Mindscape: Book 2 of the New Frontiers Series Page 4

  Anderson’s eyes hardened. “If that’s true, then why didn’t they fire those missiles at Earth instead of the Moon?”

  “I was just wondering the same thing myself, sir,” Alexander added.

  “It might be because the wormhole was not pointing in the right direction for an Earth attack,” McAdams suggested.

  Anderson considered that. “Then we’d better keep an eye on that wormhole.”

  Alexander glanced at his XO and frowned. “And what if the attack comes from somewhere else next time?”

  “I don’t think it will, but President Wallace has insisted that we spread out the First Fleet and most of the Second to guard us from all possible angles, while the rest of the Second Fleet will go to defend our remaining cities on the Moon.”

  Alexander nodded. “That seems wise, sir. I assume you’ll want us to rejoin the First Fleet.”

  “No, actually, we’re sending the Adamantine to guard the mouth of the wormhole—just in case the attacks really are coming from there.”

  “Admiral, the area around the Looking Glass is a demilitarized zone. If we send the Adamantine there, the Solarians are not going to like it.”

  “Let the politicians worry about politics. If your orders change before you get there, we’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “On your way there, set scanners to detect anything along the trajectory those missiles came in on. If we’re lucky, the ship that fired them is still decelerating somewhere along that vector.”

  Alexander considered that. “It depends how long ago the missiles were fired, but it’s certainly possible, sir.”

  “Plot your course, Admiral, and get there with all possible speed. Fleet command out.”

  Alexander saluted as Anderson’s face faded from the screen. “Bishop, you heard the admiral, set course.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “McAdams, scramble the crew to their tanks, and prep the bridge for submersion. Everyone else, begin the switch over to virtual command.”

  “Aye aye,” the crew said in unison.

  The sound of safety harnesses unbuckling filled the air. Panels in the ceiling popped open and dozens of thick, mechanized cables came snaking down, trailing life support equipment and new crew harnesses. Each set of cables guided itself to a corresponding anchor point in the floor to form a cross-braced assembly above each of the crew stations. The straps of Alexander’s new harness dangled down around his ears. He mentally disengaged the nutrient line and waste-handling tubes in his acceleration couch and then removed his helmet and clipped it to the back of his couch. After that, Alexander stood up and began fastening himself into his submersion harness. Peripherally he noticed McAdams doing the same. The rest of the crew joined them in quick succession.

  “Ventilator and harness check!” McAdams ordered.

  Affirmative replies chorused back from the crew.

  Once the bridge was flooded, the entire room would function like one big G-tank, allowing them to endure extreme accelerations such as the sustained ten Gs they’d been ordered to set on their approach to the Looking Glass.

  As soon as Alexander was done strapping in and connecting his new nutrient line and waste-handling tubes, he grabbed the much bulkier assembly of his liquid ventilator and inserted the tracheal tube. He gagged as the tube slid down his throat, and then he strapped on the attached mask. The mask sealed around his nose and lips with a squeal of escaping air, making sure that the perfluorocarbon from his ventilator wouldn’t mix with the solution inside the bridge once liquid breathing initiated.

  A green light appeared beside the ventilator, indicating it was functioning optimally, and Alexander mentally indicated his readiness to his new control station. The entire harness and cable assembly lifted him up until he was floating in midair above his control station.

  The rest of the crew came springing up one after another like grasshoppers, while their old control stations and other sensitive equipment on the bridge slid away into recessed compartments in the walls and floor. Alexander glanced around the room, his breath fogging and reverberating inside his mask.

  The other seven members of his bridge crew were all suspended in mid-air above the deck, trailing tubes and wires.

  Alexander noticed a line of glowing green text appear before his eyes, conveyed directly from McAdams’ mind to the heads-up display of his augmented reality lenses.

  The bridge crew is strapped in and ready, sir.

  Initiate submersion, Alexander thought back.

  An Inertial Compensation Emulsion (ICE) came swirling into the room beneath their dangling feet. Overhead pipes opened up and streams of the emulsion gushed down. In the near zero-G environment the solution ricocheted and floated through the room in spinning droplets and globules that caught the light and sparkled like a galaxy full of stars dancing in a chaotic ballet. As the liquid crowded out the air, globules turned to cohesive pools of shimmering, distorted light. Finally, the lights began to dim and Alexander’s ventilator started up with a rhythmic whooshing sound. A warm, oxygenated liquid filled his lungs, making them feel heavier than usual.

  The lights went out altogether. Moments later they snapped on again, and he found himself sitting back in his acceleration couch at his control station as if he’d never unbuckled from it. The illusion was so perfect that the only way he could tell it wasn’t real was by noting the faded watermark at the top of his field of view—

  (C) 2824 Mindsoft.

  “All stations report,” Alexander said, his voice sounding normal to his ears even though he knew it was impossible for him to speak around his tracheal tube or to be heard through the thousands of cubic meters of liquid now flooding the bridge.

  One after another the crew all checked in, their voices all sounding equally normal to his ears.

  “Bridge submersion successful,” McAdams announced. “All one hundred and twelve G-tanks report filled. All present and accounted for, sir.”

  Alexander nodded. “Good. Thank you, McAdams. Bishop, fire up the mains at ten Gs.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Chapter 4

  2819 A.D.

  —Five Years Earlier—

  The car rolled to a stop, but the doors remained locked. “You have arrived at your destination,” the car announced in a pleasant voice. “That will be $16.50.”

  Dorian passed his wrist over the car’s scanner. The deduction flashed up on his augmented reality contacts (ARCs), and then the car doors unlocked. It would have been cheaper if he’d used one of his parents’ cars, but then he would have had to explain where he was going.

  “Thank you for choosing Green Valley Taxis. Have a nice day!”

  Dorian stepped onto the curb. A cold, lonely wind whistled between the buildings, rolling an empty soda can down the sidewalk. He shivered and thrust his hands into his pockets. His taxi hovered up, pushing out a cushion of hot air before rumbling away.

  A bird gave a piercing cry. Suddenly he doubted the wisdom of this trip. Maybe Skylar was a killer and she had lured him here as her next victim. Feeling watched, he looked around. The building where Skylar had asked to meet soared up over a hundred floors, casting a deep shadow over him. More skyscrapers ran the length of the street. Across the street from them was New Central Park. Stately trees stood watch over lush green grounds, their leaves turning colors in the fall—vibrant reds, yellows, and golds. Another wind whistled in, rustling leaves and jostling them from their branches in a steady rain.

  Dorian spied a hot dog stand with a bot vendor. A handful of human pedestrians wearing old, mismatched and faded clothes walked down that side of the street, heads down, hands in their pockets, shoulders hunched. Some were out walking anemic-looking dogs. Others were no doubt taking a mandatory break from their virtual lives. It was a Saturday. The City of the Minds had a population of more than ten million, yet there were only a handful of pedestrians, and all of them looked like homeless bums. Dorian found that curious. Thanks to the dol
e there weren’t any homeless anymore. Dolers were the closest thing, and all of them were clothed, fed, and housed by the government. But they were relegated to the outskirts of the city where the free housing projects were, and they rarely ventured downtown. So these pedestrians were the wealthy, duly employed denizens of the city. Either they didn’t have the money to spend on appearances, or more likely, they didn’t care what they looked like in the real world anymore.

  Turning back to the fore, Dorian walked toward the apartment building where Skylar had asked to meet with him. One71, it was called. Dorian reached the doors and a bot doorman greeted him.

  “How may I help you, Mr. de Leon?”

  Being greeted by name threw him, but then Dorian remembered that his comm beacon was broadcasting it for anyone to read. “I’m here to see Skylar Phoenix.”

  “I’m sorry, no one lives here by that name. Perhaps you are looking for someone who is a guest in the building?”

  “Yes,” Dorian decided.

  “Do you have an apartment number I could call?”

  “76C.” Dorian replied.

  “One moment, please…”

  Dorian tapped his foot while he waited, jittery from a combination of nerves and the cold.

  “The owner has buzzed you in,” the doorman announced. “I notice her first name is Phoenix, perhaps she is the one you are looking for?”

  “So Skylar was an alias…” Dorian mumbled to himself.

  “I’m sorry, I have no reference point for that question.”

  In her supposedly verified Mindscape profile her real name had matched her user name—Skylar Phoenix. She must have bribed someone to falsify it for her. The burning question was why? and what else about her profile couldn’t he trust? Maybe he shouldn’t go up.

  “Sir? Would you like to enter the building now?”

  Dorian nodded and the doors parted for him. He walked into a lavish lobby with high tray ceilings, massive crystal chandeliers, recessed lighting, shiny marble columns and floors… The sheer opulence of it made his head spin. He walked by a bot concierge that smiled and greeted him by name. Dorian continued on. If Skylar—Phoenix—whatever her real name was actually owned apartment 76C, then she had to be disgustingly wealthy. Dorian reached a bank of elevators with black mirrored doors. One of them opened automatically for him. Feeling eyes all over him, he hesitated before stepping inside. There was no control panel to select a floor. Instead the number 76 appeared on a display above the doors. The doorman must have already selected his floor for him. Nice security system.

  It took all of a few seconds for the elevator to race up to the 76th floor, and Dorian’s ears popped with the sudden change of air pressure.

  The doors parted, and he walked out into a private foyer, a miniature of the one in the lobby below with a pair of illuminated frosted glass doors at the end. As he reached them, a pleasantly feminine bot voice asked him to state his name.

  “Dorian de Leon.”

  There was a momentary delay, and then that voice returned. “Welcome, Dorian. I’ve been expecting you. Please come in.”

  Dorian’s brow furrowed at the personalized greeting system. He started toward the doors, and they now parted for him automatically.

  He gasped when he saw the apartment. The ceilings were fully two stories high with floor-to-ceiling, frameless windows running all the way around a large, open living area, giving a breathtaking view of New Central Park and the surrounding city. Thick, illuminated stone columns ran around the edges of the room. Dark hard wood floors polished to an immaculate luster contrasted with spotless white furniture and sparkling cream-colored rugs. The furniture looked like it had never been sat on, every chair, ottoman, lamp, and throw rug perfectly arranged. The kitchen looked equally disused.

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  Does anyone even live here? he wondered, glancing back the way he’d come in time to see the front doors slide shut behind him.

  A soft, mechanical whirring drew his attention to one side of the open living space. It was a bot. A friendly housekeeper model with a holographic human face.

  “Welcome, Mr. de Leon. My name is Matilda. My mistress is waiting for you in her room. Would you like me to accompany you there?”

  Dorian nodded. Forcing some moisture into his mouth, he said, “Yes. Thank you.”

  “This way, please,” Matilda said.

  He followed the bot through the lavish apartment, still marveling at the views. They walked down a hall along the side of the building, more frosted glass doors to his left, floor-to-ceiling windows to his right. One of those doors lay open to a powder room that was big enough to fit a king-sized bed and still have room to walk—an excessive waste of space in a city where every square foot came at a premium.

  They continued on, and Dorian’s gaze was drawn out the windows, back to the view. There was so much light pouring into the apartment that it almost hurt his eyes. The vertiginous view reminded him of the cliff-side home he shared with Skylar in Galaxy. No wonder she’d chosen to be a seraph. She lived in the clouds in the real world, too.

  At the end of the hall they came to another set of double doors, not as wide as the entrance, but still wide enough to be grand. The doors parted as they approached, revealing not another room, but a small foyer. Dorian followed the bot inside and the doors slid shut behind them. Here the windows were darkened by a decorative blackout shade, and the only light was from a dimly-lit crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Another set of glass doors faced them, more opaque than the last. After just a moment those doors slid open, too, revealing a darkened room with more shades blocking the light from the windows. Thin bars of light glowed on the floor between the shades.

  Matilda walked inside, but Dorian lingered in the foyer, too afraid to move. A beguiling floral fragrance wafted out from the room. A lure? he wondered, his whole body felt tense and ready for a fight.

  Matilda announced him to whoever was waiting inside.

  “I’m glad you came,” came the reply. It was the feminine bot voice that had first greeted him at the entrance of the apartment.

  Dorian frowned. “Phoenix?” She couldn’t be a robot. Of all the hideous possibilities he’d imagined, that wasn’t one of them. It was absurd. He would have known by now if she were a non-player character (NPC). They’d spent too much time interacting virtually, and besides, bots couldn’t own apartments.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the voice said. “Please, come in.”

  The bot housekeeper turned to him with an encouraging smile and said, “This way, Dorian.”

  As if there were any other way left open to him. Would the various sets of doors between him and the exit even open if he tried to leave now?

  Not ready to abandon the comparative brightness of the foyer yet, Dorian said, “Your name isn’t Skylar.”

  “No, but it is Phoenix. I’m sorry for the deception, Dorian, but it was necessary. I’ll explain everything in a moment.”

  A mechanical whirring came from within the room, heightening Dorian’s sense of horror. She was a bot!

  But the shadowy form that appeared before him wasn’t that of a traditional bot, or even a human. It was something else entirely. A squat, hulking shape, rolling toward him on wheels. As it drew near, Dorian’s eyes picked out more detail. The hulking shape was a wheelchair with a human sitting in it, head slumped to one side.

  Dorian frowned. “What’s the point of getting me to meet you if you won’t let me see you?”

  The wheelchair stopped in front of him, but still far enough beyond the dim light of the foyer that he couldn’t make out any features of the person sitting in it. That person could still be a man. A man with an artificial female voice for a cover.

  Dorian shivered.

  “I have the shades drawn to help lessen the shock for you, Dorian.”

  “I don’t think that’s working. You have to use a wheelchair because your muscles have all atrophied from spending so much time in the Mind
scape,” Dorian said.

  “Yes, and no. My muscles have atrophied, but not because of the Mindscape. I have ALS.”

  “ALS?”

  “Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Juvenile onset. It’s a rare disease that attacks and destroys the motor neurons in the brain. It paralyzed me by the age of eight. My treatments have kept me alive, but so far none of them have been able to reverse the damage.”

  Some of the tension left Dorian’s body as fear turned to empathy. “I’m sorry.”

  “Besides my name, everything else you know about me is true. I am 32 years old, and I am a woman, in case you were worried. Shades up—”

  The shades in the room rolled slowly upward, letting in a blinding river of light and once again revealing a startling view of New Central Park. Dorian winced against the sudden glare and held a hand up to shield his eyes. At first the woman in the chair was just a dark silhouette, but then his eyes adjusted and her features came clear.

  Phoenix was beautiful in the way that a statue or a painting was beautiful, and she looked startlingly like her character from Galaxy—golden hair, amber eyes, pale, flawless skin, and fine feminine features. Dorian felt a familiar thrill at the sight of her, but it was diminished by sorrow and pity for her condition.

  He grimaced in dismay. “Surely there’s something they can do for you.”

  “There is not.” The voice came to his ears without the woman before him so much as twitching. Her thoughts translated directly to speech. “Believe me, I’ve tried. No amount of money in the world can fix me. At least not yet.”

  Dorian walked into the room, feeling drawn to Phoenix’s side. Her eyes followed him as he approached. He reached her chair and got down on his haunches beside her. Reaching for her hand, he found it limp and lifeless.

  “I cannot move, but I can still feel.”

  Dorian nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I wouldn’t have been afraid to meet you if you had told me this.”

  “I had hoped you would react this way,” Phoenix said, her voice smiling for her. “I knew you were different.”