Project Erlosung II

Into the Looking Glass

"Hell-yeah brother!" says Brian on our weekly Facetime. "Erlosung Online is as close to being in it as you can get. Without being in it. Bro, you gotta try this. You ain't never got link-chipped, so you don't know. Neuralgear ain't no vidya game. It's a mother-fucking interactive dream."

We're an odd couple. A Bostonian swamp Mick junior Marine NCO and a steers-and-queers shit-kicking Army officer. Both of us demobbed and defrocked. Salty civilians. Salty AF fam. He's so excited that we don't even trade the usual inter-service jabs or that-hooker-doesn't-love-you stories.

"How close?" I tilt my head. "Last firefight we was in, I ended up carrying you and eating an FPV." I don't mention the legs. But then I don't have to. He was there.

"Cap, I'm serious," he says. "Trust me, I was a beta-tester on this one. Here, watch this."

He plays a 'tube for me. There is a firefight in the dark. Muzzles flash. Bullets whine. Joes bound and fire in pairs. The footage has that white, grainy, tunnel vision look from night vision. A giant man-shaped shadow sweeps another man off his feet with a tree truck. The man goes flying. In pieces.

The giant's eyes gleam and flicker under the night vision. Muzzles flash impotently. The giant steps forward and chambers the tree trunk for another sweep. There's a whoosh, a lightning flash, and a thunderclap, and the giant drops. Another man drops an empty RPG launcher. The viewpoint shifts and the man whose footage we are watching shoots at something. Muzzles flash back and our man is falling to the ground. The tube ends.

"What was that?" I ask.

"That was the beta," says Brian.

"That don't look like any game I've ever seen," I say.

"Exactly," says Brian. "Look, launch day is tomorrow. You log in, I'll meet you there and show you the ropes."

"That don't look half bad, does it?" I allow.

"You can't tell me you don't yearn to drop back into the shit, Cap," says Brian with a boyish smile. "Well, here's your chance. I'm drafting your ass, pops. And did you see the news?" He asks.

"What?" I tilt my head.

"That bio-rezzie outfit of mercenary tankers you've been hot to join, Crowe's Cavaliers, they got pummeled by the Ruskies in Ukraine." The rhetorical dagger slides in between my ribs.

"Yeah?" I say.

"Yeah." He agrees. "Colonel Crowe has invoked the combat power loss clause in his contract. The Cavaliers are returning to cantonment in Poland and reforming. Complete hiring freeze so they can buy replacement tanks." He twists the dagger.

"Merciless jarhead," I smile. "Aight. I know when I'm beat. It was a long shot anyway. I'll be there." We end the call. I sigh. My idle daydream of getting Colonel Crowe to fit a washed-up old-head para like me with prosthetic legs was just that. Nothing more.

I sigh again. I guess anything beats the disapproving hostile glare from the sassy nurse who looks like she ate three men of my size and is hungry for more. Orderlies have been delivering and setting up equipment all during our call. One hands me a dull gray plastic headset.

I set the headset aside and crack the manual. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right. Doc Miranda says that participating in this trial of therapeutic neuralgear will earn me more social credit. And I need that. What's the worst that could happen?

I read up past lights out. I finally crash out in the wee hours. My dreams are unperturbed. Strange. But welcome.

The next morning, the headset is cool, almost cold against my forehead. I spent an hour just playing with the fit. Snug but not too tight. Like a proper brain bucket. Old habits die hard. My eyebrows did a little dance when I read the warnings.

Turns out I'm strapping an array of miniature microwave emitters and magnetic resonance sensors on my head. The manual reassures me that multiple redundant safeties prevent "unsafe energy levels." But I've heard that one before.

I can't put it off any longer. I've thrice checked all the leads and connections. Check, check, and check. I've installed and started up the game client, accepted the EULA, created an account, and logged in. I sigh. I lie down and flip the headset's power switch on.

I hear musical chimes and see a rainbow kaleidoscope of colors. I run through the calibration sequences. It's very much like the sensory perception battery at MEPS. Follow the dot. Squeeze your fist when you hear the tone. Pat your limbs. Touch your toes. A red light measures my skull and face.

At some point, I am shocked to realize that I am no longer looking at a screen in front of my eyes. Like in every VR headset ever. I've slipped into a full-dive neuralink without even being cognizant of the change. I no longer see an image on a screen, but shapes floating in space in front of me.

"Welcome to Project Erlösung Online, Philip," says a voice. I startle. But I did register my name when I set up the client. The voice is feminine, smoky, and alluring. "Please create your avatar," she says. I'm sitting at a terminal. A human-shaped blank-featured hologram spins slowly in the air beside me.

I play around with the options. First thing, I create a chica with max booba and butt sliders. As you do. I wipe that out and start creating a dewd. I'm fiddling with the sliders and settings, creating various mutant freaks, when I notice an option off to the side. Import calibration data. Huh.

And now I'm looking at my clone. Works. I accept that.

"All participants in Project Erlösung are required to complete a personal character battery," says the same voice.

I answer a series of multiple-choice questions. A personality test. Except for the bits that make no sense.

"Your reaction to the disclosure of previously classified human-alien contact would be best described as. A. Fear. B. Fascination. C. Wonder. D. Anger."

I dunno. Anger, I guess. Must be how we create characters instead of playing with numbers. It's fine. Even if it drags a bit.

"Character traits recorded, please input a Globally Unique Project Identifier. Your GUPID identifies you to the Project System. Please remember it."

I smile. "A. Buck R0g3rs," I type out and press enter.

"GUPID accepted, welcome to the Project, Buck."

This is Part II.

Go to Part I here.