Insidious (6 page)

Chris awakened after several hours and spent the morning trying to relax. The manual and the disturbing rules kept his mind running in circles. He ate a lavish meal of filet mignon and stretched it out over a few glasses of wine. An hour after he finished eating, the plane reached the flip over point, and everyone strapped in for a ten-minute maneuver that aligned the vessel for deceleration.

A quick check of the news from Earth didn’t offer any prolonged entertainment. All the same, old stories were percolating through the news agencies. China continued to ignore edicts from the U.S and Brazilian-dominated world government. It had resumed pressuring India to relinquish its neutrality and join its Asian political bloc. The Brazilians threatened to alter their trade laws if the United States wouldn’t lower the cost of its industrial robot exports.

Chris opened some of his work accounts and checked up on things here and there. He couldn’t bring himself to get deeply involved in anything. He had to work from the data cache on the plane since the communication delay between Earth and the plane had grown to several minutes. Besides, he felt as if it would ruin his flight. After all, wasn’t he supposed to be taking it easy at last? This trip served as his victory lap for all the hard work. But he found it hard to remember what people did while they weren’t working.

From what the manual intimated, he’d need to concentrate and focus fully if he wanted to impress Alec and the other leaders of VG. From what Jack and Vic told him, his handling of the strange base rituals could affect his career. It didn’t sound much like a vacation at all.

During the rest of the voyage, he agonized over the manual and caught fragments of entertainment videos piped into his link from the VG-licensed archives. He avoided logging any VR time even though it seemed that he had little else to accomplish. He thought it would look out of place: a promising young exec chosen for his intelligence and work ethic, logging fantasy time even as he headed for Synchronicity.

“We would like to remind you that no pictures of Synchronicity may be committed to link memory,” a voice said through his link. “You are required to submit to link memory audit before leaving the base. Any contraband information about the base such as cached maps or point-of-view captures will be erased. Thank you.”

Chris’s link presented an agreement that required that he relinquish his privacy rights on his link memory while at Synchronicity. He accepted the conditions as he gathered his loose items for the docking procedures. He thought of all the clothes he had packed that were useless now, unless the rules about gear did turn out to be a hoax as he hoped.

“Please secure your belongings and fasten yourselves into your seats. The passenger deck will be rotating into its docking position momentarily.”

Chris belted himself into the lounge. The perceived angle of gravity changed as the plane’s passenger deck rotated to realign with its wings. At the same time, the passenger seats rotated until everyone faced the rear of the plane. Chris piped in an external view from a camera attached to Synchronicity and watched the arrival from the point of view of the station hub. He heard and felt orientation jets firing as the plane slipped inside the giant spinning ring.

The spaceplane was designed to land on the spinning surface of the station’s inner surface just as it performed atmospheric landings. It hovered above the oncoming steel, and then lowered straight down until the landing gear touched the surface. The sound of the tires came through the fuselage along with the sensation of acceleration, pressing first back into the seat and then slowly angling downward as the ship began spinning with the base. Applying the brakes produced a sensation of speeding up and growing heavier until finally, the runway crawled along and Chris’s weight approached Earth norm, pulling him toward the floor of the spaceplane.

The idea of landing the plane in deep space seemed spectacular to Chris. He supposed it made sense to design the plane with one landing system that could function for both its Earthside landings and its rendezvous with the giant space stations. Also, the passengers wouldn’t have to disembark in zero gravity. If the computer made an error, a disaster might ensue, but Chris hadn’t heard of anything like that ever occurring.

He blinked and brought his natural vision back to the fore. The interior still bumped and vibrated as the landing computer directed the spaceplane off the runway ring and into a docking slot. Within the minute, the spaceplane had attached itself to the inside of a thick cylinder that formed the Earth gravity zone of the station.

Thick, structural spokes visible through the windows dwarfed the plane, bringing home to Chris how large Synchronicity was. The spokes connected the main cylinder to the central hub where the fusion plant sat. The cabin crew started walking through the aisle again, preparing to help the passengers disembark.

An automatic announcement told him that two doors were the only way into Synchronicity. A map flicked into his head with green lines marking points of egress to his right and left. Chris headed toward the left, sensing the line there was shorter. He came to a thin walkway that connected directly to the base. As he entered the dim metal corridor, he imagined he could feel the vast, cold emptiness of outer space around him.

His link picked up a new guidance service so he activated it. A solid green line appeared over his course down the corridor. At the far door, it split into six lines, four of them red. He came to a room with six identical exits. He glimpsed someone at a counter speaking with a robot down one of the red marked lanes.

The guidance service superimposed green and red lights over Chris’s view of the lane entrances. He chose a green lane and walked into a dark room the size of a large closet. A robot had been mounted within, sitting over a smooth black counter. It had a vaguely humanoid head and thin arms, attached by a cylinder that protruded from the wall.

“Luggage, please, on the counter. Also, empty your pockets and place all items onto the counter,” said a synthetic voice.

The machine produced two black boxes and opened Chris’s luggage. Most of his clothes went into the larger of the boxes.

“What exactly is the purpose of the sorting here?”

“Many items will not be allowed. I will separate out the illegal items and detain them.”

Chris watched glumly as most of his toiletries followed his clothing into the large box. He assumed that everything would be fine since he hadn’t packed anything out of the ordinary.

“This item. Identify,” the robot said.

Chris shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, that’s a one-charge stunner.” He looked at the simple black device in the skeletal fingers of the robot. His father had given him the stunner when Chris had left the United States to go work for VG in Europe.

The robot hesitated before placing the stunner into the small box. Then it pushed the small box forward.

“These items are cleared,” it announced.

Chris blinked.

“The
small
box is what I can take in? What about all my other stuff … what happens to it?”

“Your screened items will await you when you return,” the machine told him. “Please take your cleared items and follow the green line through the reception area.”

“I don’t need many clothes, I guess, but what about my other things, my cleaner, depgel, and all that stuff? You know … my toiletries?”

“Everything you need will be supplied from company stock,” the robot said. “Please take your cleared items and follow the green line through the reception area.”

The green line directed Chris to the left of most of the passengers. He looked over and saw that Jack had stayed with the main body. He realized that Jack would be going to pick up his old suit. Chris remembered it was called gear here. Since Chris was new, he’d be separated out where he’d pick out his gear.

He headed over toward a side door, along with six or seven other people whom he assumed were also following their link maps.

“Please enter one at a time and select your gear. Women to the left please,” a voice announced in his head. Chris saw two women in the group move over. He gave them a quick evaluation. One stood a head taller than the other did—a blonde, very statuesque. He thought she fit the picture of a stereotypical Swede. The other had curly black hair and a round face. Chris decided she looked friendlier, although less striking, than the other woman.

Chris wondered if he’d finally have time for women here on the station. He’d been working so hard for the last few years he barely knew the other sex existed. He couldn’t so much as breathe wrong at work around a woman without risking some kind of disciplinary action. Wasn’t Synchronicity supposed to be more of a social setting? But it had a whole set of rules of its own. The manual said that physical contact with the opposite sex was only allowed in your quarters. That seemed obvious enough, since the rules said you couldn’t take off your suit anywhere else, anyway, barring medical emergency. But how could such a thing be possible when they could only meet outside in the gear?

One at a time, the people in front of Chris stepped through a gray metal door. It was dark beyond the portal. Chris felt too nervous for any small talk with the others. When his turn came, he stepped through the door.

A gloomy corridor received him. Arrayed along either wall before him, sets of gear hung flat against the wall, illuminated by gentle directional lights that showed the suit without dispelling the dimness of the walkway. Chris looked at the first gear on his left. A dark gray webbing of some smooth fiber held the black plastic plates together over elbows, knees, and back. A thick extra layer of plastic covered the left shoulder. The head covering looked like a medieval helmet of black and blue plastic attached to the back plates like a hood. Blue metal rings were woven into the webbing around the ribs.

He stepped forward and counted twenty suits in all. They were all dark with blue accents like the first, but each one had several unique aspects. Different helmets or gloves or extra plates combined to make each suit different from the next.

How the hell was he supposed to choose? The manual said that you chose your gear the first time you arrived on the station. It didn’t say anything about ever being able to chose a different set if you decided you didn’t like your first choice. What if he damaged it? What if it felt unbearably uncomfortable? What if he discovered he had made some awful faux pas with his choice?

Just take the pill.

Chris grabbed a set of gear that had a plastic mail mesh over most of the torso with a small ridge of blue spikes along the spine. The black eye plates were triangular, like jack-o’-lantern eyes.

“Please follow the green line to your changing room,” a voice instructed through his link. Chris obeyed and selected a door on the opposite side of the one through which he had entered. Beyond there he saw another dark corridor with rows of doors. He stepped to the right and followed the indicated path into a closet-sized room with a tall mirror on one wall and a stack of boxes against the other.

Chris put on the suit. He felt like an actor climbing into an animal mascot suit. He cursed under his breath.
If they’re going to make an idiot out of me, it’ll be soon now
.

The suit felt much airier than he had expected. Chris realized that the suit had cleverly hidden spicules around his face and body that allowed air to flow in without directly revealing any of his flesh.

The visor of his helmet fed him the view outside through his link as if he’d turned his own body into a remotely controlled probe. He chafed against the ridiculous indirection the video loop introduced.

Someone could influence the data, too, and make me see things that aren’t there. Maybe that’s what this is all about?

He stood and regarded himself in the mirror. He looked robotic, he decided, peering through the one-way transparent material over his eyes. The suit stiffened his limbs, although it did bend at all the major joints. His gloved hands looked like they were covered in black scales with armored ridges on the knuckles.

He turned and stared at his clothes for a moment before he realized they went in one of the boxes. He put everything into a box, including his original shoes.

“Please deposit the clothes box in the indicated slot,” a voice told him. Chris found a slot in the wall that his link overlaid with green arrows. He pushed the clothes through reluctantly, as if saying good-bye to his old life. He held onto his one-charge stunner in his palm.

“Please follow the green lines to your quarters. You will be allowed to acclimate to your new room for the rest of the day. Normal activities will resume tomorrow.”

Chris took a deep breath.

“This is crazy,” he whispered to himself. He half-expected the green line to lead him onto a stage where everyone would laugh at him, the naive newbie who put on the freak suit without questioning anything. “See what people do just because they’re told?” someone would announce. “We need to learn how to question everything. Question everything and never cease searching for new ways to contribute to VG’s success …”

He pushed the daydream out of his mind. If that was what was about to happen, so be it. He’d get through the ritual and someday he’d laugh about it with the other execs while the newcomers put on suits to amuse him.

Chris trudged through a long corridor following the green line. The gear altered his stride making him feel clumsy. He passed one other person, also wearing gear, walking the other direction. He didn’t say anything. The green lines directed him down a connecting side passage. He glanced at a directory through his link. He saw a map of one hundred quarters, swimming pools, racquetball courts, and other facilities. He noticed there were no public eating areas—a bad sign. The manual said you eat your meals in your quarters. If this was a joke, someone had gone to great lengths to feed his link the bogus map with all the right details.