The Immortality Game

“Here you are, Mr. Saenz,” the man said in Russian. The card in Marcus’s slot instantly translated the words. Marcus nodded thanks to the man and thrust his traveling case into the back seat before climbing in after it. The seat was incredible—smooth and deep. Is it real leather? No one uses real leather, do they? If not for the excitement of being in such a strange place, Marcus figured he’d have trouble staying awake seated in such luxury.

“Destination?” said the flat male voice of the autodriver.

The Russian chip spelled out his desired response phonetically in easy-to-read letters that looked like they hovered in the air about six inches in front of his eyes. It was awkward, but he read off the address his father had given him. The door closed and the car rose quickly into the gray sky.

The sky…‌Marcus had known all his life about time zone differences, but it felt unnatural to have everything change so dramatically in so short a time. It had been the middle of the night when the suborbital launched, and now his slot told him it was close to three in the afternoon.

«Have something to eat,» Javier said.

«I can’t. I still feel ill.»

«I knew it would be hard on you to fly. I’m grateful that you are helping me.»

Marcus shook his head, though he knew his father couldn’t see it. «I worry that it’s all a waste of time. Do you honestly think they’ll be able to help you, even if they’re willing?»

«I don’t know. But they’re the first honest chance I’ve encountered. The longer I live in the Web the further from human I become. What will I be like if they can reconstitute me? I’ve spent years absorbing far more data than any human can handle. My ability to feel, taste, or smell is only simulated in my cradle code. If I am ever to have a shot at a human life again, I must grasp the earliest chance.»

Marcus turned to look out the window of the speeding air car. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of his father becoming real again. Groves of pale birches lined the banks of a grayish-brown river. The buildings they passed had an alien look to them—oddly shaped wooden or concrete structures painted in shades of color Marcus had never seen before—and it struck home to him just what it meant to be in a country so different from his own.

«How many embassies does America have here? Do they all work out of the same building?»

«Just two,» Javier said. «Ours and a small one for the Federation. They don’t even have their own place. Just a couple offices in the Canadian embassy.»

The Federation was a loose association of city states, each run by their own warlord, comprising everything east of America West that wasn’t controlled by Texas. Marcus wasn’t surprised Texas had no embassy. The extremist theocracy had expanded to take over much of the old South and was very isolationist, practically a prison state.

Suddenly they were past the birch forest and zooming over desolate suburbs. Marcus’s eyes were drawn to what could only be the center of Moscow, a thicket of immensely tall skyscrapers reaching to the gray clouds. As they drew closer, he could see a veritable web of moving walkways strung between the buildings at all different levels.

«It’s amazing, Papa,» Marcus said. «Such decay and misery and then…‌such fantastic wealth and modernity. The vids I watched didn’t do it justice.»

«Here the wealthy live in the clouds,» Javier said, «while the poor can only stare up at them.»

«So many people. All those air cars. I haven’t seen a city this full of life since I was a child.»

They passed the rest of the trip in silence, as Marcus absorbed the various views of this strange city. He was struck hardest by the sheer amount of activity he saw. He recalled only dimly when Phoenix had been filled with millions of impatient commuters, before Meshing took hold and turned the city into a ghost town. He hadn’t read much about the effects of Mesh addiction on other countries; he’d assumed it was similar everywhere. Apparently he was wrong, at least in Russia.

The air car began descending into lower lanes of traffic as it drew close to their destination.

«Papa, does Meshing not affect them here?»

«Of course it does. But you must understand, Marcus…‌it’s an addiction of the rich and middle classes. The poor usually cannot afford upgraded slots or Web subscriptions. Russia doesn’t have much of a middle class, and America, even after the civil wars, has very few who are truly poor.»

The air car slowed to a hovering descent near a row of ancient concrete apartment blocks. Across a wide avenue from the buildings was a vast park that was clearly a refugee camp.

«We’re here, Papa.» The door of the air car slid up to allow Marcus to clamber out. Three boys kicking a soccer ball stopped to stare at him.

«Shouldn’t have ordered such an expensive car.» He studied the row of twelve-story buildings. «This is a really bad area. I wish you could smell this stench. Must be the refugee camp.»