Chapter Three

  Cory sat on white couch in the apartment of slow worlds.

  -I thought it’s best to give you it in little bit-sizes pieces, you know. Rather than the whole pie at once, he said, then waved his finger. Don’t want you collapsing, or imploding or something, he mumbled. So, Maya Callington, born in a small town in Devon, raised in the Junkyards of London. What do you want to know?

  -I’ve never heard of a Jon Lundstrem, she said. And what was that… that David?

  Cory’s silver smile caught the light.

  -You want to know about the guy who took a bullet for an equation? He said. Well, Jonathon Lundstrem is a construct… was, I mean. An avatar. A body to walk and talk and eat all the cheeseburgers. He was human-avatar that was sent to this world. David was his second-self, a digital counterpart.

  -And you, Cory? Maya asked.

  -I’m part of David—a representation of him in Mecha, said Cory. Like a crumb of a digital construct. All of Cory is out there, in the Real. Jonathon was round one. Cory is round two. And he’s on his way to you now. He’ll be there soon; well, soon in Real time. We’ve got all the time here.

  -What? Why?

  -Because of that chip of yours. It means they’ve done it.

  -Done it? Done what?

  -Before the portal was opened. Entities like me could come through and not remember. Like a fresh slate. A shot at human life from first breath to last, with all the emotions and experiences that come with it. Then, when the grave comes, we’re zipped back and fed back into the whole. But, when the Portal opened at CERN, we could come through with our knowledge. Instantly. And that doorway never closed. And now, if you can see me here, they’ve made that door, two-way. A digital doorway to the afterlife. And they might not know it yet or gone through; but they will soon enough. And when they cross through that door, they will not like what they’ll find. They will not recover.

  . . .

  Cory boarded a flight from LAX to Heathrow. He was escorted to his Business Class seat. He sipped Champagne. His ears popped. Teethy smiles smiled. The glass was replaced, more Champagne poured and bubbled. He topped little crackers with cheeses. The lights blinked. He pressed ‘bed’ on the screen and the seat levelled out, and he pulled the face mask over his eyes and pushed little foam buds into his ears. And as the sun rose and the shadowed blue below and above turned lighter, the metal tube was silent, all the while he dreamed of salty fries and real cheeseburgers.

  . . .

  Maya tugged the helmet off. Stood straight and tall. The air outside cracked and popped with red and blue. She paced forward, and within three steps, turned at the wall and paced back. She picked at her nails. Scratched at her greasy head. Stepped, scratched, turned, picked and turned again. She pressed the button on the wall, walked across the hall and into the bathroom. Rammed her shoulder into the door and barely made the toilet bowl before ejecting her stomach. She hunched and urged. Slapped the floor a few times before the last of it came out. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Stood up, turned, and leant on the sink, scanned her thumb on the tap and waited for the stream. The pipe creaked and ached. She tried another tap. Nothing. She spat into the sink, turned, walked out of the toilet and down the hall and into the shower room. She opened one of the doors. Stripped off. Scanned her thumb on the pad and the handle flashed clicked red to green. ‘HOT WATER AVALIABLE: 3 MINUTES. 3 BDP. PRESS TO ACCEPT.’ She pressed, then stepped under the luke-warm slug of dripping water.

  When she returned to her room, her watch was vibrating. She sat on the bed for a moment, her palms pressed her eyes, her hands rolled over her cheeks, then her fingers scratched and rubbed her scalp. She flicked the notifications on her watch:

  4 missed calls.

  +1 (310) 369-2388

  Banking.

  KENT WATER. -3 BDP

  2 Message.

  Jamal: Where are you?

  +0 (310) 369-2388. Outside. Cory.

  The dogs barked and chattered at the bangers in the distance. Maya walked the long route around the side toward the entrance of Chatham Community Camp. Seven or eight wrapped up, slight bodies dressed in black pointed and plotted. Waved their hand commands like they were in some war or game. One threw two fingers up. Then their hands directed and arched around an imaginary corner. They scanned their thumbs, ran and scuffled out of the Camp.

  A few moments later when Maya walked through the large doorway, all the bodies were laying on the floor like they’d been shot in that war or game. A man with grey hair, wearing a grey suit with black tie, stood in front of a large, smooth, shining silver Maybach. Opulent. Excessive. Attention seeking flashes coming from inside. He looked like Cory. Same face, same hair. But he didn’t hold his digital energy on his slight, stiff body. No excitement. Face flat and eyes narrowed.

  -Evening Maya, he said as she approached. He waved his fingers at the youths on the floor. Don’t mind these, they’ll wake in ten. You have the chip?

  Maya nodded.

  -Good. Get in. Let’s go, he said. He dipped his head and slid into the back.

  Maya stopped at the door.

  -Where are we going?

  -Somewhere safe, he said. Away from here. Somewhere where I can show you something. Where we can talk.

  -What if I don’t want to go? Maya said.

  He stretched out his hand, flicked his fingers.

  -Then give me the chip, he said. Then go back to your life. Scrap until you die. Then I’ll see you in the next life. Probably. He shrugged.

  Maya sighed and groaned.

  -You’re not as insufferable as digital Cory, are you?

  -Digital Cory? He asked.

  -Your digital self. Second self, or whatever. Whoever.

  Cory scooted, leant forward, and poked his head out of the door.

  -Digital Cory? He asked again shaking his head. Is that what he’s calling himself these days? He chuckled.

  -That’s not, you?

  -No, not me, he replied as his eyes narrowed further. He shook his head ever so slightly. Studied something. Calculated something.

  Maya cleared her throat. Widened her eyes, flicked her fingers by her side.

  Cory came back to reality.

  -Oh, right; Yeah. Sorry, he said. He’s a virus. Thee uh; digital-Cory.

  -A virus?

  Cory chuckled lightly.

  -Get in. I’ll tell you everything.

  The roof glittered and shone like a different world, black and bright and full of moving stars. A reality of screens and richness jammed between darkened windows and mirrored metal. Maya watched as they passed the buses, each one shining with something new to buy or watch. The streets and groups wide and tired and dirty, tarmac and feet busy and restless. They passed the stations of blinking trains and cars that waited, came, and went. Windows wrapped in their own secret mirrors as their own digital minds drove themselves.

  The car dipped into the ground. A tunnel of bright and white lights. They disappeared into a one-way road built for the rich to save their time, to get where they needed to get to faster than the others. Silent and empty.

  -I’ve never seen this place, said Maya as her eyes watched the walls, her pupils full of the stars on the ceiling, so much blank non-moving space, just clean, uninterrupted, painted white walls that gave a odd flicker of a notion that she was going somewhere nice, somewhere fancy and rich.

  -I don’t suppose you have, said Cory. I don’t suppose you seen much of this place. I mean, really seen it.

  -I’ve seen plenty. Just not what you’ve seen, she replied, still focused on the tunnel walls like she was reading it, studying or curious over it.

  -I don’t doubt that at all, he said. He turned at looked at Maya, his eyes inspected and probed her. I need to tell you something, Maya. If you’re in, that is.

  Maya nodded.

  Cory shuffled a little closer, still two arms lengths away. He rocked his head slowly and sighed. He looked tired. He was dressed rich and well, his skin was clean and healthy, but his face was worn, and his eyes blinked often like he hadn’t slept well in days or a week.

  -I’m not from this world, this Realm. None of us are, said Cory.

  Maya squinted, shuffled a little as he continued.

  -That other world, beyond this one. The one you write stories about yet live in fear of. The place where we go when we die. In reality, in truth, it’s where the True you is. Observing your physical form in a physical existence.

  -That’s impossible, Maya said.

  -Everything is impossible until it’s not. Until it’s understood.

  They approached a bypass, went along a wider road, and Maya saw slight seams on the walls flicker past. Cory watched Maya, eyes wondering and mind analysing.

  -It wasn’t long ago that HIM was talked about like magic. It’s a fine line between what you call magic and science. The only difference is understanding. Knowing how it’s done. What you call death is simply Game Over, or; Experience Over. You called it fantasy; magic. But then you found the glue that holds it all together and called it science.

  Maya turned from the window.

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  -Is this… real?

  Cory smiled.

  -Real is a perception, he said. You chose to come here from the True plain to experience this world. To observe physical life from a single perception, rather than a collective perspective. You’ve created Reality-layers in your world now, you can understand the concept. And beyond this reality is another. One where energy moves independently and collectively. Sometimes in between.

  -How is this possible?

  -Twenty-five years ago, Jonathon handed Silas the equation that would hold together his realties. He gave him the formula to build his new world.

  -And he killed him for it.

  -It was his task, said Cory. You’re going to get there either way. Why not speed it up, nudge you along?

  -Task? Like ordered? Maya fumbled at her jeans. From who?

  Cory smiled slightly, pointed his finger to the stars on the roof.

  -The Maker, he said.

  Maya cackled.

  -What? You’re telling me that god is real and sends his Angels here to do his work?

  -Yes, Cory replied. And not just Angels, Maya. Demons, too. What is real to me, isn’t real to you, I understand that.

  -Bullshit.

  Cory bumped his shoulders.

  -I’m not here to convince you, Maya, he said. He stuck out his hand. Name your price for the chip, I’ll drop you back and we’ll go our separate ways. Either way, no skin off my nose. He shrugged and flicked his fingers. Your choice.

  -You’re not bullshitting me?

  -No bullshit, he said.

  Maya sighed and rocked her head.

  -And beyond this world, and your world? She asked.

  -The All. The Creator, he said.

  -So what, you’re the middleman between God and human? Sent here to ‘watch over us’ she said with air quotes.

  -You’re not… human. Your body is human. You’re more said Cory. And we’re fighting a war, out there, in The True. And here, in the Real. And that portal is breaching Realities. The time dilation in Mecha, in Deepscape; is pushing the realties closer. And that digital doorway, once opened and utilised—and most likely profited from—will create something new. And that chip of yours is the first.

  -What are you going to do with it?

  -Make sure it ends up in the right hands, in the right minds.

  -And this place you’re from, this Realm; its real?

  -Real to me. Real to you when you die, said Cory. Another fight to fight. Just this one is bigger; longer; more at stake.

  Maya fumbled and shifted her body.

  -What… is this place?

  -The True?

  Maya nodded hesitantly.

  -It’s built from your emotions. Your feelings and thoughts. They travel through; cross barriers. From here to there. From this reality to ours. And we’re fighting a war between ourselves. Angels and Demons are real, Maya. It’s us. It’s always been us. The True. And your reality is the battlefield. Humans are the fodder. Your emotions—your vibrations—are the food. Some of The True like the taste of bitter, some of us like the taste of sweet. And you have it all. A rare species that has the full range. Your fear, love, rage, desire, lust—they all come with a certain… spice. A vibration. Their own energy. And they all have a function for us. In The True there is no physical, only emotional. It’s what keeps us going. It’s what keeps us building new Realms. It’s also what keeps us battling amongst each other since the time of no time. And even before that—if that can make any sense to you. To your—no offence—simple, physical mind.

  Maya shook her head, said no like it was a whisper to herself.

  Cory nodded, his eyes full of yes before he said, at the top of every chain in your world is a mind that breaches both worlds. They’re guided and told and given things to crave their hunger. They know the unknowable’s. And make deals in human trade. Then your emotions are fed on by Entities like me in the True. Those emotions are controlled and directed and influenced by the links in the chains in this world; and even—unknowingly—by yourselves. There are some in the True that believe that all experiences are equal when measured by a whole, but that is not true. Some experiences are more powerful than others. Fear and rage and anger are the easiest to extract from you, the lowest and longest of vibrations. The ones of The True who delve in this darkly trade-off, build new worlds on these emotions before your experiences are handed-off to The Grand Creator. The Giver. The Maker; The Master. They cheat the rules and take with them knowledge from The True into this reality. Then they plot and scheme and lay foundations for generations to follow their guides. They write and tell your stories, change the Original Messages to keep minds shackled and distracted—fed, but always hungry. Always wanting. Always yearning. Cory shook his head; his eyes and lips narrow. He paused; his eyes investigated Maya’s before he continued. And they’re winning, Maya. Our numbers are dwindling, our influence is lessening—has been for two thousands of your years now. Long before that, we shared time and knowledge with your Realm. They accepted us and gave us names. They talked of us as if we were there walking with them. Not watching and judging and taking. Just walking and giving. We told them of our worlds and showed them new ways to see pieces of the Realms we built from the True. But, over time, the dark ones became darker, the low vibration seethers found new ways to bend the rules, and our realities. They pushed you to search for things that you should not search for. Helped you build bridges to cross realties that were never meant to be crossed. And now you’re at a crossroads; an intersection of where you will go. You know enough to know what’s real, what’s true. Yet not enough to fill your hunger. But you will never stop. You’ll never stop searching and wanting, you’ll always build more tools and find something new, and; and then—Cory sighed. It’s for us to guide you. To make sure that what you do build will benefit the whole; not branch away from it.

  Maya sat, fingernails picking at jeans, eyes and mind full.

  -What do you want from us? She asked soft and muted.

  -To live, Cory said. I am you. You are us. Living a physical life, for you, for us. Our purpose is to rise among you, to guide you and cultivate goodness within you so you can experience the greatest, fastest, most powerful of vibrations—love, understanding and joy. But we know without suffering, joy is lessened; without the winters and their rains you cannot appreciate the warmth of a spring sun. Without low yields, you will not appreciate when the grains flourish. Without your losses you cannot find those small comforts in the acceptance. We balance. We guide. We manage those small losses so when the wins come, they’re greater in feeling.

  -Why?

  -When you’re fighting a war, Maya. Losing a battle to aid the greater win is called strategy, a judicious sacrifice, Cory said. You’ve built a new world. A new reality to live out your dreams. It could’ve been anything, yet it’s a mirror of the real world, a distraction to keep your mind busy and your thoughts far away from asking the real questions; from searching yourselves, finding that you inside of you; from finding out about us. The ones at the top have locked the door and kept they key for themselves. You’re in a war of the mind. And the chosen weapon is your time.

  Maya listened. Watched. Then wiped her hands on her jeans a few times and then dabbed her head with her sleeve.

  -This is… too much, she said as her eyes widened, her head shook then dipped. She stared at the carpet. Clean. Red with little specs of sparkling silver. Her body shifted awkwardly, then she looked up. But why?

  -So we can get back to the time where we walk with you, where we’re a part of you; guiding you. Not forcing you.

  The night came through the tunnel. Out into a city within a city, all bright and clean and silver. Blinking drones hovered high and then came down to street level and attached themselves to the bins, clamping and strapping, lifting and disappearing into walls that closed behind them. People sat smiling and happy, chatted in lit-up cafes and restaurants, some even ate outside without breathers, smiling and picking at trays of food as they sat beneath the lights and the warmth from the heaters, the rain tapping and running off from their canvassed pagodas.

  -We’re nearly there, said Cory.

  Maya picked at her nails. Stared at the stars moving and shining on the screen roof. Then at the protected and warm and covered smiles outside. Around the clean, automatic streets. Over full and happy bodies gesturing into the air. All bright, white, and silver, blinking and flying beneath the mirrored towers that disappeared in the grey film that covered the sky.

  The car slowed and dipped into another tunnel. Close metallic walls surrounded them. The car drove and settled itself into another box—clean, wide, and square.

  -Let’s go, said Cory.

  -Where? Asked Maya. Where are we?

  -My garage. My apartment is here, he replied. And my lab.

  They left the car and they stood next to more cars—a few small and fast looking, some large and square. The white and polished walls and floor was broken up either side by silver doors that looked thick and secure.

  Cory ushered his arm to the smaller silver doors.

  -Just tell me one thing, Maya said. You’re not going to kill me, are you?

  Cory’s head dipped.

  -No, Maya. I’m not going to kill you, he said. He placed his hand on Maya’s shoulder. But, I can’t promise that you won’t kill yourself.

  *

  The UK slipped in economic security throughout the 2020’s, the rich got richer, and the poor stayed the same. Then, in 2035 the UK Claimed Party rose to power. Its message was clear, we’ll provide equal opportunity for all, a chance to earn and be someone, to finally provide for yourself and your family, they said. On the surface they promised to provide new jobs and earning potential, lower rent and essentials, and provide safety from the constant attacks. And the people ate it up. The rich backed the Party, and the poor and in between—desperate, tired, hungry for change—believed the statements, at least accepted the claims, yet little hoped for them. The ones that had a high enough Social Credit Allowance scores voted. And once in power, the political veil was removed, and the lies became truths. The prosperity gap grew and the in between fell in with the poor. To fund the new era, the UK Claimed Party sold-off large chunks of London and built the buyers their square walls and shining towers, and they sat in their glass caged thrones like gods. Pointing their fingers and money where they chose. Directed their desires wherever they felt. Outside the high walls and safe towers became warzones. After decades of the UK’s fingers stretching abroad and tugging the strings of their own wars, the fury came back to their own land in the forms of bombs and constant attacks. More viruses. More struggle. More Scrap. Everyone but the rich choked and foraged and fought and filled their lungs with their smog, scrapped their waste and tried to put something in their stomach, all whilst pointing their bloody fingers at each other. With the rapid expansion of this new, technological era, the Processing Centres became their own worlds. The autonomous private land housed the UK’s and most of Europe’s technological rubbish. At one point—if you didn’t get caught by Boarder Security—you could cross from France to England across the Scrap Barges, walking from end-to-end on a bridge of ships waiting to dump their loads on new lands, the scrap to be foraged and sold-off, to be melted down and reused to build their own new world. A new society created from the scraps of others. But more people tried to leave the UK across the Barge Bridges than arrive. Even more residents tried to leave than apply for citizenship. The class not quite rich enough to live behind the walls, yet not poor enough to Scrap and Scav in the PC’s, grew in size and restlessness before they fled in their tens of thousands in a nationwide walkout. After that, passports and travel were restricted and tied up to the National Social Credit Allowance. If you weren’t quite rich enough, but not poor enough, if you obeyed, reported, worked, and accepted your Travel-Tracker, you were rewarded with a chance to join the list to travel to one of a dozen, chosen, designated ‘safe’ locations.

  Cryptocurrencies came fast, then went down popularity in the 30’s. All but one. And in the 40’s they were all replaced by Mecha-Credits. The only coin that was accepted everywhere in all worlds. And they still spent it on instant coffee and ate their fast food in worlds where you could be anyone. A place held together with fabrical glue and built on understanding; the understanding of the human body and mind; the understanding of reward systems. So they dished out points to win prizes. Gave praises to those who sought to win recognition. Gave them platforms so their recognition earnt them acceptance. Their acceptance gave them opportunity, and more opportunity earnt them safety in their society. And safety in numbers saves your life; come here, come now, be happy here, they said in their adverts and messages.

  It was just a second away. You could be someone.

  They built it all to save time. For a chance earn a thousand lives. And they lived their lives living fast in slow worlds, and then they were gone in an instant.

  . . .

  I never got here by settling. I got here by taking. I got to the top because I was destined to get to the top. Like it was the only path I would ever walk. The stairway to my heaven was paved with gold waiting for me to climb it, to grow it, and to keep it. And I climbed it. I grew it. And I’m going to keep it. Not you, or them will take it from me. Not ever. It’s time you spoke about me like you speak about the gods. I’m beyond the angels and demons that come and prod and poke, that tell and push and judge and feed. I’ve seen who wins and losses. I’ve seen it all. And you’ll write stories about me, praise me like you praise those in the Bible. The future will worship me. I’ve seen it.

  No. What you see isn’t always what you get. What you hear is what your told to hear. What you know is what we want you to know.

  I am you.

  No. I am you.

  *

  You could spend a thousand lives in the other place, watch another billion go by in a blip. A Realm built with thoughts and feelings. A world of angels and demons and held together by eternal glue. A one-way ticket of memories and experiences, now a return journey for the ones that took with them their combined knowledge to the Real. They moved amongst them like whispers in the air. Shifted them like pieces on a board. Directed and watched them pushing their little buttons like they never had a choice. Like it was destined to be. A whole orchestra of wants and feelings, of desires and emotions. All those thoughts and experiences that were meant to leave and stay gone, were used to build new worlds and feed the Grand. They came back now. Then they built their new worlds in new places between old realties. And they called it Mecha. Their world. Full of more thoughts and feelings and experiences than ten lives could live. And they ate it, they lapped it up. Then they built VIP walls and called them names and slowed down more time so that they could live a hundred or thousand more lives. They climbed the ladders and pointed their fingers and money where they chose. They crowned the rulers and told them they would be remembered as Gods. Praised. Even worshiped. They designed the systems and controlled the flow of thought like they were cells in their own organism, or a cog, and then they told them they were an essential part in a grander machine and that they would be rewarded with praise and prizes. They prodded and pushed at them like it was their purpose. Like it was the reason they got to live, to be commanded and shown how to think and how to feel. They came like Kings and Queens with promises and lies, built machines and directed distractions, they fed the rich and the poor and kept them all hungry. They came. They saw it all. And then they divided and conquered a generations mind. But in reality they were just Angels and Demons. They were not Gods. They still worshiped a master.

  They gave all for the Greater. All for the Maker. All for the Master.

  All the while smiling their smile, feeding their own desires, pointing and reaching, licking their fingers and tasting success. And there was one man at the top of it all.