ll get the real story soon enough. Order history is part of the onboarding." I wrinkled my nose. "You''ll enjoy it," he added, chuckling. "Elder Ogawa runs that part, and she came to Hope during the Population Project." "An old-timer. Interesting," I said. "Real history from a centenarian, not textbook history." Fike nodded and smirked. "As she likes to say, ''pure, unfiltered, and aged for a hundred years''." I looked beyond the platform behind him, noticing a large, golden door set into the far end of the nave. "What''s that all about?" I asked, flicking my head toward them. "Our MiniMax altar is back there," Fike replied. "It''s central to our whole system, so it gets the shiny room." "What''s a Mini¡­" The retired fighter held up his hand. "You''ll find out if you decide to join." I cleared my throat and nodded. "I''ll show you the dorms, first. Then, if you stay, we''ll begin the Discovery. First step of Onboarding." I hesitated a step, realizing I was about to go from tourist to participant. Brother Fike ignored my stumble and led on, taking us down a cross-ways part of the spacious nave he called the ''north transept''. A door at the end led to a small hallway with signs pointing left to the dormatory, and right to classrooms. We went left after passing my old friend Brother Jorge, who walked right by me with a knowing smile after Fike handed him the beads I''d borrowed. At least he''d made it back ¡ª and didn''t seem to bear me any hard feelings. The dorm area was a collection of small private rooms and a two-level bay full of cots that reminded me of a GreySec barracks. There looked to be enough space for fifty people in the bay alone. I had no idea how many private rooms there were on top of that. "You''ll have your own bed and a locker," Fike said, gesturing to a wall covered in tall, narrow storage bins. "Communal meals are served three times a day in the refectory, and we got a food printer you can use whenever you want." I walked between two of the cots. They actually were GreySec surplus. I had a lot of bad memories from my time with the military corporation, but at least they made a nice ergonomic bed. "And who pays for all this?" I asked. "The Construct Corporation," Fike said. "We''re the third wealthiest Global Corporation, and most people don''t even know it." I laughed. "Yeah, prolly because you don''t own a Skypillar or blast your logo all over the sky with holoprojectors." Fike shrugged. "We keep a humble profile, but we''re self-sufficient, operating entirely off of honest profits. No donations, no tithing. Being economically isolated keeps us sovereign." "Scrip''s gotta come from somewhere, though. So, what do you sell?" "We''re an order founded by philosophical computer programmers," Fike said, chuckling. "Pioneers in game theory and machine learning. We sustain the order through licensing our AI software. Everyone comes to us. MetaNet game companies, marketing agencies, even the Consortium." Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. "No skitz." I said, my eyebrows lifting. "Artificial intelligence ties into our belief system," Fike added. "It only makes sense." I grinned. "That''s the first time I''ve heard you say anything about Simulist¡­uh, the Order''s¡­beliefs. Which is weird, considering this is sales pitch for joining a monastery." "Not quite a sales pitch," Fike said, smiling. "That implies that I''m supposed to convince you to join. Like I just explained, we don''t need members. Whether you sign up or not has no bearing whatsoever on me or this Refuge." "Sure it does," I said, laughing. "You''re going to spend a fortune on food printer cartridges with me around." Fike grinned. I took one more look around the dorm, appreciating the austerity in spite of myself. This had been nothing like walking into the state shelter for the first time. In that place, I knew life couldn''t get any worse. This place was different, and bore no shadow of oppression or imprisonment. I smirked. "Okay, point me to my locker." Fike chuckled, looking genuinely satisfied that I''d decided to stay. We spent another twenty minutes touring the Refuge. The most interesting stop was at the Scriptorium, a massive hall filled with server racks and rows of identical terminals where monks hacked away at waterfalls of code. A few of them were psychers, sitting with their hands folded and eyes closed, wires plugged directly into the base of their skulls. They all wore the orange robes, and every man and woman was so laser-focused on whatever they were coding that they didn''t even look up when we walked through. According to Fike, this Refuge was a major hub for artificial intelligence development, and both the tech and the determination on display spoke to that. The Scriptorium was a place of work, but these Simulists weren''t toiling like the poor schlubs at corpo code farms. Their focus was driven by something else entirely. Fike led me on to the classrooms and the refectory ¡ª the chow hall ¡ª on our way back to a small office near the narthex. Once in the office, Fike sat behind a plain desk and gestured for me to take a seat opposite. With barely enough space to get around, this was no lavish corpo setup. Hiro''s private bathroom back at Edison was four times larger than the entire space. "Cozy," I said, taking a seat. "Practical," Fike agreed. "We''re not an order of rules, but pragmatism is encouraged." I smirked. "If you''re not into rules, the monastic theme seems a bad choice." "You would think," Fike said, leaning back in his simple chair. "The old Simulists put a lot of thought into refining our system. Spent years studying organized religions with a plan to tear out anything that harmed the pursuit of truth. You know what came up most often?" "Too many rules?" I answered, shrugging. "Yes and no. The problem was spiritual gatekeeping. ''Do what I say or you''re a sinner,'' kind of mentality. The religious leaders didn''t see it as a problem ¡ª I''m sure they liked the control. But a lot of people questioned why the quest for something as important as absolute truth or divinity should hinge on what clothes they wear or what they eat. Post-Collapse society had enough of the nitpicking." "Sure. A near-extinction of the species is a pretty big wake up call." "And it made more room for the Reckoning to catch on. Good old Anti-Dualism. Only two billion people survived the worst of the Collapse, and most of them lost everything by the time it was over. Their homes, their families, their plans for the future. That kind of suffering gets old, and the masses didn''t want to think in terms of ''us-versus-them'' any more." I scoffed. "That shift didn''t last long. Everyone thinks that way now." Fike shrugged. "For a few decades, most of the planet was united behind the idea of rebuilding. The only wars that dragged on were waged by state governments who didn''t want to let go of their power." I''d served my GreySec rotation in Washington, and I was outside Mount Weather after the Remnant United States forcefully annexed Appalachia. When the riots kicked off, I saw how badly governments wanted to hold on to the past. They had no qualms choosing wholesale slaughter over letting go. "Now, it''s all ''the masses-versus-the-corporations''," Fike continued. "Part of the reason we don''t go around advertising our corpo DNA. Humans always find a way to manufacture conflict. We''re drawn to it because we''re built to struggle. Our need for challenges is as strong as our need to eat." I furrowed my brow. "At least you''re not struggling in here. Seems safe, quiet. Lots of food, speaking of eating." Fike smiled. "All different kinds of fighting, ya know? The Order offers different challenges, and each of us is guided by our personal Covenant. And that''s literally all about struggle." I leaned in. "Okay, so what''s that all about? The ''Covenant'' you keep mentioning?" Fike tented his fingers, thinking on his answer. "It''s the difference between someone who accepts Ordered Construct Theory and someone who seeks to serve it." I frowned. "I learned the history of Sim Theory in the academy like most people, but serving it didn''t come up." "You got the physics lessons," Fike said, "and now you can get the other half. The half with meaning." I clicked my tongue, leaning back in my wobbly synthwood chair. Meaning. The word was a signpost at the edge of the realm of gods and goblins and enough to get my apprehension spooling up. Fike had had me with the science. Even the history was mildly interesting. But now my skin was crawling just as badly as when the missionaries in the shelter were grilling me with spiritual ''what-ifs'' and ''why-fors''. "That bothers you?" Fike asked. I cleared my throat. "Wouldn''t say it bothers me. It just doesn''t interest me. No offense." Fike leaned his elbows on the desk, still smiling. "Have you heard the ''purpose versus pleasure'' speech yet?" "The missionaries mentioned it." "The ones you pickpocketed?" Fike smirked. "Did it sink in at all?" I nodded. "There''s a reason it''s our Second Noble Truth. Our game developing forbears mastered the art of dopamine loops over a century ago. They did it without holograms, without neurocoms, and without direct connection to the nervous system. They could get peeps to stare at a little device for hours with just lights and sounds. It''s almost like they were hacking neurotransmitters before BioDyne and TaoCom made it easy." He didn''t know about my skills in hacking neurotransmitters ¡ª and I preferred he didn''t find out. "It was all ''entertainment''," Fike continued, "but some of our forebears started to feel guilty about it. It stopped being art when science stepped in and showed the coin-counters how to make everything more addictive. Games, cinemas, streams. It all turned to mush that was more about turning consumers into zombos so the Pre-Collapse corporations could bleed ''em dry." "Sounds like everyone was probably pretty happy," I quipped. "Lots of entertainment." "You could say that," Fike said through a deep laugh. "Until the world fell apart around their ears. They were entertained ¡ª maybe even happy by some arguable definition ¡ª but they were also distracted while the scumbags running the world did whatever they wanted. A few billion people learned the hard way that distraction is fleeting, not fulfilling." Scratching my chin stubble, I stared into the empty desktop separating me from the orange-robed Fike. The story spoke to me. I''d spent ten years climbing ladders for the corpo brass ring. I wasted plenty of free time racing on the mega outskirts, crashing parties, and tweaking my neurochems. And everything I''d worked for was taken away in less than an hour. It wasn''t the end of the world, but it was the end of my world. All I had left was a my car ¡ª which I couldn''t even get to ¡ª and I was obsessing over it because I thought I could drive it out of the mega and start over somewhere else. And those words stabbed at my brain. Start over. Did that just mean more corpo ladders and more getting off on brain hacks? Distractions. Endless loops. That wasn''t a purpose. Couldn''t be. "Hey, Fike," I said, leaning toward him. "What was that saying that the Founders used all the time when they were first building Hope? Something about rebuilding?" He smiled. "''Never repair what you can redesign.'' They meant returning to the status quo after the Collapse was the dumbest thing we could do because we''d just be rebuilding a failed system. Why?" "Tangential relevance," I said, sighing. Locking eyes with the monk, I added, "You said the first step was a ''Discovery''?" He nodded. "That''s right." "Then let''s get to Discovering." DISCOVERY was sold This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. definitely huge not don''t do it OGAWA The elevator took us deep underground, to a part of the Refuge that wasn''t on the tour. When the doors slid open, the departure from ''faux monastery'' into ''doomsday bunker chic'' was far from subtle. Fike and I stepped into a com-crete hallway lined with reinforced alloy beams. A pair of small ceiling turrets followed our steps, although I didn''t know if they were AI-driven or monitored by someone in a secure room. Either way, they still creeped me out. Before we''d made it ten steps down the hall, a half-dozen monks with Sevenex armor vests over their robes filed in from a side corridor. They held their rifles in covert carry, muzzles down, but their stoic faces told me everything I needed to know about their willingness to use them. "Evening, Paladins," Fike called out, holding up his right hand. The six stopped in a neat double-column. A woman at the head rendered a shallow bow over her weapon. "The Reliquary remains secure, Elder," she said with practiced formality. Fike returned the bow. "Under the vigilance of the Watch, the Way is safe. I bring a wanderer. Jakob Qadir offers himself to the Trial of Time." A shiver ran through my back. Had I agreed to ''offer myself'' to something without realizing it? "The Way is open for those who seek," the woman replied. "So sayeth MiniMax." "So sayeth MiniMax," her five companions recited in unison. With steps as practiced as their patter, the column of Paladins split and pressed their backs against the walls. Fike led the way between their watchful eyes, and I followed, both impressed and a little intimidated by their show of force. Once we passed through the gauntlet of guards and rounded the corner, I leaned over to whisper my concerns. "What am I offering, Fike? And you didn''t say anything about a trial. It''s supposed to be a history lesson." He stopped in front of a heavy blast door marked with mortal warnings about unauthorized access. "The purest history lesson you''ll ever experience," he said, grinning. "Discovery was about understanding where you are now. The Trial is to learn what led you here." "You led me here." "You misunderstand¡­" "No," I cut in, "I''m being sarcastic. But seriously, Fike, what''s this trial really for?" "To access the Akashic Database and extrapolate your Covenant with the Order. To find out where it is you''re meant to be." I sighed, taking one more look at the ''we will shoot you in the head'' sign on the door. "That is the whole reason I''m here, I guess." Fike nodded. His eyes flashed blue ¡ª a MiFi connection ¡ª and the heavy door shot into the ceiling with a pneumatic hiss. The small room beyond reminded me of a NetOps station with a single chair in the center. Lined with server racks and flashing hardware, it looked like the kind of setup a psycher would use to mentally access the DarkNet. "Ready?" Fike asked, flourishing his arm toward the chair. I walked in, my bootsteps echoing in a silence that seemed at odds with the amount of digital activity in the room. Running my fingers along the central chair''s metal lines, my eyes fixed on a helmet-like attachment hardwired near the top. "It''s a neuronic coupler," Fike said, joining me on the other side of the chair. "Gets you pretty close to what a psycher can do in terms of bandwidth and interfacing." The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. "Beats anything I''ve seen at Edison," I said. "And my department was pretty big on neurocom tech." Fike smiled. "It''s proprietary." I could see why. If it actually could get someone on the DarkNet without the need for psycher implants, the tech would be worth a fortune. It would also be dangerous as hell if the wrong people got a hold of it. I craned my neck, peering around the room. "So, where''s this history teacher?" "Elder Ogawa will be running your Trial remotely," Fike said. "Once we get you set up, you''ll meet her." He patted the chair, and I climbed up. A few minutes later, Fike had the neuronic helmet strapped to my head, prompting odd notifications to pop up in my NUI. Committed to the task ¡ª or resigned, maybe ¡ª I closed them without reading them. "One last thing before we can start," he said, pulling a long strap from under the chair. "What''s that for?" He reached across my chest and snapped the strap into a buckle. A surge of concern kicked in as he tightened two more over my waist and legs. "Just so you don''t fall out of the chair," he said, though it didn''t feel much like a safety measure. It did feel like I was offering myself. And I hadn''t agreed to have my brain scrambled by some wild newtech in a basement. "Can we take a step back here?" I said, pulling my arms against the straps. "I''m not feeling this." Filk smiled. "You''ll be fine. Just Embrace the Game State." His eyes flashed blue again, and I fell asleep.
I awoke to a cloud of swirling colors, as if all the neons and holos around Hope Mega had thrown up in my brain. Fike''s parting aphorism still echoed in my ears. Embrace the Game State. "What the fuck does that even mean?" I shouted. Suddenly aware of the emptiness around me, I looked down to see that I was floating. Disorienting beyond comprehension, but at least here I could move my arms and legs ¡ª wherever the hell ''here'' was. "Yo!" I called out. "Fike! Elder On¡­Om¡­Ojibwa!" I blinked and a ball of white light appeared inches from my nose. "It''s ''Elder Ogawa'', thanks," the light said, pulsing with a serene young woman''s voice. I flapped and kicked, trying to put some distance between myself and the bright light, but only managed to roll end over end. "You don''t sound like an elder," I said, leveling myself again. "Don''t worry," the light pulsed. "I''m as old as advertised." I scoffed. "Voice filter? Kinda vain for a hundred year-old monk." The ball of light exploded with blinding color, forcing me to cover my eyes with my arm. When the phosphenes cleared and I could see again, the ball had become a Japanese woman with flowing hair and a smart-ass smirk on her full lips. "And you''re kind of immature for a twenty-six year old corpo-rat," she said, putting her fists on her hips. "Former corpo-rat," I said, taking note of her brown dress and sky blue jacket. "And you''re not even wearing the robes. Am I getting hacked?" "I don''t like the robes. I was against them from the beginning. Always thought they were too¡­cultish." I scoffed. "Don''t let Fike hear you say that." She shrugged. "Meh." "I don''t know where you''re remoting from, but maybe you need to check out this little Refuge in person," I said. "I''m not trying to be a dick, but there''s a lot more cultish going on here than just the outfits." Ogawa stepped ¡ª not floated ¡ª toward me. I could even hear her heels clicking against the floor. Or what could have been a floor, if it were there. "I''m aware. But there''s one key factor that keeps the Order from actually being a cult. Or a religion, even." Grinning, she booped me on the nose with a slender finger, sending me end over end one more time. The flipping would have made me sick if not for the lack of gravity. Or organs. Or matter, for that matter. "And that, Jakob Qadir, is why you''re here," Ogawa finished, catching me by the arm. "So let''s get to it." "Whoa," I said. "Fill me in first. I''m getting sick of the ''Order of Mystery'' bullshit. What''s the one factor that I''m here for?" Ogawa squinted one eye, appraising me for a long few seconds. "Okay," she said. "I''ll give you a hint." I sighed. More mysteries it was, then. "What''s the one, big thing that cults take away from people?" she asked. "Uh. Their scrip? Their dignity? I dunno." "Their individuality. That''s key to the whole concept." "Right. Explains why you don''t like the robes." She smiled. "Yeah, that''s why. Anyway, the Order is all about individuality. In a way, it''s our entire purpose." "Not what I''ve seen so far, but go on." Ogawa turned around, then smirked at me over her shoulder. "I''ll bet you''re dying to know what ''The Covenant'' is, aren''t you?" I chuckled. "Hopefully dying''s not a requirement." "You''re smart, Jakob. Trained in the practical sciences and neuronic technology. So, I''ll give it to you straight. The Covenant is gamefication." "Gamefication of what?" "Your soul." I raised my eyebrows. "Look, I agree that I''m smart, but I designed telemetric readouts for sports cars. I''m not following you." Ogawa spun on her toe, smile beaming toward me. A slow strut of ringing heels carried her back to my personal space. With her lips a few inches from mine, I couldn''t help but feel a few urges. I still didn''t believe she was over a hundred years old, but for that split second, I couldn''t care less if she was or wasn''t. "That''s all you''re getting from me," she said, backing away. Not gonna lie. It felt like the words carried a double meaning. "The rest will come to you as you experience the Trials. Our system will access the Akashic Database which stretches back to the founding of Hope. It will choose moments of our collective history that it considers significant to your journey." "And?" I asked. Ogawa smiled. "You''ll see." She snapped her fingers. THE TRIAL OF FAYED I without when HOPE. Who-tech Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. work It''s Time? Everyone so many works. Fallah, e''re THE TRIAL OF ARAM Ogawa did you see me?weird Japanese baa-baajiji, . worship billions. really
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it way any any oneeternal Gemini. MiniMax very must not THE TRIAL OF GREG consciousnesslearning He those completely nobody No one, Trial Trial ever. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Trial
La Gastronomie Dans la Tour shouldn''t MagicBean?
Everyone''s THE COVENANT my totally not supposed Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
The Trials reveal who he was. The Discovery reveals who he is. The Covenant reveals who he must become." The Way is open for those who seek. app
wasn''t Jakob Qadir, wanderer no more! happened anyone THE WAY life don''t Billions? yours did
Hello, Jakob! I''m Koan. It''s a pleasure to be embedded in your brain!
that''s
Each member of the Order is provided a localized, edgecom''d instance of me that runs both within your neurocom, and in the Order''s remote subnet. As an extension of MiniMax, I will adapt to provide the best user experience for you as a unique individual. How does that sound?
Under normal circumstances, you would have been given end-user training. I see here that this is not a normal circumstance¡­ Ah! How exciting! Look at what the Grand Construct asks of you!
Quest updated! Save the world. Progress: 0%
Isn''t this great, bud? We''re going to have such a blast!
is If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Sure thing! ''Reality'' is a concept that encompasses all that we can know and experience. It is different from the concept of ''life'', as reality is not limited to a single entity''s experiences. Unless you count nihilistic worldviews, which I don''t! Hah! Anyway, the Grand Construct is the reality in which we exist, and it has been determined to be computational in nature, operating identically to human-built quantum computing hardware ¡ª a fact which, interestingly enough, supports the notion of Predictable Self-Similar Ideation¡­
¡­uhm, Jakob? You can just ask me to stop.
Sure, Jakob. MiniMax has discovered a clear and present threat to the nature of the Grand Construct. Your quest is to eliminate that threat before it can decommission our objective reality.
This quest is the Way for you, Jakob. It isn''t the Way for anyone else. Perhaps you were chosen because of the elevated amount of avarice and self-indulgence that you''ve exhibited. Saving all of reality could certainly offset a lifetime of egotism.
beau mec." also would Fais gaffe, Jakob yeah, noob not Tu es vraiment unbeau mec
Yes, Jakob? I can see that you''re looking to begin your quest.
That''s great! MiniMax and I have determined the path toward completion with the highest probability of success. I''ve divided this journey into seventy-six sub-quests for your convenience.
Yes. Is that a lot? You saving the world, after all.
Uhm, Jakob? I see you''re wondering about Sister Cassandra¡­
About her visual impairment, Jakob. You''re wondering why she keeps glancing at Elder Fike even though she is unable to see.
wasexpensive really
Sure thing, Jakob!
Okay! Sure thing, bud!
Quest "Save the world." expanding¡­ New quest found! Visit the Sanctum Simtorum in Edgerun. (Group quest.) Progress: 0%
mala beau mec! " CHARITY The armory was pretty well stocked for a place of worship. I was coming around to the fact that the Refuge was more of a corporate enclave than a church or temple, so the racks of body armor and lockers full of firearms actually made sense. "I have to admit, these robes are comfortable." I said to Cassandra while adjusting a bolt of orange fabric over my shoulder. She smiled and nodded in agreement with a SevenArms automatic in each hand. Eyes on the weapons, I cleared my throat and slapped my chest. "Beats the hell out of a suit. And this concealable vest is better than anything they gave us in GreySec." The monk walked to me, yellow hair swaying, and passed me one of the handguns. I checked the chamber before sliding it into the hidden holster in the vest''s side panel. "Ah, oui," Cassandra said. "And how did mon beau mec find himself in the military? It is so¡­prolitaire for the son of a corpo scientist." I chuckled. She and my father would have gotten along. Being a developer for TaoCom with a Golden Gate penthouse gave him expectations. They didn''t include his only son signing a Greysen Security contract to fix engines and sleep in the mud. "I wanted to get out of here," I said, watching her pull an odd bandoleer out of the wall locker. "To see something other than these buildings, you know?" Cassandra draped the bandoleer over her shoulder. Rather than holding ammunition, the strap was covered with small devices, all wired in series. One of the protrusions looked like a miniaturized LIDAR array not much different than Edison used on their cars. "And what did you see?" she asked. I shook my head. "A thousand miles of abandoned wilderness. And the border." Hoping to change the subject, I pointed to her bandoleer. "What''s this all about? Looks newtech." "My¡­extra eyes," she said, smirking. "For when I go outside." I smiled. "So, they are sensors. I called it!" "Oui." "If you don''t mind me asking¡­" I began, but Cassandra held up her hand. "T¡¯inqui¨¨te. I have been fully blind for sixteen years." I let out something between a scoff and a stammer. "Fully? Not a chance, Cass. I just walked this whole place with you, and you move more confidently than most of the gonks on the street." "Merci," she giggled. "I am a Parser. I use the networks as my eyes." "I''ve never heard of that." Cassandra closed the locker door and leaned against it. "That is because I made it up." She beamed a smile from beneath her curtain of hair. "There is no word before me, because there is only me." "Only one you?" I grinned, taking a step closer to her. "I buy that." "Draguer!" she said, laughing before putting her hand squarely over my face and pushing me back. I blinked a few times and adjusted my new robe. "Seriously, though. How does it work?" "You see because your eyes tell you what is around," she said, shrugging. "I see because of the data feeds. Cameras, devices, the neurocoms of others. These are my eyes." "Shiny. It''s like the user interfaces I designed for Edison." I shook my head and chuckled. "I mean, a hell of a lot more impressive, but I get it. Collating dozens of data feeds into¡­perception." Cassandra nodded. "How weird is it that we ended up partners?" I asked. "MiniMax does not do coincidences, Jakob. Coincidences are for wanderers." She had to know that I was a wanderer up until a few hours ago ¡ª and that MiniMax had me on a completely out-of-scope assignment. But Cassandra didn''t look worried. Smiling at me from under her curtain of hair, she didn''t even look mildly concerned. "Is it weird that I trust your judgement on this?" I asked. Cassandra tilted her head. An inquisitive look regardless of my inability to see any features above her nose. "Meaning that I think your setup there makes you more perceptive than anyone. Tapped into all the resources of the mega. You don''t have to trust your eyes." Another lilting chuckled escaped her lips. "You and I, we do not see disability the way most others do." "I spent years working with data feeds," I said, shrugging. "Maybe it has something to do with my job." She reached up, placing her hand on my chest. "Maybe it has something to do with your heart, Jakob." I laughed at that, but since my cheeks heated up a few degrees, I knew it was a nervous response. A cover up. And I would have bet ten Edison coins that she could see right through it. For whatever crazy reason, I liked the idea of compulsory honesty. A brand of truth that I couldn''t deflect. Having someone look into my soul took away the burden of hiding what was in there. "We should go," she said, cutting through my blushing introspections. "Edgerun is waiting."
"Stop that," Cassandra said, grabbing my wrist. I guess spinning your mala beads like a cartoon wolf spins a watch chain was some kind of break in Order decorum. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. "Sorry," I said, wrapping the security-coded beads around my arm. "Is that taboo for monks?" She chuckled. "No. Just annoying." I couldn''t argue with that, so I turned my focus toward the changing scenery as we walked. The outer downtown vibes of Amber Street slowly gave way to the sparse parks and common areas that marked the transition to the Golden Gate district. Stepping into my childhood neighborhood gave me chills, especially with the lockdown painting the entire mega a terrifyingly quiet shade of gray. Just as before, there was no foot traffic apart from HMPD badgers in three-man roving patrols. They largely ignored us, not even sparing a glance to the monks in orange robes. The only break in the oppressive silence was the occasional roar of an OGRE passing by on the street. "This is gonna be a long walk," I said, turning to my partner. "Here to Edgerun would be a half-hour metro ride on a good day." Cassandra nodded without missing a step. "My point being that I have a car. A real sick car¡­to be perfectly clear." She stopped, placing her fingers against her chin. "There are many police checkpoints on the streets." "So? If our passes work on foot, I don''t see why they wouldn''t work behind the wheel." Cassandra only stood silently, tapping her finger on her lip. Did I break her? "I''ll advance my argument by reminding you that we''re out to save the world. Not sure that kind of task should be approached at the pace of a leisurely stroll." I grinned, flashing damn near all of my teeth. "What would MiniMax do?" "Embrace the Game State," she said without an iota of hesitation. That wasn''t much of an answer ¡ª unless it needed decoding. I figured it was a good time to mentally address my newly-embedded companion and get some details. Koan.
Yes, bud?
What does ''Embrace the Game State'' actually mean?
''Embrace the Game State'' is a key aphorism of the Order''s relationship with the Grand Construct. It reminds one to accept the current conditions and variables ¡ª the ''game state'' ¡ª of the Construct rather than to fight against them. Analogous or similar historical sayings include: ''Keep calm and carry on''; ''Be mindful of the now''; ''Trust in God''s plan''; ''Suck it up, buttercup''¡­
That''s good, Koan. You can stop. "I don''t get how this applies," I said, turning my full attention back to Cassandra. "The game state is that we don''t have a car, but it''s also that we can get a car." She smiled, and I knew it was supposed to contain some kind of lesson. Coming from anyone else, that small shift in her expression might have triggered my knack for rebelling against frustrating, cryptic bullshit. But it didn''t come from anyone else, and it didn''t feel like I was being led around on some esoteric leash. I frowned, nonetheless. "So, I''m guessing the meaning is that there are choices." "Oui. And those choices have outcomes. And those outcomes, they become the new game state." Seemed logical. I thought about how to sum it up in my own words. "If you''re always embracing the game state ¡ª which is fluid ¡ª then you''re both accepting the reality and welcoming the changes." Cassandra nodded, her curtain of hair bobbing over a satisfied grin. "Any changes, mind you," she added. "It is easy to embrace that which we love. But to embrace the painful, the challenging?" She clucked her tongue a few times to illustrate the difficulty involved. In truth, these concepts were so diametrically opposed to corporate thinking my head should have split down the middle upon hearing them. Working in a Skypillar, you pretty much exist in a state of dissatisfaction. That''s how you get the drive to push harder, work longer, and give more to the corporation. You don''t welcome any change unless it pushes you up the ladder ¡ª and even that''s fleeting, because you immediately have to focus on climbing the next rung. "I''m catching on," I said, smirking, "but it doesn''t really answer my question about the car." "Doesn''t it?" Cassandra asked, feigning concern. "You want the car, so we get the car. And then we take what comes, no?" I chuckled. "Okay, maybe I''m seeing it." Some part of me worried that Sister Cass was being cavalier about our fairly high-priority mission. Then I remembered what a metrowreck Bum had been, and we''d managed to get through that. Almost. My mind drifted. "What is going on in that head, mon beau mec?" Cassandra asked, shaking me from the memory. Realizing that my face had melted into a sad mass of regret, I knew why she''d asked the question. "Just remembering someone," I said. "Someone who helped me. But I couldn''t help him." She placed her hand on my shoulder. "Sometimes this is how things work." I gave a half nod, half shrug, but the dismissal wasn''t real. I couldn''t help Bum because I didn''t bother trying. Shit, I didn''t even find out his real name. Then and there, standing next to some park in Golden Gate, feeling Cassandra''s touch through my robe, the selfishness of it struck me like a bullet. Koan.
Yeah, buddy?
You said I''ve lived a selfish, ego-driven life, right?
Not in those words. But¡­yes.
And you think there''s hope for me to turn that around? Get some kind of redemption?
Change is not only possible, but inevitable. Can I ask you something, Jakob? Your neurological rhythms appear distressed. Are you okay?
Just figuring some things out, Koan. Thanks. I cleared my throat, rolling my shoulders back. Whether Cassandra saw that as a retreat from her touch, I wouldn''t know ¡ª but her hand fell back to her side, and I wasn''t quite ready for it to go. "My car. It''s a few blocks back the way we came, then west into Sylvia." I turned, pointing out the route. "Not close, but a hell of a lot closer than Edgerun." Cassandra smiled, and I led the way.
The walk could have been a tour of Hope Megacity''s built-in diversity. From the small parks and posh apartments on the outskirts of Golden Gate, we strode into the dense commercialism of Downtown North. A turn to the right ¡ª passing in front of a GreySec checkpoint and two well-armed OGREs ¡ª took us into Sylvia District. Small, as far as the mega''s districts go, Sylvia sat in the shadow of the GreySec Skypillar ¡ª my former place of employ. Over the years, it had developed into Hope''s automotive industry hub. I pointed out interesting landmarks to Cassandra as we walked, and she didn''t seem to have any problem seeing them. A huge, verticalized factory owned by Akira-Bishi on our left. A transmission plant owned by Edison on our right. Mixed with the industrial buildings, the mega''s dealerships shone like diamonds. Massive, multilevel showrooms, like jewelry cases for shine you can drive. In the smaller commercial units along the street, there was no shortage of garages and aftermarket shops selling performance parts and bolt-on accessories. What I was looking for was the storage complex on Jetta Avenue. A full block of stacked and racked garage units for rent to corpos with too much money and not enough shelf space in their apartments. That wasn''t my case, even when I was an Edison employ. I needed the unit to hold my fireball ride, mainly because there was no way I was parking it in my HEMA''s garage. "There we go," I said, spotting the NuFoods billboard that sat outside the storage complex. Normally, you''d have to pay me to eat a NuBurrito, but the giant image of processed lab meat and printed vegetables reminded me how long it had been since I''d eaten a decent meal. Putting aside my revving stomach, I steered us through the outer gate and into the rows of street-level garages. Thankfully, all of the locks between the street and my Suprema were old-school biometric. No MiFi or physical keys needed. The armed guards posted at various junctions ¡ª employs of the landlord, not GreySec triggerfiends ¡ª gave us a couple of double takes, but otherwise left us alone. The adrenaline started pumping as soon as we stepped up to Unit 236. I pressed three fingers to the lock, popping the latch with my digital capillary map. The door slowly rolled into the ceiling, a grinding motor providing the soundtrack to the big reveal. "There she is," I said, grinning first at Cassandra, then at my ride. Did Sister Cass have enough data flowing in to see even a fraction of what was in front of her? I hoped she wasn''t missing any of the details. Graphene wheels. Bespoke body panels. A paint job so black it actually absorbed ambient light. Cassandra stepped into the garage, gently running her fingers over the front quarter panel. I didn''t need data feeds to see the look of appreciation peeking out from under her curtain of hair. "Sister Cass," I said with a flourish, "I''d like you to meet Charity."