Intersection

by Fred Warren - 

Avenir Station, Paradise Virtuality, Communications Nexus

Anya Sherikov and Vicky Remsen sat back-to-back at glowing consoles that floated within a mosaic sphere of rectangular windows--each one displaying a tiny fragment of the mayhem that was spinning through the Avenir space station.

Vicky paused to rub her eyes. “How do you work like this? Another ten minutes, and I swear I’m going to hurl. By the way, I’ll make sure you experience that with me in all its multicolored glory.”

Anya’s eyes darted among the scenes of carnage. “You’re a doctor. Prescribe yourself an anti-nausea drug.”

“Oh, you are so funny.”

“The good news is that we’ve done as much as we can, for now. The colonists will have to take it from here. I only hope our assistance was enough to keep them from being completely overrun. Before you log out, double-check the lower levels…make sure the pest control agent is working. You may need to dispense another blast if spiders are still moving about.”

“Way ahead of you. Checking the last couple of ring segments now.” Vicky’s fingers paused on her console and she leaned forward to squint at one of the windows, tilting her head to bring it into alignment. “Whoa. That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“Enforcers who aren’t running away. They’re at a corridor intersection, having an argument with some raggedy bum, and there’s a skid next to them with bodies piled on it.”

“Those are probably unfortunates caught in the first swarm.”

“I’m zooming in on it. Monitor A-34. The Enforcers sure look angry. I wonder if...ohmigod.”

“Now what?”

“Miss Sherikov…the bodies…they’re children.”

“Children? Let me see that. Perhaps the shabby fellow is their guardian, and he’s angry with the Enforcers for failing to protect them. Ah, there’s an audio tap nearby. Maybe that will shed some light on what’s happening.”

The Enforcer who seemed to be in charge stood scowling at the ragged man, arms crossed over his chest. Anya and Vicky could hear his gravelly voice now: “I told you, no payment until the end user certifies the goods. Doll-quality is worth four times whatever we have to dump into the labs. We’re not paying top credits for substandard material.”

Anya’s eyes narrowed, and she whispered a curse in Russian.

“That wasn’t the deal.”  The bum jabbed a finger at the Enforcer’s face. “I’m not waiting for some pasty-faced accountant to cull this lot to fit his budget.”

One of the other Enforcers was moving the bodies around on the skid, lifting up arms and legs. “Hey! This one’s got a club foot, Harry!”

“Do tell. I doubt it’s the only one. Forget it, Beadle. You’ll wait ’til the quality check’s complete.”

Vicky turned her seat around and leaned against Anya, arms gently encircling her shoulders. “Doll-quality? Labs? Material? What are they talking about?”

Anya pushed her away. “I need you to go check on John. Make sure he’s integrating properly. I’ll finish up here.”

“He’s fine. Father Sukahara sent me a progress report a few minutes ago. I figure they’re on their third pot of tea by now, which means Milton’s getting the nightingale story in all its painful detail.”

“Check him anyhow.”

“No. I want to know what those Enforcers are up to. The whole situation is sketchy, and you’re avoiding my questions.”

Anya spun around, nose-to-nose with Vicky. “If you don’t leave this instant, Victoria, I will isolate you from the network.”

Vicky backed away, eyes wide. “All right, all right. I’ll go. No need to get violent.”

“I’ll explain everything later. Out!”

Vicky’s avatar vanished, her voice trailing behind. “Just don’t expect me to stop asking.”

Anya returned her attention to the argument on screen. Flesh traffickers. Preying on children. They were usually more discreet. It was the first time she’d caught them in the act—and they’d chosen a singularly poor location for their little spat.

I’m sorry, dear one, but I can’t let you see what happens next.

Anya’s fingers flew across her console. The sphere of monitors was replaced by a single red-tinted display, front and center. With a grim smile, she aligned its flashing reticle on the nearest man.

Chaplain

by Fred Warren

The claustrophobia was gone. Anya and Vicky had been guiding John through the restoration of his senses for what felt like several hours, and he could talk back to them now. He was still surrounded by thick darkness, but he could feel tactile feedback from his skin as he lay prone on some smooth, warm surface that conformed to his body’s contours, and when his nose itched, he could move his arm, hand, and fingers to scratch it. The air moving through his nostrils and into his lungs was cold and left a faint metallic tang at the back of his throat.

He knew all these sensations were part of an unimaginably complex computer simulation, but it felt so real. His consciousness was slipping into the Dreamers’ virtual world. It was frightening—and exhilarating.

He heard a series of high-pitched chimes, then Vicky and Anya began chattering excitedly to one another.

“Stage Three alert? You have got to be kidding me.”

“How could they have been overwhelmed so quickly? It must be a mistake.”

“No mistake. Look at the external feeds, Miss Sherikov—here, here, and…wow. There.”

“This is awful.”

“Cromwell doesn’t give a rip about the colonists. I want to see him explain this to Captain Aziz.”

“Hush. We told him we’d help if things got out of hand.”

“This is way beyond out of hand.”

“What’s the matter?” John called out. “What’s happening?”

Anya’s voice swirled around him. “Victoria and I must attend to a minor emergency that will require our full attention. Continue to lie quietly in place and limit your movements. Father Sukahara will monitor the remainder of your integration into the network and begin your orientation.”

“But I still can’t see anything!”

“Oh, quit bellyaching.” The disdain in Vicky’s voice was palpable. “Vision is the most complicated piece of the interface, so it takes the longest.  If we energize the connections any faster, it’ll fry that lump of oatmeal you’re using for brains.”

“Sukahara’s the chaplain, right? Wouldn’t it be better to have somebody with a technical background at the controls?”

“Well, if we get a power surge, you’ll need someone to administer Last Rites, and…”

Anya cut in. “Stop it, Victoria. John, Father Sukahara has sufficient medical training to keep you stable in the event of a mishap until we can return.”

“That’s comforting.”

“The process is almost finished. Relax. You’re in good hands.”

A rush of cool air flowed across his body, and a tapestry of sound unfurled within the void. Leaves rustling. Birds chirping. A high pitched buzzing that waxed and waned in the background. The whisper and chuckle of water. The smell of flowers, intense and sweet. A strange, hollow knock that repeated at a long interval.

Then, a new voice—a soft tenor. “Hello, Mr. Milton. I’m Jiro Sukahara. We met at the welcome banquet a few days ago, though I’m sorry we weren’t able to exchange more than pleasantries.”

“I remember. I was surprised to find a chaplain there. Why are you part of all this?”

“It was a nod to tradition on the part of the original crew. Some of them were devoutly religious. All of them recognized a need for someone with whom they could discuss delicate matters in complete privacy, outside the military command structure, without fear of disclosure.”

“Wouldn’t a psychologist have served the same purpose?”

“The crew wanted something more than expertise in treating mental or emotional distress. They knew they’d have to make difficult decisions…life and death choices on behalf of the people under their care. Their technical skills weren’t sufficient. They needed a moral and spiritual compass.”

“And now? Do they still feel that need?”

“Hmm. Not as often as I’d like.  Anya and Victoria consult with me the most.”

“I’m having trouble imagining Vicky seeking advice from a priest.”

“Beneath her bravado is an anxious little girl who misses her father terribly. She’s been forced to grow up much too fast, and her responsibilities weigh heavily upon her.”

“She hides it well enough.”

“I wish she wouldn’t. It would help her to be more open to others about what she’s feeling.”

John decided not to argue that point. “I hear a knocking sound. What is it?”

“It’s a shishi odoshi, a traditional garden decoration from the land of my ancestors on Earth. You’ll understand better once you’re able to see. I’ve arranged to bring you into my personal space…my virtual residence, you might say. I thought it might ease your orientation.”

“I think my vision’s coming back now. Is this some sort of test pattern? I’m seeing orange fish and white birds with long legs on a blue background.”

Jiro chuckled. “No, that’s not part of the process. Look closer.”

It took a few moments for John to realize he was staring up at a delicate watercolor painting of birds and fish cavorting in a broad blue lake. It formed what seemed to be the ceiling of a room, though the proportions were odd. The place was warm and sunlit, filled with the flowery aroma he’d noticed earlier, plus a pleasant, spicy odor he couldn’t identify. Turning his head to one side, which caused a brief moment of mild vertigo, he could see the light filtered through the pink-blossomed branches of a huge tree visible beyond the threshold of a wide opening. It made the space feel more like a porch than a living room.

There were no furnishings aside from the cushion that supported his body and a low table at the center bearing a stack of thin books on one side. Several large sheets of paper and a collection of writing instruments—brushes?—lay in a loose pile on the opposite end of the table. Jiro knelt behind it, and he was as John remembered him—a small, solidly-built man with close-cropped black hair and facial features similar to the Asian genetic subgroup on Avenir. He wore a dark blue robe decorated in the same pattern as the ceiling.

“Ah, it seems the integration is complete. Welcome to my home.” Jiro smiled, his face as warm and comforting as the room, and every lingering suspicion that all this was an illusion vanished from John Milton’s mind.

Awakening

by Fred Warren -

He was conscious, though he lacked objective evidence that this was the case. No light, no sensation of heat, cold, pain, or pressure on or within his skin. No odors, either pleasant or offensive. No lingering flavors within his mouth, not the faintest whisper to stir his eardrums to life.

If his heart was beating, he could neither feel nor hear his pulse.

Am I dead?

He was thinking, at least. That he was able to methodically catalogue the utter absence of any sensory feedback bore witness to cognition, if only via a slow and feeble synaptic spark.

There was memory, too. He had an identity: John Milton, resident of Avenir, businessman. Wait…that wasn’t quite true. He’d abandoned that life for something else, something new, something…no, someone…

Anya.

The Dreamers. That was it. He was being wired into the virtual reality inhabited by the Dreamers. He’d taken the long, spiraling journey into the heart of the Avenir station, where he was led into a brilliant white space. He’d disrobed and entered a life-support pod, there was a sharp sting, and the light faded into nothingness. Until now.

Something was wrong. Anya said he’d awaken into a world both vivid and boundless, as subjectively real as the mundane, sterile, hopeless environment of Avenir, but so much more. So much better.

Myriad horrifying possibilities began scampering about his mind, pursued by a fear that ever-so-slowly took form—lithe, feline, and clawed—from somewhere deep within his imagination. It crouched and bristled, ready to pounce. What it ensnared would become real.

He needed to take a deep breath, steady himself.

He couldn’t expand his chest to pull in a fresh lungful of air. He couldn’t even tell if he had a chest or lungs to fill with air. He was drowning in a viscous soup of nothingness.

He screamed, soundlessly. Again and again and again.

A wave of calm spread over him then, for no particular reason and from no perceptible direction. It didn’t matter so much anymore that he couldn’t feel himself breathing. Something tickled inside where his head ought to be. Something familiar…

“What’s the matter? What does that alarm mean?”

“His heart and respiratory rates were spiking. I gave the big baby a shot of sedative to settle him down until I’m ready to activate his neural net.”

“It’s been a long time since anyone’s tried to plug an adult into our network, Victoria. A panic attack isn’t an unreasonable reaction to sensory deprivation.”

“It should feel restful, like floating inside a cloud.”

“That’s easy to say. You were integrated as an infant, so you can’t imagine how it must feel to someone who’s lived his entire life outside virtuality.”

“I remember exactly what it feels like. I loved it. In fact, I was really upset when they brought me online and I had to deal with all that noise and confusion again.”

“How could you possibly…”

“Did you forget who you’re talking with here? I’m precocious. Okay, all the connections are in place, self-check complete, statuses green. Time to light him up. I’ll engage the cycle extra-slow so we don’t kill him with sensory overload.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Yeah, he may be a whiny baby, but he’s the most interesting thing to happen in Paradise for the past five Foundings. There’s one thing I don’t get, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Why did you bring him in? I mean, he’s smart and devious and all that, but there are plenty of colonists who are more tech-savvy, and I would’ve expected you to find some kind of electronics wizard to take over Communications.”

“It’s…well, it’s complicated. I wanted someone who could hold his own with Aziz and the others, someone who understands the social and political dynamics of both Avenir and Eclectia. Well-rounded. Someone like that.”

“Then why not a politician? Admit it, Miss Sherikov, you’re sweet on this clodhopper. You know I’m going to find a cure for you, so you’re planning ahead. You want a boyyyfriend. You looove him. You want to…”

“I want…nothing of the sort. You’re being ridiculous. I suggest you refrain from further speculation on my motives, and stay focused on the task at hand. How much longer until he begins to regain sensation?”

“Oh, he’s been able to hear us for about three minutes or so.”

“He…what? Victoria Remsen, you little laska!  I’m going to deactivate your sensory inputs, permanently!”

“Take it easy. Maybe he won’t remember. Or, maybe he will.”

“Victoria!”

“Hee, hee… Moving on to the sense of touch.”

Problems

by Fred Warren -

Anya Sherikov's virtual office was a tidy environment with a wide desk, high-backed leather chair, walls lined with video monitors, and a collection of fragrant flowers in terracotta pots at the corners. A little ceramic dog with a bobbing head adorned the desk, and she gave it a nudge out of habit before unlocking the door to grant entrance to whoever was leaning on the visitor’s chime.

Security Officer Nigel Cromwell came bustling in, followed by Victoria Remsen, who was looking uncharacteristically professional in a white lab coat. Vicky slammed her hands onto the desk and leaned forward until she was nearly nose-to-nose with Anya. “Miss Sherikov, we’ve got a big problem! Somebody broke quarantine, and there are spiders running loose on the station!”

Anya gently pushed her back a few inches. “The pest-control systems will deal with them. This happens occasionally. Some gourmand lets his delicacies incubate a day or so too long, and…”

Cromwell waved her off. “No, Anya. This is a large-scale infestation. Some stupid gaggle of meat-bag revolutionaries have brought up fertilized eggs from Eclectia in quantity, and not just the small species. The hatchlings are moving through the ductwork and in the gaps between decks. Lasers and microbots are getting some of them, but not enough. I can keep our habitat safe, but the colonists are in for a fight like none they’ve seen since the original Founding. They’ve brought Hell onto Avenir. Again.”

Vicky nodded. “I’ve been reading up on what history we have about the first time this happened. It isn’t pretty. They grew fast, and some of these things were huge. The spiders’ venom caused hallucinations and psychosis before it killed. Most of the casualties were from poisoned colonists attacking each other.”

“Any help we provide must appear to spring from a routine order issued by the Avenir leadership,” Anya replied as she did her own historical search. “What do you think, Victoria? Is there anything we can do that won’t stir much attention?”

“I can direct a nanofactory to accelerate production of the standard antivenins we manufacture for Eclectia, so there’ll be more on hand once they figure out what’s going on. Until then, I can cycle pesticide into the ventilation system, but it won’t work on all the bugs, and it could make a lot of people sick on the lower levels where there’s no filtration.”

“Better than them dying, I suppose. Have you informed Captain Aziz?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t seem very worried. He said something about ‘acceptable losses’ and ‘facilitating the Plan.’ He smiled a lot.”

Anya sighed. “When is he not smiling? I’ll monitor the situation and try to identify the conspirators. Victoria, dispense the pesticide, but begin with small doses, so we can gauge its effects.”

“I’m not stupid. You think I’d just dump it all in at once?”

“Yes. Despite your many wonderful qualities, dorogoya, you have an affinity for mayhem.”

Vicky’s self-righteous ire dissolved into a sullen pout. “Okay, I would have, but now I won’t. You’re no fun at all.”

“Off with you, then. Nigel, let me know if there’s anything you need in support of our habitat defense.”

“Hmph. I can’t imagine needing your help, but thanks for the offer.” Cromwell scanned the displays covering the walls of Anya’s communications nexus, and jabbed a finger at one of them. “What were you doing when we came in? Who’s that girl?”

Anya didn’t look up. She began typing commands on the keypad set into her desk. “She’s one of the Gamers I’m watching until you finish repairs on the network firewall. She seems to be oblivious to our presence, so all’s well.”

Cromwell glared at her. “Just make sure she stays that way. I’ll have no time for anything but spiders for the foreseeable future.”

Anya paused her typing and smiled affably at him. “Of course.”

#

It took a few moments to make the transition back into the valet. Melanie was poking him in the shoulder and squinting into his vacant eyes. “Sir? Mr. Butler? Are you okay?”

Anya shook his head and blinked his eyes. “Ah, I’m sorry. Software update. They happen at the most inconvenient times. However, we must end our conversation, and you must return to your quarters immediately and secure all doors and vents. I’m told there is a security problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“One that will become your problem if you don’t hurry. I enjoyed our chat, and I think I can help you, but we must meet again later.” Anya clamped one of the valet’s arms firmly around Melanie’s shoulders and ushered her outside. “I will make what arrangements I can in the meantime to ensure there are no negative repercussions from your excursion into the private network. Until then, farewell.”

#

Melanie lingered in the corridor a moment, still shivering but elated that she’d accomplished her mission. Carson would stop chasing the Dreamers, and things would return to normal.

Something skittered across the toe of her boot. She looked down to find a small, red-striped spider lifted up onto its hind legs a few meters away, forelegs waving in the air, fanged mouthparts working rapidly and drooling viscous slime. She stared at it in fascination—bugs weren’t supposed to be able to get onto the station, especially not the upper levels. Where did this one come from?

It looked like something out of ArachnoHunters. She hated that game. When one of the spiders caught someone, it wrapped them in silk and then slowly sucked the life out of them. Whatever sadistic method the game employed to simulate internal organs being liquefied gave her diarrhea in real life for two days afterward.

She backed away from the spider, trying to keep her body as still as possible. Without warning, it hurled itself at her, leaping a half-meter into the air and nearly closing the space between them.

Melanie screamed and sprinted down the corridor, not daring to look behind her.

Afterlife

by Fred Warren

“Move the colony.”

It was a throwaway line, something John would toss out for a few cheap laughs at a cocktail party, a bit of cynical commentary on the state of Avenir Eclectia. It wasn't a call to action. No one but the lunatic fringe would seriously consider it. The Avenir space station might have been born an interstellar transport, but in the hundreds of Foundings since its arrival at 94 Ceti, it had added a panoply of pods and modules and bays and docks, like a hermit crab adorning its seashell home with bits of flotsam and jetsam, until its spacefaring origins were obscured beyond recognition.

But the Dreamers had not forgotten, and they were working patiently, incrementally, and invisibly to make Avenir a spaceship once again. John had no doubt they would succeed, and his business instincts screamed at him to seize their invitation to unlimited power and leverage. They controlled the nanofactories, the computer network, and who knew how many key government officials. Their virtual world was amazing, even when experienced through an obsolete interface. Part of him longed for the full experience. Sensations, smells, tastes, sights beyond his wildest imaginings, so vivid as to make the distinction between real and virtual irrelevant. Islands, and birds.

And there was Anya.

Something still held him back. All dreams came at a cost, and this one was no exception. He'd never thought much about his fellow colonists, other than as human resources or business competitors, but now as he wandered the station, ranging farther than he ever had before, he found himself looking at their faces, pondering their fate. From the idle rich of the upper levels to the desperate poor begging for scraps in its depths. Aristocrats and merchants, Peacekeepers and Enforcers, dockworkers and technicians, fishmongers and beetle butchers, pickpockets and orphans. Who would be taken when Avenir shed its encrustations and blasted away to a more hospitable star? Who would be left behind? Would they find a way to survive without the station's technical resources? Would the colony devolve into barbarism, a handful of scattered tribes clinging to life as both hunters and prey of Eclectia's giant insects, slowly suffocated by the planet's corrosive atmosphere?

What did it matter? The colony was dying anyway. The Dreamers knew this. The only way to save any of it was to move along with whatever they could salvage. From that perspective, his choice was either to remain as he was, gathering wealth and gilding his own pleasures as best he could until the end, or to join the Dreamers, where he would have a voting stake in the colony's future--and the power to shape it.

When John thought about it that way, there wasn't any choice at all. He found an observation gallery in an obscure corner of one of the station's lower levels and gazed out at the feverish countenance of Eclectia and beyond to shattered Sheba and the leering glow of the Whale Star itself. It might be the last time he saw them face to face, with his own eyes.

“You've made up your mind.” The image of Anya Sherikov stood beside him in her shimmering red dress, her eyes merry.

“I can't even have the privilege of a quiet moment with my own thoughts?”

“You will succeed me as Communications Officer. No one can intrude upon your privacy without permission, save Captain Aziz. Even he must knock first.”

“That's reassuring.”

“We wagered among ourselves how long it would take you to deliberate. Captain Aziz thought you would decide within the first day. Victoria was less optimistic.”

“How much less?”

“She said I'd probably find you dead drunk in a dockside bar two weeks from now.”

“Vicky is one scary little girl. What about you? What was your guess?”

Anya smiled. “You're right on time.”

“Congratulations. So, what now?”

“Look over there.” She pointed toward the window. A Hawthorne-class VIP shuttle had just cleared its moorings and was falling away from the station toward Eclectia.

It exploded in soundless flash of white light.

“The official records will state that all occupants, including one John Milton, were lost when their spacecraft suffered catastrophic engine failure en route to Adagio. Your personal assets have been dispersed and controlling interests in your various business ventures transferred to your partners. It's time to take up residence in Paradise, John. Welcome to your afterlife.”

#

Melanie checked the address again. It had taken a little digging, but she was certain this was where he lived. She smoothed her tunic and trousers and brushed a stray wisp of hair from her eyes before ringing the chime.

A thin, pale man wearing a plain black suit opened the door. His face was void of any emotion as he examined her. “May I help you, Miss?”

“I...my name is Melanie Hunt. Are you Mr. Milton?”

“No, this unit served as Mr. Milton's valet. I await re-purposing.”

It was a Frank. Melanie swallowed hard. She had to see this through, for Carson's sake. “I need to speak with Mr. Milton. It's urgent. Tell him it's about the Dreamers.”

The cyborg butler was still for a moment, then it blinked twice. When it spoke again, its voice was higher in pitch, almost feminine. “Mr. Milton died early this morning.”

“What? Oh...oh, no. I'm so sorry. I had no idea. Thank you. I...I hope they find you a good job.” She had to fight an impulse to flee. Turn away, and take one step at a time, like a sane person.

“Wait.”

She spun around. The impassive face wore a softer expression. It was smiling. There was just enough curve in the mouth to make it certain. Franks weren't supposed to feel emotion. Was this a new feature, special for rich owners?

It opened the door wider and bowed. “Come in, Miss. Perhaps I may be of assistance.”

Banquet

by Fred Warren

Vicky tugged at John’s arm as they walked up the broad, grassy slope to the clearing where a group of people sat around a long table laden with flowers and exotic food. John was still gaping at the rainbow-colored birds, swaying palm trees, and most of all, the turquoise-blue water that surrounded this tiny island. When he didn’t respond, she pulled on his ear with enough force to make him double over.

“Keep your mouth shut and smile a lot,” she whispered, “Talk only if somebody asks you a question. When you do talk, don’t be boring, if that’s possible.”

“Thanks.” John rubbed his ear and straightened his jacket. “I’ll try to remember that.”

A low burble of conversation coalesced into intelligible words as they approached the banquet table.

“In my opinion, they’ve become far too dangerous. How long do you intend to let them run on?”

“Teriyaki chicken? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Levitation? You’re joking. That’s impossible.”

“Oh, a while yet. The scheme amuses me, and their blundering draws attention away from our activities. After they’ve been exposed, it should be easier for us to proceed.”

“Take a bite. It’s one of the formulations I recovered last week. Since I incorporated my new algorithm into the core recovery utility, I’ve repaired fifteen teras of memory I thought was lost forever.”

“I watched it happen. If only I’d thought to initiate a recording. There’s more going on here than meets the eye.”

“Just don’t wait until they’ve wrecked the entire station and decimated the colony. Pineapple?”

“Mmm. It’s heavenly. I may eat nothing else for days.”

“Next you’ll claim they’re conjuring apparitions of the Holy Virgin.”

 “Don’t mind if I do. Thank you. How goes the refit? ”

“Wait ‘til you taste the lemon meringue pie.”

“Don’t scoff. You should peruse my predecessor’s archives sometime. Avenir Eclectia’s history is chock full of unexplained phenomena. He was convinced there’s a spiritual element to it.”

“Poorly. There’s nothing for it but to completely strip and resurface the radiation shield. I can jigger the nanofactories to produce the necessary materials, but I’ll have to move at a snail’s pace to avoid attracting attention. It will be at least one more Founding before we can think of proceeding to the next step.”

“I’m hoping our new recruit can help us expedite that. Ah, here he is now.”  The man at the head of the table rose from his chair. He wore a white, military-styled cutaway jacket trimmed with gold braid. Wavy black hair fell almost to his shoulders, and his brown eyes and dark complexion made the brilliance of his smile that much more striking. “I am Captain Kagan Aziz, and these are my friends and advisors.”

A burly, redheaded man wearing a uniform similar to Aziz’ stood up and seized John’s hand in a crushing grip. “Otherwise known as ‘The Staff.’  I’m Colin Finn, First Officer, in charge of colony liaison and human intelligence.”

The other officers arose in turn and moved around the table to greet John.

“Girard LeBeau, Engineering.”

“Yeong Soo Min, Astrophysics and Navigation.”

“Nigel Cromwell, Security.”

“Jiro Sukahara, Chaplain.”

John nodded at each one, accepted and returned a firm handshake, and tried to maintain an expression of polite interest, the only way he could think to follow Vicky’s instructions without looking like a complete idiot. So these are the Dreamers. It beggared belief. The descendants of Avenir’s original command crew, living in a virtual world but still influencing the colony their ancestors helped found so long ago. Not a legend. Real, powerful, and active.

But there aren’t very many. Are these all of them?

Aziz finished the introductions: “You’re already well acquainted with Anya Sherikov, Communications Officer, and your lovely escort, Victoria Remsen, Medical and Life Sciences. Please, join us. I must apologize in advance…the food and drink will have little taste due to the limitations of your interface, but once you are fully integrated into our network, I promise you flavors and sensations beyond your wildest imagination.”

“So Anya has told me, but I haven’t actually decided whether…”

Cromwell interrupted in a rumbling voice that matched his scowling, craggy face. “Anya, I thought we agreed not to use the visitor interface until the firewall was repaired.”

“This is a situation of some urgency, Nigel.” She flicked her fingers in an airy wave, as if she was shooing off an annoying insect. “Don’t worry, I’m monitoring the fracture. There have been no attempts to probe or penetrate it, only some idle chatter on the Gaming net.”

He tapped the table with a stubby finger. “I will not tolerate any compromise of the firewall.”

The carefree mirth vanished from Anya’s countenance. “Oh, I’m certain all the Gamers are still shivering in terror after what you did the last time. It was excessive, and it compounded the damage. You probably drew more attention to our existence than any number of data leaks.”

“I’ll do it again, if necessary.”

Anya pushed up from her chair and slowly leaned across the table, coming almost nose-to-nose with Nigel. “The Command Network firewall is my domain. You will not apply active countermeasures without my consent.”

“I won’t need consent if I void your security clearance.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try.”

Aziz raised a hand. “That’s enough bickering, both of you. This is no way to behave in the presence of a guest. Anya, continue to monitor for intruders. If Nigel thinks countermeasures are necessary, I would like input from the entire staff before I decide whether or not to respond. Is that clear?”

The two combatants remained silent, eyes locked.

Aziz steepled his fingers beneath his chin and sighed. “Is. That. Clear?”

 “Yessir.” Anya flopped back into her chair and turned it sideways.

“Yes…sir,” Nigel growled.

“Excellent. Now, to business. Mr. Milton, we have been observing you for some time, and are very impressed with your business acumen and technical expertise. Most of all, you appear to share our vision for the future of this colony. Anya thinks you would make a worthy replacement for her when the time comes, and I concur.”

Vicky piped up. “Miss Sherikov doesn’t need replacing. I’m going to make her well.”

“Your father spent many years studying Anya’s ailment, without success,” said Aziz. “We must prepare for the worst-case scenario.”

“Father was close to a cure. I know I can finish it.”

“Victoria, now is not the time.”

Her face flushed. She fixed her eyes on her plate, but her shoulders were trembling. “No! If I don’t figure this out, we’re all…”

Aziz’ voice cracked like a whip. “Victoria!”

There was silence all around the table for several long moments, then Vicky murmured, “I’m sorry, Captain.”

He reached across the table to grasp her hand, and John was surprised she didn’t pull away.  “We are all very fond of Anya, but we must also acknowledge the reality of her situation. It may be that you will identify an effective treatment, but we cannot risk a gap in transition for the Communications function. Many things depend on its smooth operation.”

Anya  gently encircled Vicky’s shoulders. “I have confidence in your skill, dear one, but the Captain is right. We must be prepared. Anyway, it’s a long while yet before we have to worry. In the meantime, our new friend has many things to learn.”

Vicky sniffed and rubbed her nose. “That’s for sure.”

Aziz leaned back in his chair and gestured toward John. “As you may have noticed, despite living in this virtual paradise, we are not a community of lotus eaters. We are passionate about a great many things, and it keeps life interesting, at the price of an argument or two along the way. Now, I’m sure you have many questions about us. Proceed.”

John didn’t hesitate. “I’ve at least a hundred, but there’s one thing I’m particularly curious about. You said I share your vision for the colony. I don’t understand. I don’t have a vision for Avenir Eclectia. In my opinion, it was a mistake for us to settle here.”

 “Precisely.” Aziz smiled and twiddled a tiny cocktail umbrella between his fingers. “We are convinced the colony is no longer viable. It must be relocated.”

Examination

by Fred Warren

“This interface provides much less fidelity than a fully-integrated network connection, but we’ve found it useful as a means of conferencing with outsiders from time to time.”

Cyborgs assisted John as he shuffled to a contoured couch and lay down. The full-immersion helmet permitted a narrow, foggy, green-tinted view of the room, and of Anya’s holographic image standing to one side. “It’s like a gaming rig, but it’s a lot heavier,” he wheezed. Tubes and wires ran from the suit to a conduit in the ceiling, high above. He felt like a life-sized puppet. “I can barely move in this thing.”

“I think you’ll find this simsuit is more sophisticated than the ones you’re used to. Of course, when you experience the hardwired connection, you won’t be able to distinguish it from real life.” She turned away. “I have a few more preparations to make, but I think you’re ready to enter our virtuality now. I’ll see you inside.”

“Wait. I still have questions…”

Anya motioned to a cyborg sitting at the control panel. “Activate the interface.”

John’s muscles convulsed, and a wave of vertigo tunneled his vision, then expanded it to infinity in a rush of color and light. As focus returned, he found himself standing in a bare, white room containing a table, a chair, and washbasin with a mirror. There was a single door, closed, and the doorknob didn’t turn when he tried it.

He looked down at himself. He was clad in a thin blue gown that tied at the back. His arms and legs were stylized , smooth and hairless, like a doll’s, but the hands and feet had the proper number of fingers and toes. Turning to the mirror, his own face gazed back at him. It wasn’t a perfect image, maybe a shade more lifelike than the virtual-reality games he had played as a teenager. Dark brown hair, parted at the middle, green eyes, prominent cheekbones, a trace of stubble at the chin.

“Hello, Mister Milton. Welcome to Paradise!”

He spun round. Smiling up at him was a little girl wearing a pink-pinstriped dress, white pinafore, and a square cap emblazoned with a wide, red cross. A stethoscope was tucked into a pocket on the pinafore.

He couldn’t help but grin back. “Paradise, eh? I thought it would be bigger. Who are you, and where’s Anya?”

The girl tilted her head, light-brown curls bouncing with the motion. “I thought you would be taller. I’m Doctor Vicky. Miss Sherikov is arranging your meeting with the other Commanders, and she said I should see to your examination in the meantime.”

“Anya said nothing to me about an examination. Is this some kind of joke? You’re just a kid.”

Her smile vanished, and her eyes narrowed. “I’m ten Foundings old, and I’m the Avenir Medical Officer. Sit on the table so I can begin your examination.”

“Listen, Doctor…Vicky? Nobody’s examining anything on me until I see Anya.”

“Hmm. I guess Miss Sherikov forgot to tell me you’re a moron. Get on the table. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Makes no difference to me.”

John slid himself into a sitting position on the table, clutching the gown tightly around him. “This can’t be right. It’s…it’s indecent.”

“Mister, if you’ve seen one avatar, you’ve seen ’em all, and that goes double for this piece-of-junk interface you’re using. I’ve got stuffed animals with more physical detail.” She pulled the stethoscope from its pocket, set the prongs into her ears, and pressed the diaphragm onto his chest.

“Hey, that’s cold!”

“Shut up. Lungs clear, heart function good, slight hypertension, minor plaque buildup on the aortic wall.” She reached up on tiptoe and set the diaphragm against his throat. “Some narrowing of the carotid artery, but that’s easily reamed out.”

“What do you mean, ‘reamed out?’”

“Do I have to tape your mouth shut? Bend over so I can reach your head. EEG recording…complete. Hmm. A couple of freaky spikes. I’ll take a closer look at that later. Mm-hmm…intracranial pressure normal, pituitary normal, thyroid normal. You can sit up straight now.” She moved to his stomach and frowned. “Wow, you’ve got the liver of a sixty-Foundings man. What have you been drinking?”

“Vodka, mostly.”

“It’s killing you. Stop it. Now, turn over.”

“This thing is open at the back. There’s no way I’m letting you…”

“Okay, the hard way, then.” Vicky began rolling up her sleeves.

The door opened, and to John’s great relief, Anya entered the room, cradling a large datapad. Like his own image, her avatar wasn’t nearly as realistic as the hologram he was familiar with. She was dressed like a secretary, in a burgundy suit, and her red hair was pinned into a conservative bun. “Ah,” she said, “I see you’ve met our Doctor Remsen. Victoria took charge of Medical and Life Sciences after her father’s death, two Foundings ago. We would have liked her to have more time to ease into her responsibilities, but she’s doing a fine job. She’s extraordinarily bright.”

“I wish you’d call me Vicky. Victoria makes me sound like an old lady.”

“You’re an officer now. We must maintain decorum.”

“Whatever.” Vicky pointed at John. “He won’t cooperate with the examination.”

Anya laid a hand on her shoulder. “Victoria, do you remember what Captain Aziz said about your bedside manner?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Vicky sighed. “Less attitude, more professional.” She produced a huge syringe, with a disturbingly long needle, from somewhere behind her back. “Ahem. Mister Milton, I will need samples of your blood, bone marrow, and cerebrospinal fluid to complete your physical examination and obtain the necessary data to prepare for your integration into the Avenir Command Network. Please roll onto your stomach, as the necessary control points for your simsuit are located on your avatar’s back.”

“Wait…bone marrow? Cerebro-what?”

“This will hurt.”

Over his shoulder, John could see Vicky’s cherubic face grinning from ear to ear as the needle descended.

Nexus

by Fred Warren -

It’s a trap.

As his possessed valet plodded ahead of him, leading the way to who knew where, John Milton ran down the list of his enemies—a roster of considerable length that grew with each successive Founding. One of them had to be behind this. Chamberlin? No...he’s a vindictive thug, but far too stupid to coordinate such an elaborate deception. Chun Hee? She has the technical skills, but she’d rather eviscerate her rivals publicly. Mkombo? Too craven. Sanchez? Busy fending off his own enemies. Jaworsky would rather haggle. Torrance just steals what he wants when nobody’s looking...

“Cheer up, John. It’s not as if I’m leading you to the gallows.”

It still made his flesh crawl to hear Anya Sherikov‘s voice coming from the cyborg butler’s mouth. “I’d be less tense if you’d tell me where we’re going,” he muttered.

“We’re going to the place where all your questions will find their answers. Here’s the door.”

The air was uncomfortably hot. They’d been walking for what seemed like hours through a maze of twisting corridors. By now, they must be somewhere close to the heart of Avenir, near the power core. The metal bulkheads resonated with eerie sounds—clanks, hums, whistles and gurgling. The valet stood before an oval hatch at the end of the corridor and palmed a square glass plate set into the left side above a recessed handle.

John’s head snapped up at a high-pitched whine overhead. Two laser turrets emerged from the ceiling, one trained on him, the other on the valet. The door plate glowed green, and something clicked within the hatch. The valet tugged on the handle and motioned to John as the door silently swung open, releasing a welcome rush of cool air.

“Please, come in. I’ll leave your man here for the return trip,” Anya said, then the valet froze in position, eyes blank, jaw slack, bent slightly forward at the waist. John edged past, through the hatchway, and the door swung shut behind him.

The corridor continued, but it was rounder, more tunnel-like, and sheathed in some soft material that silenced John’s footsteps and the other ambient noises of the station. He could see the end of it, a brilliantly-lit opening painful to look at after so much time spent in semidarkness. He had to cover his eyes with one hand as he drew closer, pressing the other hand against the corridor wall until he felt it give way to open space.

Anya’s voice came from within, and the sound reverberated through what sounded like an immense emptiness. “Your eyes will adjust in a few moments. Welcome to my home, John.”

Tears dribbled from the corners of his eyes as he strained to open them in the blinding light. Shapes began to form, white within white, darkening to vague shadows, then taking form and focus. The room was huge, as big as any concert hall on Avenir, and lined with ovoid structures, each at least five meters high and twice that in diameter, connected to each other and to the walls of the chamber by an array of pipes and conduits. Cyborgs shuffled about at the margins, inspecting panels and adjusting controls. John staggered into the room, head swiveling, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

“Thinking of buying the place? I’m afraid I’m too attached to it to sell outright, but I might consider letting you move into one of the spare rooms.”

He spun around. She stood before him, eyes blue and laughing, golden hair tumbling across her shoulders, resplendent in crimson--the same dress she’d worn at their first meeting.

Anya Sherikov, scion of Mikhail Sherikov, Avenir’s original communications officer, heir to his power and authority.

Dreamer.

John struggled to gather his wits. He was a businessman—the best of his generation. He couldn’t blindly accept Anya’s proposal, no matter how overwhelmed he felt or how beautiful she looked. He needed evidence of her good faith. He needed collateral.

She smiled. “Now I can formally introduce you to the community. We rarely have visitors, but there is provision for a temporary connection to our virtual space. There’s a comfortable couch in the alcove, over there. My drones will make the necessary attachments. The resolution doesn’t compare to a hardwired link, but...”

“No. First, I want to see you, Anya.”

“I don’t understand. I’m standing right here. Perhaps your eyes still need time to adjust.”

“The real you. No holograms, no video, no illusions. Otherwise, there’s no deal. You’ll have to find yourself another successor.”

“The real me? Ah, the stories. You’re afraid I’m a mutated horror, or a disembodied brain immersed in a nutrient vat. Believe me, I’m as human as you are. This hologram is a true image...well, perhaps with a few cosmetic enhancements for vanity’s sake. Besides, John, a lady values her privacy, and Dreamers even more so. This is a rude request. Most of us wouldn’t grant it. Some would destroy you for merely asking.”

“If you’re my future, I need to see with my own eyes exactly what that means.”

“Silly boy. The body is only a reservoir for the spirit. In a few weeks, you won’t care about it at all. You’ll barely remember what it was like to be so limited.”

“You want my trust. This is the price.”

She sighed. “Very well.” A drone turned from his inspection of a data panel and took John by the arm. “Follow him,” Anya said, “but I’ll tolerate no gawking. My dignity still matters to me, even while floating naked in a preservation chamber.”

“Naked? What...wait!”

Anya chuckled and shook her head. “No, you idiot, I’m not naked. You make it far too easy, John Milton. Have your look—I’ve no more time for these ridiculous superstitions.”

The cyborg guided John to one of the white ovoids and passed a hand over a glass plate on its side. A circular panel irised open, revealing a small porthole. The interior illuminated, and after a moment’s hesitation, John looked inside.

Anya’s body lay motionless within the liquid-filled chamber, nestled in a spiderweb of thin cables and tubes. The hologram was a true image, and yet...beneath the white gown and skinsuit her body looked thin and fragile, emaciated. A cascade of blond hair framed hollow cheeks. Her skin was sallow and her eyes shadowed.

Her voice whispered over his shoulder, and he thought the pale lips of the woman sleeping within the chamber might have moved along with it. “Satisfied?”

John nodded. “You’re beautiful, even now. Your illness...how much longer will you live?”

“A few months. Perhaps a year, if I’m fortunate. Time enough to teach you all you need to take my place.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve had a full life—several of them, by your standards. The preservation technology is very effective at easing the ravages of time, but death finds us all, eventually.”

The drone closed the panel, and John turned to find Anya’s hologram watching him with a faint, sad smile, eyes bright with an illusion of moisture so vivid, he had to restrain the impulse to reach out and touch her face.

Anya

by Fred Warren -

John checked the door locks twice, then ripped off his tie and loosened his collar. He was drenched in sweat, and his hands were shaking. Had to be a trick. Gamer’s stunt. The fat slugs are probably laughing at me on the sim-net right now.

He flinched as his cyborg valet slipped into position behind him and began to remove his jacket. “Did you enjoy the party, sir?”

“No.”

“Shall I turn down your bed?”

“No!” John ran clammy fingers through his hair. “No...All I want right now is a drink.”

“Very well. Your usual vodka?”

“Never mind. I’ll get it myself. Just...go. You’re dismissed.”

He pushed past the valet, who watched with an expression of mild interest as he opened the liquor cabinet. “As you wish. Good night, Mr. Milton.”

“Good ni...Hold it. Wait. When was the last security sweep of my quarters?”

The valet froze and his eyelids fluttered. “Two days ago. No microphones, cameras, or other surveillance devices were found.”

“Good. Has anyone else entered since then?”

“No one but you, sir.”

“Excellent. You may return to your alcove and cycle off for the night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

John shoveled ice into a glass and began to pour. There was a musical tinkling sound as the bottle rattled against its rim. Some of the vodka splashed on the floor. The blue-eyed woman’s final words were still echoing inside his head...

I'm dying, John, and I have no heir. I'm inviting you to take my place. Join us. Become a Dreamer.

No one had ever directly interacted with a Dreamer. No Dreamer had ever manifested an image within the living space of Avenir. Maybe one of his competitors had arranged this little show to trap him somehow, make him look ridiculous. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried. He gulped his drink and stared through the window at the bilious face of Eclectia as the liquor burned its way down his throat.

“The invitation has a time limit, John.”

He whirled around. The valet was still standing there, smiling at him.

Smiling?

“Yes, it’s me again.”

John rubbed his eyes. It usually took several drinks for the alcohol to disorient him, but he’d had a few at the party. “I told you to cycle off. Get out of here!”

The valet didn’t move, but his smile widened. “I’m not finished with him yet. I need to be sure you understand what I’m offering you.”

That voice. The wistful lilt and soft soprano tone. Hers.

The glass slipped from John’s hand and shattered on the floor. “Who are you?”

“I am Anya Sherikov, direct descendant of Mikhail Sherikov, Avenir Communications Officer. My family holds command authority over the information systems of this colony. I have unrestricted access to every computer, every commlink, every camera, and,” the valet tapped his head, “every electronic and cybernetic device on the Avenir network, including Eclectia’s undersea cities. Even among the Dreamers, it is a formidable power.”

“But if what you’ve told me is true—and I’m still not convinced this isn’t an elaborate prank—I’d have to surrender my humanity to accept your offer.”

“Only the inconvenient, tiresome parts. You will, of course, have to be integrated into the network, but your body will be kept in perfect health, and you will experience a life infinitely more rich and meaningful than this dull, enclosed existence. You’re languishing here, John. Tell me it isn’t so.”

“I’m not...It’s just that...” John took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. He’d been on the defensive long enough, and he knew better than to negotiate from a position of weakness. “I need proof. All you’ve given me is a fairy story and a few parlor tricks.”

The valet beckoned with a crooked finger. “Follow me.”