I follow a bouncing light into the darkness that surrounds me. I find myself at the starting line of an indoor confidence course. The system runs me through a basic training sequence.
It's thankfully abbreviated. But the obstacles, tasks, and shooting range introduces me to moving, shooting, and communicating. As we do it here and now. In Musksoft-Blizzard's dreamland.
It is as if I am twenty years younger. The vitality of youth returned to me. Enchanted, I dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dump rounds on paper targets. The Glock fills my hands. I feel the texture of it. The heft of it. I smell the burned cordite wafting. Real as real.
Finally, I practice with a pugil stick against a featureless man-shape of hardlight. The hologram goes down. Somewhere, the ghost of Drill Instructor Gerheim smiles. Out fucking standing.
"Blood, blood, bright red blood!" I yell in triumph.
I hear a chime. The orientation course dissolves around me. I am left in darkness. My limbs feel heavy. I am suddenly freezing cold. My teeth chatter. I try to move. My limbs fail to respond.
"Primary vivification completed," proclaims a robotic voice. "Core temperature now in safe zone and rising. Flushing preservative fluid."
I can't breathe. My heart is on fire. I start to panic.
"Restarting cardiopulmonary functions," says the voice. "Charging."
What does that even mean? My body convulses with shock. Briefly, I see dirty, foggy glass. And through that dark mirror, row after row of coffin shapes. I slip back into the dark.
"Restarting cardiopulmonary functions," says the voice, "charge level two. Charging."
Wait. What is happening? Again, I convulse. I hear screaming. Is that me? How many coffins are there? Darkness.
"Charge level three," says the voice. "Charging."
I don't want this. I clench my fists and gasp for breath. My heart thunders in my ears.
"Cardiopulmonary functions restored," says the voice.
"Fuck you," I say. Then I gag and cough. I feel a sickness rise and start pounding on the glass. Not in here.
"Subject 375-42-0074, A. Rogers, now active. Proceed to crew locker 2-0074."
The lid on my coffin pops. Leftovers from the fridge. Bare feet on cold metal gantry. My stomach is achingly empty. I have vomited bile and spit and leftover preservative fluid over the side of the coffin to achieve that emptiness. I am naked and alone. The cryobay of the UNSV Fleigel is silent but for the padding of my feet. I am grateful for the provided shower. Warmed up and de-stanked of cryo-juice and bile, I find my locker.
My head is a mess. I know I am in neuraldive. I am playing a game. I have a moment of vertigo as I struggle to separate the real and unreal. I also know I am a mission specialist first class serving aboard the UNSV Fliegel. Our mission is to investigate an unknown object orbiting within the great red spot of Jupiter. Within the eye of the storm.
I open my locker and grab my gear. I dress in a skin suit, mission utility coveralls, and boots. I hang a vac-bucket, and rebreather tank, from my web belt and percomp from my wrist. I follow the bouncing light. And listen to Fliegel.
"The object, designation Object Dasein, was determined to be eleven miles long, roughly cylindrical, and hollow. The A-crew found an airlock and decided to dock. Elapsed time since last A-crew communications, thirty days, ten hours, fifty-seven minutes."
"What happened then?" I ask the machine.
"I started wake-up protocol on B-crew," it answers.
"Well, fuck," says I.
We reach the airlock. I open the mission locker and strap up. I've got a spacecrew survival knife, a photon gun, and a winner's attitude. Let's fucking go.
On the other side of the lock, I find myself in dark, dank metallic caverns. Umbilicals of tubes and wires dripping condensation and wafting steam and vapor connect to the mass of the lock itself. Metallic creaks and groans echo in the dim space. And something else. A slight skittering on the edge of sound.
I unfold the wire stock of the spacecrew survival lasgun and yank out the flimsy plastic tab. Batcap leads make contact. The plastic block of weaponized synthetic phased array of photon emitters emits an ominous hum. That would be more reassuring if I didn't also know that it was notoriously feeble. And just as likely to burn me with waste heat as it was to burn my enemy.
A shadow skitters towards me. Legs. Many many legs. Antennae quiver in my direction. It moves into a shaft of light. I see a rusty brown carapace that blends into the surrounding corrosion. Like camouflage.
I blink-click and my spacecrew implant paints a HUD over my vision. "Rad Roach, Lesser," reads the label. Well, that's disgusting. And does lesser imply the existence of greater?
I aim. I bug zap. The lasgun's invisible IR beam makes a snapping sound in the air. And gets noticeably warm. The bug skitters towards me with a purpose. I curse.
Three more snaps bring the critter down. The survival lasgun emits a hiss of coolant gas. I let go of the hot as fuck for-end and wave my singed fingies in the cool air. Fuck. Noted. Three shots, rapid is the max before hand-toast. I need to get out of here. I make double time.
I deal with three more lesser roaches on the way. I save my battery and use my knife and my boots. For all the disgust they invoke, they're not particularly bothersome. Individually. I notice many side passages from which I hear a multitude of evil sounds. Skitter-skitter. But big.
I pass them by. Speed, surprise, and violence of action are the words of the day. I would not like to contend with more than one at once. No sir. Not alone. The first rule of firefight club is bring a gun. Second rule is to bring a buddy. My buddy awaits. I hope.
The metallic construction of the tunnel gives way to rock and stone. I smell the sea. I see light ahead and above. I climb a ladder. I walk into the light.
This is Part III.
"Drill Instructor Gerheim." IYKYK.
Loving the Easter Eggs, man.