Replika Book 1-3 Sky's Mission, Coherence, Terra Firma: Replika, #4

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 thought-provoking and fast-paced sci-fi adventure with a highly original vision on how simulated reality will change our lives.

"...the worldbuilding on show here is sublime ...a complex thriller about power and hope whilst never missing a beat."
-K.C. Finn for Readers' Favorite✶✶✶✶✶

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hugo Bernard
• Release date: Dec 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9798230219361

Book preview

​​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 grip of unwelcome emotions.

Panicked, she fought against the straps holding her down, but this had the effect of amplifying the simulated anxiety. The physiological responses unlocked hidden memories, memories bound to emotions, holding tightly, like a scared child clinging to a mother’s leg.

Not Hugh, they can’t find out...Vi panicked.

Such a brave and reasonable old lady, Vi. But even you have vulnerabilities.

Not Hugh! Vi was desperate to think of something else, a problem she had been working on, but the panic sucked her thoughts down a funnel with her son at its end. Esa had a glimpse of this son and purposefully held the image present in Vi’s mind—to not let her escape the rising memories.

She has a son. His name is Hugh, said Esa to the others. She doesn’t want us to know about him.

You’re a mother? Surprising, said the large man, who now sat on a chair next to Vi. I don’t really see you as a mother. Doesn’t it interfere with your research? Bothersome, needy, and ungrateful. That’s what they are, aren’t they?

He needs to be warned, Vi thought, to know what is happening. The time has come.

Vi carefully remained on the thought of Hugh, directing the whole of her provoked anxieties on this precise thought, to prevent any other revelations from escaping her.

Switching things up, Esa said to the others.

The physiological response was being changed; the tightness in her throat dissipated but her breathing remained difficult, restricted not by tightness but by a heavy burden. A wave of lethargy washed over her body as sadness consumed her. She could burst into tears for no apparent reason. The only time she had cried—it had taken her by surprise—was when Hugh entered Replika. The memories anchored with those tears were vividly clear.

Hugh stood in front of the Building of Transfers, hesitating with a forced smile.

Don’t cry, Mother, Hugh had said. Everything will be fine. All will go as planned. He held her tightly as her tears rolled gently down her cheeks. What tortured her was not that the plan would not work but rather that it was not what Hugh was expecting.

She sent her son into Replika, said Esa to the others, to protect him... Her feelings are...confusing. There is something that I don’t quite understand.

Esa tried to invoke the farewell hug in Vi’s psyche again, to examine it more closely and make sense of the complexity of Vi’s emotions.

If I cannot make sense of it myself, thought Vi for Esa, how could you?

Protect him from what? asked Gary, balancing his chair farther back on its two legs.

He isn’t only your son, is he? He’s your research. You sent him into Replika to protect him from us, the large man said, placing his heavy hand on her knee. Now this gets interesting! Tell us about this son of yours. Is it him that you love? Or what you have done to his mind?

With a sharp jab of her tongue, Vi pressed against the loose molar. Esa jolted her head back, feeling the pain go down her jaw as if it was her own.

What the fuck happened? said Gary, his chair falling on all fours.

The fucking loose tooth from when you hit her. She is trying to distract herself with pain, Esa said.

The large man grabbed the light on the mechanical arm attached to the ceiling and switched on the bright light inches from her face. He squeezed her jaw in his large hands. I can remove all your teeth if you want.

Maybe we should remove the tooth, said Gary.

Stupid idea. She will be in pain all night. Nothing will work if you do that, Esa said, annoyed.

Enough messing around. Jerome released Vi’s mouth with a push. He rolled his chair back and crossed his arms. Esa, he ordered, we need to know how she transformed Hugh before sending him into Replika.

It’s not that simple. Vi understood this as a glimpse into one of Esa’s thoughts, not intended for her. Vi had more than just this thought from Esa; she felt her annoyance with regards to Jerome’s comments.

The channel works both ways, thought Vi.

But I control the emotions, Esa reminded her.

You are scared of what I might do. You are afraid of failing, Esa. Esa denied it, but Vi felt the fear swelling sorely. Vi imagined herself winning this mind battle with Esa. She imagined Esa telling the others she couldn’t do it, that Vi was too strong. Vi imagined the reaction of the others. Why not? they would ask, and Do something! Vi thought of Henry. The image of Henry Esa had provoked earlier. The older Henry. She imaged this Henry disappointed by Esa’s failings. She considered how Henry would have wished to have sent someone else to do this important mission. Someone more competent than Esa. Vi swiftly filled her mind with these images of failure, repeating them compulsively, leaving no room for Esa to think, only for the doubt to anchor itself firmly.

Don’t mess this up, Esa. Vi repeated the haunting thought. Henry will be so disappointed in you.

Vi felt new physiological simulations, a sense of strength and joy—elation. Why the positive sensation? Vi wondered. Was Esa using the technology to suppress her own doubt? To induce positive biofeedback?

What are you doing, Esa? Saving yourself with pride? Or do you want to discover my discoveries by exploring my pride? Either way, you will fail. Vi laughed. The men looked at her and asked Esa for explanations. Esa said nothing. I am not like you, Esa. I am curious and never satisfied. What drives you? Pride and the need for recognition. You want Henry to applaud you, don’t you? That is why you will fail with me. Your curiosity is no match for mine.

I will tell the others you are screwing around with me, Esa thought back.

Pride is a weakness, a truly unworthy adversary for the doubt that fills you. I will offer you a way out. To save your reputation among these colleagues. Vi skimmed her tongue over the loose molar. No one needs to know you failed against me. Blame it on the pain. Blame it on Gary. Vi pushed gently on the loose tooth.

I can’t get past the pain. She’s using it to override everything, Esa said, removing the electrodes from her temples.

You idiot, Gary, said Jerome, rising and slapping the wall violently with both hands. Why did you hit her?

What? This is my fault now?

Drug her up and do a complete mind map. How long will it take?

Forty-eight hours, after which we can explore your memories much more easily, Esa said. She jabbed Vi with a needle and whispered in her ear, You won’t mess with me anymore.

Vi closed her eyes and said nothing, the numbness in her arm spread down from her shoulder to her fingers. The room started spinning. Vi hoped she would be awake before they returned; it was the only way she could hope to escape.

* * *

Gary and Esa returned to an empty room. Gary examined the straps and the undamaged tie wraps at the bottom of the chair.

How the hell? he mumbled. The door was locked.

Henry warned us about her and her tricks. Esa scanned the display and looked up at Gary. She erased everything.

We need to find that old bitch, Gary said.

No, said Jerome, first we will go to find her friend. Perhaps he will be more cooperative.

​​2 — The Red Masks

REPLIKA year 2053 – New Jersey

Morgan sat in a rocking chair, studying projective geometry from a mathematical e-textbook. In the bed next to him slept his unconscious mother. Her fingertips, limbs, chest, and head were covered in electrical sensors that monitored a constant slew of biometric measures. The translucent tube inserted in her nostril carried a colorless liquid with a languid flow. The tube in her right arm pumped a red plasma at the heart’s rhythm; the blood circulated through a box-like unit where general diagnostics and instant molecular assays were used to target the right cocktail of medication to cure and reduce pain—but there was always some pain. The whole contraption of pumping liquids created a background whir that plunged Morgan into a state of deep focus. Theorems, obscure the previous evening, unraveled into obvious conclusions. He was in admiration of Desargues's theorem when his mother called him away from his equations.

Morgan, his mother said, barely audible. Is it you?

Morgan shifted to her side. Mother, I am right here, he said, grabbing her hand—a thin layer of dry skin draped over icy bones.

She rolled her head over to look at her son and forced a smile.

Would you like to eat, Mother? he said. I prepared a noodle soup, with a real homemade broth, using herbs from the market.

He raised her bed into a reclined position, propped a pillow behind her shoulders, and placed a napkin around her collar. Steam rose from the metal canister with a rich aroma of rosemary mixed with thyme. He blew on the hot spoonful before resting it on his mother’s lower lip. After a few servings, she raised her hand to signal that she’d had enough. The heat had brought a lively red color to her lips. She’d accepted the soup to please him; Morgan knew that. He had insisted from the start of her sickness, convinced that real food was superior—the complex phytochemicals could not be matched by the injected synthetics promoted by the PharmaBoy.

Mother, don’t forget about tomorrow, he said.

From the inquisitive look on her face, he could tell she had no clue what he was referring to. It wasn’t her fault, he realized; slipping out of prolonged periods of sleep for only a few minutes of wakefulness didn’t provide the stimulus needed to firmly anchor any sort of memory. Tomorrow, it’s your birthday. You will wake up somewhere in The Virt.

I’m not sure that’s a great idea, she said.

It’s my gift to you, Mother, he said, cradling her shoulder with his hand. He was frightened by how bony she had become. It will do you some good to experience things again. The simulation portal is already rented, and I will set you up in the morning while you sleep. Now tell me, where do you want to wake up?

I don’t know. It seems wrong to fool myself into believing I’m well.

Enough, Mother, Morgan said, brushing his mother’s hair to the side. You’ve always loved going to the beach. Wouldn’t it be nice to go to Nassau? You’ve always wanted to go there, haven’t you? The sun, the ocean, and a cocktail. It will do you some good to enjoy life again.

That’d be nice, she said. Will Aviva be joining us?

I’m not sure she can make it. She’s quite busy with work. I’ll ask her tonight.

She’s back from Paris already?

No. Hopefully, we’ll have time for a virtual meet-up at the pizzeria.

Such a lovely girl, you must miss her so much. Morgan hated when his mother said this. She had said the same thing about all the other girls he had dated. But Aviva was different, and it bothered him that his mother didn’t realize it.

You should join her in Paris, she said.

Morgan assured his mother—as he did every day they had this same conversation—that he wanted to stay around for work, and to take care of his one and only mother. Aviva was busy in Paris and wouldn’t have the time for him anyway. He didn’t mention the turmoil in Paris; she didn’t need to worry about anything but getting well.

Make sure she knows that it isn’t me who’s holding you back.

I’ll make sure to let her know, Mother.

They talked about other mundane things: how the neighbors were doing and the irregular weather of the last few days. While she talked, her voice was being monitored to detect a quiver, unnoticeable to the human ear, but that indicated the onset of pain. An anaesthetic was injected when the pain passed a predetermined threshold, bringing her into a deep sleep during which a cocktail of medications worked to fix the failings of her body. Morgan knew her prognosis wasn’t good. Despite all the scientific advances, the body mysteriously failed. Morgan covered his sleeping mother with a blanket and hurried out for work.

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Morgan didn’t own a simulation portal. To work at the pizzeria in The Virt he rented a portal from his local community hub. He hated the cheap setup in the private booths: a plastic chair with shoulder straps that held him securely down—it was necessary because some people had been known to move while hooked up in The Virt. A rubber band held the neuro-stimulators tightly around his head. The discomfort wasn’t noticed while in The Virt—the simulated sensation dominated there—but upon his return, his legs would be numb, his back sore, and the rubber band would leave an imprint on his forehead that remained for hours after.

Lou’s Pizza Diner was modeled after a classic diner that had existed in Chicago in the eighties. The flashy red Formica-covered tables had chrome-plated trimmings that matched the cushiony vinyl of the booths. The air was infused with the permanent scent of pepperoni, cheese, and fresh baked crusts. A jukebox in the corner played classic rock’n’roll music—an infinite choice. Live Virt-Sports streamed continuously on the displays on every wall.

The popularity of Lou’s chain of restaurants wasn’t only from the perfect pizza taste simulation—with zero calories—but also the authentic social experience. A game-changer decision for Lou—and the industry at large—was when Lou decided to hire real people to serve the tables. The Fakes could have done it for free. They were indistinguishable from humans, though some people claimed they could spot a Fake a mile away. However, when these people were put to the test, they always failed. The ambiguity was unfair since Fakes could distinguish a human from a Fake; though, when tested, they also failed. The problem was that the Fakes’ failure was believed to be a simulation of human behavior and not a real failure. This pinpointed exactly what people disliked about Fakes—the inability of distinguishing what human behavior Fakes were faking.

Lou changed the industry by establishing a Certified Human accreditation that assured human authenticity across the service industries. Lou not only became one of the world's richest men from this, but it was also a major boon to the world economy, which had seen most of its service activity being absorbed into The Virt.

Tonight, the Pizzeria was quiet, other than some regular faces. There were the three Bossman brothers, who gathered from across the continent to share virtual pizza while watching the FCUF (Fantastic Creature Ultimate Fight)—the avatars were fantastical creatures, but the pain of the kicks and punches were fully transmitted to the fighters’ bodies. Another regular of the night was General Tom. He sat at the bar and asked to have the display behind the bar changed from The Virt-Sports to the 24WRLD News Stream. He was an old guy, always came in a clean-cut military suit. He insisted on being called General Tom. Nobody ever questioned his credentials.

General Tom ordered his regular two slices of vegetarian and a pitcher of beer. Morgan withheld a grin as the general placed his order, remembering the teen who’d had the nerve to question him.

Vegetarian, really? the teen had asked. You do know this food is fake, a manipulation of your brain, no animals were actually killed to make the bacon.

You’re a simulation, too, young man. General Tom looked at the teen venomously. I’ll order a pizza with your flesh on it, if you don’t mind your own business.

A single high-pitched ding rang from the bell in the kitchen. The Bossmans’ order was ready—or more precisely, the semi-random allocation of waiting time had passed. Everything could instantly appear, but the wait was part of the authentic social experience. Morgan entered the kitchen, which didn’t attempt to mimic the real Chicago diner, since, according to the stories, the real place had a pest issue that was best not replicated. The kitchen was basic. No sinks or ovens, only a square table—food-grade stainless steel nevertheless—on which appeared the Bossman brothers’ Meat Lover’s pizza.

Be careful, guys, the pizza is hot out of the oven, Morgan said his scripted line as he delivered the pizza to the brothers. The pizza wouldn’t burn but could cause a slight discomfort—for authenticity’s sake. Another perk of the simulated restaurants over the real thing was that the pizza stayed at the ideal temperature even if left out for hours. If you need anything just give me a shout.

Back at the bar, General Tom finished his beer while watching the Breaking News from Paris.

...what had been merely social riots against government corruption weeks ago has quickly escalated to something much more serious. The mysterious group who calls themselves ‘Les Masques Rouges’ have claimed full responsibility for the bombing of the Hotel de Toulouse where France’s central bank is located. The number of casualties is unknown at the moment as firefighters are trying to... The voice continued as the display showed images of the scene of the fire with active firemen still trying to control the blaze. The camera scanned the crowd of worried faces that had gathered, drawn to the beacon of dark smoke that marked the spot of the tragedy.

Intriguing, isn’t it? said General Tom.

What exactly?

Governments can’t figure out how to manage healthcare, crime or education, but have no difficulty finding clever schemes to fill their own pockets.

You support the riots? asked Morgan.

It’s cyclical. Eventually those on the bottom must fight to take down the scum from the top. It’s like an hourglass. General Tom grabbed a salt shaker from behind the bar and flipped it over, salt sprinkled onto the table. Eventually the hourglass flips and what was lying on the bottom ends up on top. He replaced the saltshaker and, with a swipe of the back of his hand, he brushed the grains of salt from the table to the ground.

Morgan nodded to be polite but wasn’t convinced of General Tom’s social order metaphor. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that the power remained near the top. The disturbances shuffled the top, one or two might fall, but the pyramid wasn’t inverted as General Tom had suggested. Sadly, Morgan thought, the bottom dwellers remained pawns, manipulated by false dreams, ambition or, increasingly, by survival instincts.

A chart appeared on the news broadcast that summarized what was known of Les Masques Rouges: the group remained anonymous, claimed to work independently, and communicated by leaking information to the media.

Morgan served General Tom’s vegetarian pizza just in time to catch Aviva’s live report. She stood outside a government building in Paris. She didn’t appear to be troubled by the wind blowing strands of hair in her face. She peered into the camera, as if personally looking to whoever was listening on the other end. She was great, thought Morgan.

We have breaking news. The Masque Rouge have issued an ultimatum: they are ordering the military and the police to completely leave Paris within twenty-four hours, otherwise Paris will, and I quote the Masque Rouge, ‘suffer swift and devastating consequences.’ Authorities are unsure who is behind this organization but are taking the threats seriously. France’s president is willing to negotiate directly with a representative of the Masque Rouge and is asking for someone to step forward. The president said, and I quote, ‘I cannot negotiate with a ghost.’ So far, the information leaking out from the Red Masks has only responded by repeating the ultimatum and warning citizens to be prepared for a violent strike if the government fails to obey. In the streets of Paris, the reactions are mixed...

Morgan admired Aviva’s reporting; the subtle uncertainty in her voice and the hint of fear in her eyes made the viewer, in the comfort of their home, feel the urgency of the situation. In the past her performance would have worried him, but he had come to understand the theatrics involved in her reports. Prize-winning reporting, she would say, mixed factual reporting with an emotional connection to the viewer.

She’s your girl, isn’t she? asked General Tom, finishing his beer with a big swig. She’s a pretty girl, but not the brightest to be in such a dangerous situation.

You think things will get violent? Morgan asked, curious.

I wouldn’t want to mess with a terrorist group, would you? General Tom’s words shot a shiver down Morgan’s spine. He hadn’t thought of the Red Masks as a terrorist group, but rather as a bunch of teens who didn’t want the hassle of rioting in the streets for social justice. A bunch of teens who preferred spreading fake threats onto Paris to cause social unrest and having a good laugh. Had they really bombed the Hotel de Toulouse, or had they leveraged the incident as an easy way to be taken seriously?

Morgan was growing impatient. He considered calling Aviva to see when she was coming. But it was the middle of the night in Paris, and Aviva was probably already running on minimal sleep due to her late-night reporting. She had told him she would try to come and see him near the end of his shift. As the evening advanced, he increasingly—almost obsessively—watched the entrance for any sign of her. He felt ridiculous, two weeks without seeing her—even virtually—and he was like a puppy waiting for its owner, perking its ears up at the slightest sound.

At eleven, there was a rush of fans from the pro Virt-X-Soccer match that had come to celebrate their team’s victory. They were a rowdy bunch, already a bit tipsy—simulated intoxication was a popular thing—from whatever they had consumed at the game. He was worried they would drink till close, making it hard for him to spend any time with Aviva, if she did show up. Luckily, they decided to close their night at the CyberPunk Rocket Club. It was past midnight when they left. Only two lovebirds remained, sitting in the corner booth, on the same side, whispering tender words to each other. They had finished their pizza long ago and wanted to be left alone.

Morgan walked over to the jukebox and scanned through the titles. He settled on a song called Lonesome Nights. He’d never heard of it, but the title suited his mood. The sound of jazz filled the restaurant; he increased the volume and turned off the displays. He sat at the bar, gaze fixed on the entrance door.

Aviva arrived dressed for a gala not a pizzeria. She wore a tight, shimmering black dress that hugged her body. Her black hair fell straight down to her shoulders. She looked great, and he wondered if she had programed some embellishments, just a bit to impress him, not that she needed to. He loved her the way she was. He couldn’t ask her if she had, without looking like an ass. He decided to appreciate it and keep his mouth shut.

You’re gorgeous, he said and kissed her. I missed you.

They sat at the bar where Morgan had already prepared a scotch on the rocks for Aviva. She raised her glass.

My type of breakfast.

Doesn’t look like you just jumped out of bed either, he said, scanning her body from head to toe. You being careful? Things seem to be getting out of hand.

Don’t worry about that, she said. What’s happening in Paris is fascinating. This might be a prize-worthy story.

You think they’re bluffing, the Red Masks, about what they will do if the military doesn’t evacuate? Morgan asked, searching for some reassurance.

Bluffing or not, the French have a full squadron of drones on full alert. The Red Masks can’t move an inch, Aviva said.

The fear she had portrayed in her reporting was absent from her now. She portrayed an unflinching confidence. Or, he considered another possibly—perhaps she was playing him like she played her viewers. Perhaps she was scared and hiding it, for his own sake. She would be capable of that.

What good is a squadron of drones if they don’t know who the Red Masks are? said Morgan. Invisible, they can move all they want.

It’s only a matter of time before they’re uncovered, if they haven’t been already.

Aviva explained the extent of the intelligence agencies’ research and the international support offered. The best minds were tracing the source of the communication leaks. I will know a lot more later today. I’m meeting the military intelligence officer responsible for uncovering this group, she said with apparent excitement. This officer is crazy high profile for me and my career. This will be an exclusive story, Morgan. This is huge!

Morgan was proud of her climb to success—a success he had never doubted—but her ambition scared him. She was so focused on the story she wanted to tell that she was blind to the story that might unfold.

Can you go somewhere safe?

How about the kitchen? Aviva grabbed Morgan’s collar and pulled him toward her.

You know I can’t. He looked over at the corner booth where the lovebirds were in each other’s arms, making out and oblivious to their surroundings. After my shift, Morgan said, unconvinced.

I have to prepare for my meeting. We’re doing this now. She moved up against him, her breasts pushed against his chest. If something was to happen—

Don’t say that. He placed a finger on her lips.

Forget this job. With your brains, you should be a math professor in a world-renowned university. She slid her hand under his shirt, brushing her hand just below his navel. Her face was so close to his he could feel her words on his lips. In your big office you can teach me arithmetic, projective geometry, or something about infinite joy. Her fingers skimmed the inside of his pants.

These dirty words worked wonders on Morgan. The thought of her naked on his heavy oak desk, surrounded by bookcases of mathematics texts, the divine language of science. She was the only person he would have allowed to desecrate the equations he had written on the loose pages covering his desk.

I shouldn’t, Morgan said, cheeks burning. He picked her up, hands on her ass and brought her into the kitchen to make love to her on the stainless-steel food-grade table.

––––––––

Returning from the kitchen, Morgan adjusted his pants before checking on the couple. They hadn’t seemed to notice their absence and wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Aviva sat at a booth farthest from them and Morgan joined her there.

You still didn’t answer my question, Morgan said.

What exactly?

Do you have a safe place to go?

The kitchen, she said with a smile.

Morgan laughed and considered bringing her back there again. He looked at her with eyes that asked, are you serious? She shook her head, indicating she wasn’t serious—but the idea was tempting. He decided not to insist. He didn’t want more of the simulated sex. It wasn’t bad by any means but knowing it wasn’t real left disappointing feeling. What he wanted most was for Aviva to come back home. To be with her for real.

Take a minimum of precaution, Aviva, he said, weighing his every word. I don’t want to lose you. If ever things get violent, you need to go somewhere safe.

The Red Masks released a list of safe zones that citizens can go to for safety.

This surprised Morgan as he had followed the situation quite closely and didn’t recall seeing anything about these safe zones. The news outlets didn’t mention them.

The government ordered the media to not spread this information. By keeping the citizens on the streets, they think the Red Masks won’t risk a major attack.

If the government is wrong?

The information is out there, in forums and other platforms; people who want to know can find where to go. Aviva took Morgan’s hands and squeezed them. All these moves are decided by military strategy and supported with sophisticated Qintellect simulations; they are doing what is best to keep things under control.

Morgan knew the quantum computer AI, known as the Qintellect, was extremely powerful at foreseeing turn of events. What worried him was that the government would not necessarily pay attention if the Qintellect’s assessment was not to their liking. History has shown that many failed politics and unnecessary wars were caused by politicians’ inability to concede to the Qintellect’s strategies. There was no reason the French government would not repeat a similar mistake.

Are you going to one of these safe zones?

Aviva leaned back in the booth, making it clear to Morgan that she was annoyed by his questions.

The safe zone is a good story, cover that! insisted Morgan.

No, that’s a shit story, she said. Nobody cares about people running to safety. People want stories from the front line, in the heart of the battle. They want stories about the brave, not the cowards. She had raised her voice and stopped to sigh deeply. I’m sorry, Morgan, I know this must be hard for you. This story needs to be told, and I want to tell it. I want to be with you more than ever. I’m already here in Paris. Let me finish this one. I will be with the military. They have special protocols to keep reporters safe.

I just want you to come back home safely. I want the real Aviva with me. He squeezed her hands tightly, not wanting to let them go. Just be careful, Aviva. The threat might be real.

I know, Morgan, I’ll be careful.

​​3 — The Corporeal

EARTH year 2171 – Detroit

The crowd remained attentive to Sky’s every word as Vi passed behind them, and they didn’t notice the slight hesitation in Sky’s speech when she saw her mother and thought to herself, What the hell happened to her hair?

The Corporeal’s outreach event was held in an abandoned pub that had been cleaned out by volunteers the night before. Detroit’s center had thousands of abandoned buildings that had survived the years. This one was chosen because it was nearest the Nutrition Outlet, where most would have seen the invitation posters.

The day was perfect for a good turnout, a clear brownish sky with no clouds. The air had a faintly acrid smell, but there was no need to wear a mask—few bothered to wear them anymore, even when the air was bad. It was mostly the older generation that had kept the habit.

The majority of the people came to the event on foot. They lived in the city center where electricity could be tapped into, sometimes, if you knew what you were doing. The people from farther out in the suburban forest, or the Dead Zones, arrived riding three-wheeled cargo bikes or pushing carts, wheelbarrows, or other transportation contraptions innovatively built from scraps. They came in groups of two or more. At least one person stayed outside to guard their transport, armed with a wooden plank or a metal bar. The Corporeal had once tried to offer a security service to allow everyone present to attend the event. But people had a deep distrust toward any sort of administrated structure—everyone had to fend for themselves. The Corporeal was trying to change that mentality.

The extra people also came in handy to make it back home. Their return trip would be fully loaded; whatever room they would have left after receiving the promised fresh produce given out at the outreach event would be filled with the food pellets from the Nutrition Outlet. Navigating beyond the city was challenging over the uncertain terrain. The situation was similar wherever cities had survived, with only the biggest city centers having preserved something of the old-world infrastructure. It was only there, in the center, with the multiple layers of concrete, that the wild growth had been sufficiently held back to make transportation easy. Efforts were continuously deployed to contain the city center parks that pushed against their boundaries to menace the little that remained. On the edge of the city, the young forest had reclaimed its territory.

The immediate suburban area was the most difficult to navigate. The forest had pushed its way through the complex street network, and no matter how much a path was trampled on, it remained uneven from the sharp edges of pavement that had warped up, yielding to new growth. The forest was a maze littered with concrete obstacles: foundations and walls from hollowed-out buildings that had once been homes or places of business or places where people went to purchase goods.

Many in the Corporeal argued that establishing easy entry into major cities should be the main priority. But this wasn’t unanimous. Others suggested that it was much more important to expand agricultural communities to secure a diversity of food if ever the Nutrition Outlets failed. While another faction argued that without a reliable communication network, any social structure was pointless. Vi tried to avoid getting involved in these debates, but couldn’t help but point out that while these goals were all worthy, it was only by increasing participation in the Corporeal that they would have the human resources necessary to get any of these things done.

It’s a slow and consistent effort, Vi had reassured Sky, who had grown discouraged by the lack of progress. You might not live to see the world you dream of, but every person we recruit is one step closer to building a world community.

Sky had become the spokesperson for the Corporeal, traveling the country to recruit new members. She had a natural acumen for giving speeches and a unique sincerity that had a lasting effect on those who attended. People felt empowered by her words.

Everyone in this room comes from remarkable ancestors, she started saying above the chatter that filled the room. "You can all be so proud. You represent the most resilient and the strongest of humanity. You must never forget the hardship and resilience our ancestors overcame for us to be here today. With relentless courage, your ancestors persevered and adapted, to survive when many perished, to innovate when many despaired. Your ancestors never gave up, because they believed in the future, and that future is you.

Our ancestors could have taken the easy way out, followed the others into Replika, to leave the hardship behind and start anew. But they chose to stay. Why would they stay?

She scanned the room to appreciate the complete silence and their attentive eyes, which curiously waited for her answer.

"The same reason you and I are here. Because they believed in this world. They wanted to live a life of flesh and bones, not one of make-believe simulations.

"The terrible years of our ancestors have passed. We may thank them for these better days before us. Weather patterns have stabilized, the floods are receding, the air is breathable, and the rain is no longer damaging the food crops we are successfully growing. It is time for us to rebuild and to reinhabit this planet. I am asking you today to join us, to join the Corporeal to help organize the rebuilding of this world.

For us to succeed, we must stop our biggest threat—Replika. Sky paused and looked at everyone in the room. Our society has been destroyed by Replika. It has taken from us mothers and fathers, workers, engineers, doctors, and scientists. Choosing to go into Replika is an insult to your ancestors. It is an insult to the hardship they endured to make it possible for you to be alive here and now. The reaction was the same wherever she went, people looked away, ashamed.

Don’t be hard on yourselves. Everyone considers going into Replika at some point in their lives. I myself have considered it more than once. On those days when we hurt so bad. When everything seems wrong. On these dark days, the promise of leaving it all behind seems like the only option, doesn’t it? Sky’s voice shifted from friendly to stern. But don’t be fooled. Replika is not a utopia. People will hurt you just the same in Replika. The sky might be blue. The water is clear. But humans will suffer just the—

Why they do that? interrupted a high-pitched voice from a large lady in the back of the room. Why they not fix our heads, for us not be so dumb and mean? Why they not make people kinder and gentler in Replika?

The crowd approved with agitation.

People’ll be people. They don’t want to make us into no robots, answered another man.

I’d be happy to not be a bad person and get rid of the cruel shit of this world. That’d be better, no?! said a lean teenage boy who was a head taller than the crowd.

These are difficult debates, Sky interjected, raising her voice to try to regain control of the room. The Founding Forty discussed all possible solutions when creating Replika, and it was decided that human nature couldn’t be changed—

Rotten food pellets of lies. Founding Forty lies. Replika is a trap, always has been. Meant to enslave us all. Quantin domination, that’s what it is.

Quantum, not Quantin. It’s Quantum, the lean, tall teen boy corrected. Quantum Computer intelligence makes Replika possible.

Quant whatever. Laughs rose from the crowd. They transform us into data. That’s all they want. They’re data-hungry monsters.

The conspiracies against Replika filled the social psyche that had remained behind. Remarkable stories of what waited in Replika had spread across the globe, embellished from generation to generation, to myth-like qualities. The Qintellect had somehow become a sly demon that couldn’t be trusted. Sky had realized long ago that the uniting quality of those who were gathered in this room was not so much perseverance—as she had praised in her speech—but paranoia. Sky herself had fallen into the trap