THE SURFACE—NORTHAM
OFF LIMITS DENSIFICATION ZONE: MANHATTAN
The only upside to her current situation, as far as Rubi could see, was that she and Gimlet were in no danger of harming each other directly.
She’d be relying on terrain updates and camerabots to keep her from falling into sinkholes, counting on Rabble managers to divert her around or over fences and other obstructions, all while preserving the illusion that she was fighting an imaginary eighteenth-century revolution. Entirely dependent on Sensorium to keep her safe, to provide life support.
She took one good look at the real world, the ghost city in her path. Silver-white safety wrap gave the towers the slick look of massive ice formations, pixelated stalagmites hundreds of feet high, dotted with anticollision markings for the birds. At ground level, things had been churned by neglect and entropy: sidewalks, impeded by overgrown trees and shrubs, had broken the tidy confinement of property lines. Drones did regular fly-through work to maintain the grid of the streets, cutting back growth, clearing debris, and ensuring that the subway entrances were safely boarded up.
Still, sinkholes broke the pavement here and there, and she could see a massive stone lion tumbled in an intersection, two blocks ahead.
Tightening the laces on her shoes, Rubi checked her primer. She’d lost nanites in the helicopter crash, and there was nowhere, here, to get an extra meter of fabric. She opted to grow tights back down to her ankles, losing coverage up top, and wrapped a travel-wrinkled sunscreen over her head, face, and neck.
Then she tooned in to pregame, only to find player numbers were disturbingly low.
Her toon refreshed for the next episode, sketching a virtual bandage over a virtual wound in her shoulder, and draping a scavenged French officer’s coat over her ragamuffin dress.
She pinged Manitoule. “Where’s everyone?”
He appeared beside her, still wearing the Monique Goyette skin. “Allure is soapboxing against playing the scenario. She’s criticizing Oversight’s drive to incentivize people to vote.” He shared a soundbite:
“Offering people a chance to be cannon fodder while Rubi Whiting grandstands—”
She groaned.
“Allure also says that you being the good guy predisposes people to vote your way.”
“I’m not telling anyone how to vote.”
“Your position’s obvious.”
She sighed. “So … I speak to her?”
“Obvious move.” Manitoule shrugged. “Probably a trap?”
She ported there anyway, manifesting to find Allure holding court at a lakeside campfire, surrounded by reporters.
“Rubi Whiting,” Allure said. “Who let you into our embassy?”
“The same person who kept individuals unknown from killing me in a chopper crash?” She didn’t look at Luce, who was tending the fire, looking dunked and miserable.
“It wasn’t me who tried to kill you.”
“No?” Rubi set her hands on her hips, trying to look spunky. “You’re telling people not to play Bastille.”
The toon drew herself up to full height. Rubi barely came to her shoulder.
Luce had ditched his fish skin, once again presenting as the well-worn man whose account he had stolen. Allure, by contrast, had a sleek, customized identity. She was a good-looking everywoman: somewhat desirable, a bit motherly, a warrior queen. Her voice and expression projected strength, confidence, and concern: “Why should anyone play a game you’re destined to win? To watch you wallop Gimlet Barnes while Rome burns?”
“Me beating Gimlet is no foregone conclusion,” Rubi said. “You should have more faith in them.”
Debutante, her PR consultant, raised an urgent sub, texting across her field of vision: “Followship for the feed of this argument is rising. There is little you can say that won’t look petty. Recommend making a gracious may the best human win speech. Cut it short.”
Rubi noped the rec.
“If gameplay is dramatic enough,” Debutante insisted, “people will join in.”
Dramatic enough. The words floated between Allure and her.
“People can see your true motivation, Mer Whiting,” Allure went on.
“Which is?”
“You’re wedded to the myth of the Bounceback. You fear that if your people are relieved of the endless, heartbreaking, unwinnable struggle to rebuild your biosphere, the spotlight will move off of you. Your shot at the @WorldSaver leaderboard, your legacy as an angel of the resurrection—”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“At the first threat to your ratings, here you are.”
“I’m attention-seeking at all costs, is that it?”
Allure laid both hands on her shoulders, body language saying, all too clearly, that it was truth time. “You’re a cheat, Mer Whiting, playing a rigged game.”
“Rigged?”
“You’re not in this for the joy of sport, are you?”
Well, that had some truth. But …
“I could be, though, couldn’t I?”
A tiny frown knit itself into Allure’s features. “Could be what?”
Maximize drama. “Playing for joy.”
“I don’t—”
“In fact, that’s … that’s pretty easy. Coach,” Rubi said. “Give everything in my pack to Manitoule.”
“Everything in—”
“All the high-level armor. The horse, the quest swords, and the three saves versus death. Distribute them in a random draw, to a pool of qualified Rabble players who voted today. Offer … one piece of loot every thirty minutes?”
“Disposing of your tactical advantages—” Coach objected.
“Uptick in login numbers,” Debutante interrupted.
Rubi sighed inwardly. Gordon was a great horse. “Blank my account and generate a n00b.”
Allure looked uncertain. “This is no true contest. People will help you level.”
Rubi rolled her shoulders. This was going to be fun. “You don’t want me to have friends either?”
“I don’t want you to have sycophants.”
“Strike. Insulting to gamers. But Rabble can throw me a basic user account. No customs, random name, generic toon.”
“Character template options,” Coach interrupted, taking this as a cue: “Mulan, Snow White, Lancelot, Beyoncé, Goldilocks, Bahadur, Cinderella, Tam-lin, Babayaga, Raven—”
“Randomize, Coach.” Rubi turned to face the growing mob of tooned-in reporters. “I’ll play as one of a community of equals.”
Allure rallied. “Rubi Whiting may have given up a few numerical advantages, but by asking me to stop opposing—”
“I’m not asking you to self-censor,” Rubi said. “I gave my word that I’d play Bastille to the finish. So, take bets on this: in three and a half hours, I’ll be on the banks of the Seine, with everyone else on the Team Rabble leaderboard. If Gimlet Barnes can hold the prison for that long—and we all know they can—I’ll bring the Bastille down.”
“There’s still your baton.” Allure’s expression was stony now. “That’s a tactical asset.”
“You want to grab-and-go a library-grade gaming stick out to what’s left of Manhattan? Be my guest. But send me more primer, and some provably undrugged chuggers while you’re at it.”
Luce barked laughter.
“This is what the apes did fifty years ago,” he told Allure. “Cashed in their assets, threw their possessions on the table, dumped everything into the rebuild.”
Rubi felt a wave of affection. Allure might not understand human tenacity, but it looked as though Luce did, finally.
Uncertainty crossed the beautiful features.
“I don’t need three saves versus death to catch up with Gimlet,” Rubi said. “Just like humanity doesn’t need the Pale.”
Last word, good burn, walk away! Debutante flashed red text through her entire visual field.
Rubi ghosted on her, returning to Manhattan, where a spectral image of Coach was holding out a reset, a ruby-red apple.
She grabbed it, biting in, and a second later found herself porting all the way back to the Bastille prologue. Rabble had assigned her the Goldilocks toon, blonde of hair and pale of flesh, with dirt-smudged cheeks and a tattered skirt.
Still on #brand, then.
Tooning in behind Sugar Valkyrie’s house, she jostled amid a burgeoning crowd of starving, half-frozen beggars outside the fancy party.
Prologue.
Right. Get it done. She ran a quick inventory. “What’s this piece of fish in my pack, Coach?”
“Food for you. Or, alternately, a quest opp.”
“Select quest.”
“The Duchess has a cat that’s trapped up an elm in that stand of trees. Win conditions involve getting the cat to the ground. Rewards include a pair of old boots and a cudgel.”
Treeing a cat. How the mighty have fallen.
“Barnes might lose before you get there,” Coach said.
“They’re a quality villain. Have a little faith.”
“Buy-in numbers are climbing,” Coach reported.
Feeling unfettered, Rubi set off at a run.