Replika: Sky's Mission: Replika, #1

By Hugo Bernard

They hacked her brother's brain.

Then sent him into the simulation.

Sky must now get to him first… the future of reality is at stake.

"...an absolute blockbuster of a tale... I thoroughly enjoyed every single page..."
-Pikasho Deka for Readers' Favorite ✶✶✶✶✶

 

Earth's ecological collapse is avoided when most of the world population agrees to permanently upload into a simulated reality called Replika. But the stability of the system is threatened when a group of neuroscientists hack their brains to interact with the simulations in unforeseen and dangerous ways.

 

Sky devotes her life to rebuilding the real world left in the shadows of Replika. But when she learns her brother, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances, is in danger, she must choose which world needs her most. All she wants is to find the brother she loves, but she will unwittingly get entangled in a ploy to redefine reality.

 

HUGO BERNARD masterfully weaves a highly-original and fast-paced cyber-thriller with a convincing and thought-provoking vision on how simulated reality will change our lives.

 

"Replika is easily one of the best cyberpunk books I've read this year." -S.C Jensen, author of Bubbles in Space

"...a complex thriller about power and hope whilst never missing a beat." -K.C. Finn for Readers' Favorite

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephane Bergeron
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781775236931

Book preview

REPLIKA

Book 1: Sky’s Mission

HUGO BERNARD

Cover art by Stéphane Bergeron

Copyright © 2021 Stéphane Bergeron

All rights reserved.

Quebec City, Canada

ISBN 978-1-7752369-2-4

CONTENT

PROLOGUE: Entering Replika

1 — Mind Games

2 — The Red Masks

3 — The Corporeal

4 — The Gift

5 — Trip to Chicago #1

6 — Drones

7 — The Observatory #1

8 — Trip to Chicago #2

9 — Omar’s stars

10 — Quiet Morning in Paris

11 — The Mission

12 — Steve’s message

13 — Entering Replika #2

14 — Omar’s trap #1

15 — Interrogation #1

16 — The Reading Monkey

17 — Communication #1

18 — Omar’s Trap #2

19 — Communication #2

20 — Interrogation #2

21 — Communication #3

22 — The Observatory #2

23 — Going to Jersey

24 — The Escape

25 — The Chase

26 — Reunion

27 — Somewhere to hide

28 — Something about Henry

29 — Mission Aborted

EPILOGUE: The Assignment

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

To my boys,

Cosmos, Ilan and Zephyr

PROLOGUE: Entering Replika

EARTH Year 2171 – Georgia

Please remove all clothing and jewelry, said the female voice from the speaker above. Dispose your items in the chute to your left.

An illuminated slit opened in the wall next to Gerold. He undressed, folded his clothing—a habit—and dropped them in the slit. Naked, he rotated the piercing in his eyebrow, clockwise and then counter-clockwise, before pulling it out. He did the same for the one in his lip. The two silver piercings rolled down to the tips of his fingers. He held them there for a moment. He scissored the piercings between his fingers, appreciating the sharp, cold edges pressing into his skin. Without them he didn’t feel right. Was there nothing else holding him back? The thought discouraged him. He let them fall away.

A laser scanned his naked body from toe to head. The wall across from him slid open, revealing the Transfer Portal. He entered the cylindrical chamber, placed his feet on the foot markings, and leaned up against the flat padded backing of the pod. A seat rose between his legs until snugly pressing up against his crotch. Straps automatically secured around his chest, holding him firmly back.

Rest your head, said the voice.

Sensors attached to his temples. Foam expanded around his head to hold it motionless and filled his ears with silence. An opaque visor blocked his eyes. He closed them—it changed nothing. His naked body shivered and shook. Goosebumps covered his forearms. An electric pulse shot through his temple; his fingers twitched. He was transported to his meeting.

He was in a bright yellow room, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Across from him, at the far end, a businessman motioned for him to come and sit. The man sat erect behind a large oak desk covered in neat piles of yellow folders. He wore a gray pinstripe suit that matched his precisely parted gray hair—the gray hair a statement of style, not of age. He appeared to be in his early thirties, no more. His symmetrical face had a strong jawline and a narrow nose that mismatched his rounded, dimpled chin.

Gerold, please come take a seat, said the businessman, inviting him with an open hand and a corporate smile.

I prefer standing.

Gerold walked to the floor-to-ceiling window on the left side of the room and examined the garden filled with flowers of vivid reds and pinks. A tiny bird hovered over a lush vine of mini cone-shaped flowers. The bird rocked with a hypnotic motion, working the vine, its beak darting with precision in and out of the cone flowers. As Gerold placed his fingers on the glass, the bird zipped away into the bluest sky he had ever seen.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

What do you know about beauty? thought Gerold.

The businessman leaned forward, searching through the folders on his desk. He opened a folder and leaned back to read the file inside. Gerold Thomas Jones, fourteen years old. Is this correct?

Gerold stayed silent; the scan at the entrance would have provided all the information he needed. Why these games? With his tongue, he played with the piercing on his lip. He raised his hand to check the one on his eyebrow. A nice touch to have the piercings back—he hated to admit it.

According to our documents, you have no legal guardian?

Gerold kept a blank face and walked toward the businessman.

Your father entered Replika; your mother has passed—

Gerold grabbed the folder from the businessman’s hands and pitched it across the room. The pages scattered in the air and dematerialized before they reached the ground. He leaned over the desk.

Why this bullshit?

The businessman leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands on his desk, and with a tilt of the head asked, Which bullshit exactly?

The folder, why do you pretend to consult a folder?

Familiarity, it offers a point of reference for you. To make everything world-like.

Gerold walked around the desk and pressed his index finger deep into the unblemished skin of the businessman’s left cheek. He hated how it not only looked so real, but also felt real. You think a businessman is suitable for this task? An undertaker would be more appropriate, wouldn’t it?

The businessman gently grabbed Gerold’s finger and removed it from his cheek. Going into Replika is irreversible. My position is to inform you about this choice. The legal implications, if you will. I’m not here to embalm you, as you suggest. If the businessman persona bothers you, Gerold, I can try something else.

The businessman’s body blurred, and the colors shifted for a few seconds. Sitting behind the desk was now a large woman, wearing a black dress with large red flower prints. She wore large half-circle ivory earrings. Her cheeks were plump, her eyes generous, and her lips a smacking red.

Gerold admitted she was more pleasing than the plastic businessman, but he remained unsatisfied. Stop being misleading and show me who you really are.

A sequence of organized quantum jumps is not an interface that can easily interact with humans, the lady said in a deep, soothing voice.

Stop trying to be human, that’s all.

The body blurred again and morphed into a metallic body with a steel box for a head and tiny red blinking lights for eyes.

Is this better? asked an electronic voice.

It will do.

You have agreed on entering Replika. Is this right?

Gerold agreed with a nod. He sat in the chair across the desk from the robot.

Legally, I must inform you of the following parameters of your decision. First, and of greatest importance, once your existence in Replika begins, you will not have any recollection of this life or of this world. Replika will become your only existence, and some memories will be fabricated to support the coherence of this new existence. Second, your body will be stored in a secure, sterile environment, and will be fed with a continuous feed. This is to preserve your mind, which is the lifeblood of your existence in Replika. Anything you experience will be real according to physical laws that apply in this universe. At death in Replika, your physical body in this reality will be disposed of by incineration. Do you agree with these irreversible terms?

Why must you erase everything? said Gerold.

Otherwise, you would be aware that Replika is only a simulated world.

But that’s what it is.

Not once you are in it. Replika will be your reality. The Founding Forty understood that Replika would be unfulfilling if people knew it was a simulation.

Will I still be me?

Your existence in Replika is a complex construction that is built according to your genetics as well as the current thought processes of your mind. Your memories will be erased, but the neural pathways that have been formed in your mind will continue to exist as they do today. You will remain you, without the memories.

Gerold shook his head, not wanting to understand how easily his reality could be manipulated. Not wanting to be so easily fooled into a life that was not his own. How much more real was this life if it could be erased in a mere instant?

You must also decide if you wish to provide sperm.

What?

It will be used if you decide to procreate.

I don’t want no test tube child!

The child will live a normal life in Replika. It will learn and evolve, never aware that its naturally created brain is being maintained in the simulation chambers. It’s the only way for us to maintain the full human experience.

I’m fourteen, said Gerold.

One day you will be an adult, said the robot. It will be kept for when you’re ready.

Sure, whatever. Will I be the same age as here?

A mental age will be determined from the current structure of your brain and the health of your body.

Will my name be Gerold?

I don’t know the parameters of your future existence.

Gerold sucks. He twisted the piercing in his eyebrow. I would like a new name.

The robot stayed silent. The red eyes blinked with a slow and regular frequency. Gerold understood that he had not technically asked a question.

I want a cool name. Gerold paused to think of the possibilities before adding, Can I be called Catch? Catch is a pretty cool name, don’t you think?

I’m not qualified to determine if Catch is a cool name.

Right, of course. Can I request to be called Catch?

The request has been added to your file.

Gerold hid his face between his hands, suddenly overwhelmed with the whole ordeal. His shoulders quivered. How was leaving one’s existence behind, no matter how shitty it had been, any different from dying? He struggled to breathe.

A hand rested on his shoulder and radiated a gentle warmth. He looked up. Before him was the woman in the flower-print dress with her soothing smile. She opened her arms wide. He leaned forward to accept her embrace.

Will Replika be better than this shit hole?

Better. She cradled his head gently. Not perfect, but better.

1 — Mind Games

EARTH Year 2171 – Detroit

The rough canvas bag over Vi’s head stank of mildew, and the zipper at its base was cool against her neck. Her legs and torso were strapped to a reclined chair. She wiggled her hands, tied together and numb from being squished between herself and the chair. In this unfortunate situation, all Vi could think about was how displeased Sky would be by her absence. She could already see the look of contempt in her daughter’s eyes and hear her say, This was important. Where the fuck were you? Sure, Sky had many reasons to hate her, but Vi had hoped that as an adult she would have grown out of it. At least this time, there was no reason to be angry at her—it wasn’t her fault. Really, not directly her fault—she had provoked the situation, years ago, but that was before becoming a mother.

The door squeaked open. Several people could be heard entering the room. The canvas bag was yanked violently off Vi’s head. The zipper scraped her chin, where a pearl of blood swelled.

Remember us? asked the man sitting next to her, leaning in so close his disgusting breath brushed against her cheeks. Her eyes adjusted to the bright electric light. He was the oldest of the three, late fifties with a bald head and muscular arms that filled the sleeves of his T-shirt. In front of Vi stood a large black man shifting nervously from foot to foot, his arms crossed over his protruding belly. Vi glanced sideways to the third person, a younger woman, dark-skinned with finely braided black hair. No, she didn’t recognize them. How could she? They had all changed and were unrecognizable. She wasn’t quite sure how long it had been since she had left them; the memories overlapped and had muddled everything together—twenty years? Maybe more. She had expected them like one expects death, a foreseeable outcome that is best ignored.

She had been abducted while strolling the city on the evening they arrived in Detroit. The rising darkness had been the ideal moment to assess the life that remained in the dying cities. The sparsely scattered lights flickered on in the rare buildings that stood strong and remained connected—or had been reconnected—to electrical circuits. The lights were few and far between. In smaller buildings the lights danced unsteadily from fires, steady flows of smoke rising from makeshift chimneys. Some people preferred a place of their own over access to electrical power—not that there was much use for electricity anymore. Most buildings remained dark, disconnected, in ruins, or abandoned. There was little life to salvage in this city.

Vi had noticed the lurking shadows partially concealed along the wall of a dark building. She hadn’t suspected anything of it and had even been charmed for a moment when she thought others might be enjoying a night walk. But she should have known better; nobody walked without purpose. People did walk great distances—as it was the main way to get around—but few desired to extend this activity to leisure. Vi found this to be most unfortunate. The solitude and rhythmic motion induced a mental clarity that was difficult to find otherwise. On these walks she sometimes considered an alternate life for herself. A life in which she would have devoted herself to researching neurological benefits to walking. Such a life would have prevented so many unfortunate turns of events, including her being captured by the individuals whose shadows lurked along the walls.

Why did you run away? said the large man in front of her. His high-pitched voice surprised her, since it didn’t match his heavy-set frame. Knowledge should be shared, not destroyed. He nibbled on his thumbnail, pivoting from side-to-side as he waited for Vi to answer.

She stayed silent, trying to recollect what she had done to the laboratory. The memory of her actively destroying it was gone—totally blank. She did, however, remember the planning that had led up to it. It was a three-step process: erase, destroy, and burn. How hard it must’ve been for her to smash the equipment she had worked so hard to piece together. It had taken them years to build it all up. How long did it take her to throw the match on the kerosene-covered floor to see their discoveries consumed in flames? It was odd to imagine one’s own feeling for acts done but forgotten. Had she cried? She didn’t think so.

Vi examined the man who had asked her the question. She searched for a clue that could link this man to her past. His gaze was unsteady, jumping around the room, never resting. This, and with his inability to stand still, suggested he suffered from some hyperactive disorder, a trait she remembered from some of her students. That would make sense, she thought. They could be her students, she concluded, except for the old guy with the bad breath.

Why hide something from us? said the large man. Did you believe that only you and your friend were clever enough to succeed? The man’s belly jumped with a forced laugh.

Discovering things by oneself is the best way to learn, Vi said in all seriousness. She did not doubt that they would rebuild everything and come for her. Now what? What do you want from me?

Henry wants to know about the other things, beyond Memory Trap technology. He remembers you working on other projects. Not telling him about it. Talk to us about your research, said the large man, pacing the room while still gnawing away at his thumbnail.

Vi realized that the agitation of the big man was not only due to his hyperactivity but also a symptom of his nervousness. This man, probably a brilliant scientist, as were all her students, had been thrown into a nebulous and obscure situation based on Henry’s intuition. This man’s Cartesian mind could solve complex problems, but he didn’t know how to swim in these murky waters of human behavior.

Tell us about your research, said the bald man. You and your friend left to continue something, without us. Tell us about it.

Baking, she said, looking at the bald guy. That was why this other guy was sent along, figured Vi. Perhaps he was not as smart, but he was pragmatic.

Baking, the old man repeated.

Yeah, I’ve been researching baking bread, Vi said. Baking is crucial to rebuilding a new world.

Don’t mess around with us, old lady. The bald man stood up, annoyed. He circled to the back chair, his hand frantically rubbing his bald head. We don’t want trouble. Tell us about your research.

They waited.

The bald man moved beside Vi and slapped her across the face with a solid hand. Vi tasted blood, swallowed it, and felt a molar wiggling loose from the impact. With the tip of her tongue, she pushed the tooth back to where it should be. Pragmatic bastard, she cursed to herself as a jolt of pain shot down her jaw.

The large man pulled back on the bald man’s shoulder. Gary, Henry told us not to hurt her. Gary, the old guy, sat down and leaned the chair back on its two legs.

Let’s work together, said the younger woman. There’s no reason to fear us. We want what is best for everyone.

Where is Henry? Vi asked.

So, you do remember us, said the large man. Henry is eager to speak with you but is quite busy with other projects.

Henry is a dangerous man, Vi said.

Oh dear, Henry would be so sad to hear you say such things. You taught him so much, and he always speaks of you so highly, how wonderfully brilliant you are. You know that, don’t you?

It was a mistake to teach him anything, Vi said. You are all captivated by his impressive ideas, but his ways are dangerous, and I will not help him in any way.

Henry doesn’t need your help—the large man laughed again—the student surpasses the teacher. Isn’t that right? He is curious, that’s all. But your bluntness is appreciated. This shall save us a great deal of time. He didn’t want us to hurt you, but he did foresee your lack of cooperation. Turning to the woman, he said, "Esa, please join Vi for a deeper conversation." The grin on his face worried Vi.

With hands on both sides of Vi’s head, Gary held her steady while Esa cut strands of hair—eight spots, Vi counted. An ointment was rubbed on these spots. She felt a razor blade and heard the scraping off of what remained. Esa pressed something into her scalp. The large man started talking about all the great things they had done. Henry’s inventions they would willingly share with her if only she cooperated. Vi lost track of what he was saying. His words were muddled by a rasping sound in her head that the others did not appear to hear. She glanced sideways and noticed flashing sensors on Esa’s temples. Vi tried to listen to the man or understand what they were doing, but her thoughts were clumsy, a languorous blur. She was not being drugged, but she didn’t know how she had arrived at this conclusion.

It will take a moment, thought Vi. The thought wasn’t hers but foreign. Imposed.

Once in sync, everything will be clear again.

Vi slipped in and out of consciousness, foreign thoughts playing in the background, hallucinations of sorts.

Are you ready, Esa? asked Gary. The rasping had stopped. Vi’s thoughts were once again lucid.

I am joining you. The thought was clear in Vi’s mind, but she now felt Esa’s presence imposing itself as an unwelcome guest. To remember with you.

I have nothing to remember. Vi was aware that her thoughts were now shared.

Remember Henry. Esa pushed the thought into Vi’s mind, evoking an image of Henry. An older Henry than the one Vi remembered. Esa’s Henry. Vi knew him as a young boy, with curly blond hair and a soft expressionless face. He was always there with them, in the lab, curious. His little body concealed in the corner, inconspicuously observing the finer details of their studies. She recalled the time he watched her install the head mount on a research volunteer. He stepped forward, coming out of the corner to suggest, It would be interesting if we could modify his prefrontal cortex.

Vi was aware of the reading he had done, about case studies of injuries to this part of the brain and how it modified peoples’ personalities.

We will not modify anyone’s brain, Henry. Mr. Briggs has volunteered to help us research memory. She squeezed the seated man’s forearm to reassure him. We won’t do anything to harm him, only provoke some memories and store them elsewhere.

But we could learn from these studies. We could learn to make people happy or content, said Henry. Couldn’t we sacrifice Mr. Briggs for this cause? Wouldn’t that be worthwhile?

Absolutely not. Enough, Henry! Either you are quiet, or you leave the room.

Little Henry took a step back into the corner. His face turned red with anger, and she remembered his hands squeezed into tight fists.

But he was only a boy, imposed Esa in Vi’s mind.

You will not explore my memories. Vi forced out the memory of the angry Henry. She regretted sharing the memory with Esa. Vi imagined darkness and the infinite expanse of space. Esa evoked other images into Vi’s consciousness, memories that Henry had shared with Esa. Vi let them slip away into indifference, replacing them with the infinite darkness. The cold and quiet infinity of space.

She is blocking me with visualizations, said Esa to the others.

Activate emotions, said the large man.

Vi’s breath became irregular, the muscles in her throat constricted. She had always been cautious toward emotions, resenting the physiological responses that agonized the mind and turned rationality against itself. During the day she suppressed them without trouble, but at night, they tormented her into wakefulness and terrible sweats. This was often when she chose to go out for her leisurely walks, to escape the