The Immortality Game

A tiny flashing light appeared in the upper left corner of his vision. The torchlight stopped flickering as the scene froze. Tyoma accessed the game interface and switched it off. He opened his eyes, seated on his favorite sofa in the living room of his apartment. Vera sat beside him, naked but for a pair of black stockings.

“Aaah,” Tyoma said. “What is it?”

“Urgent call from a Dr. Vladimir Glek.”

“Volodya?” Tyoma said. The anthropologist had never called him at home before. “What does he want?”

“He won’t say. He wishes to speak with you. Says it’s urgent. I told him you didn’t want to be disturbed, but he insisted.”

Tyoma scowled. He hated being interrupted mid-game, and Volodya was the last person he wished to hear from. “It better be urgent. Put him through the proxy.”

There was a beep as the wireless interface in his slot registered a handshake with the incoming connection.

«Tyoma, you there?» Tyoma’s mind supplied Volodya with a bland male voice.

«I’m here. Why are you dis—»

«Come in. Now! Everyone else is already on the way. Your…companion didn’t want to listen to me.»

«What’s going on?»

«I’m not telling you over an unsecured connection. Just trust me that it’s important enough to take you away from your doxy.»

«I’d tell you to mind your manners, but we both know that’ll never happen. I’ll be there in half an hour.» Tyoma severed the connection before Volodya could reply.

“I must go to work, Vera.” He glanced at his clothes to see if they were still decent enough for the office.

Vera turned on her most smoldering blue-eyed gaze and bit her lip. “Do you have time for—”

“No, no,” said Tyoma, waving one hand in the air. “No time for that. You’re dismissed.”

Vera vanished.

Tyoma rubbed his stubbly cheek and considered whether he needed to shave. If it’s so important, who cares how I look?

Volodya’s insinuation that he was a dirty old man rankled. So what if I’m nearing seventy? It’s not like Vera is real.

“Weather?” Tyoma asked the apartment.

“Cool and windy, sixteen degrees,” replied a brisk male voice.

Tyoma grabbed a light solar jacket from the rack near the door and said, “Door.” The door hissed to one side and he stepped out into the hallway. “Lock door,” he said, turning toward the elevator.

Moscow

Sunday, June 8, 2138

10:30 a.m. MSK

A stitch ate at Zoya’s side and she pulled up panting. She had reached Prospekt Vernadskovo and left the decaying student dormitories behind. A handful of people shopped at the kiosks flanking the old metro entrance. A small girl playing a battered violin stood near one kiosk, an open case at her feet.

Zoya looked back but saw no sign of pursuers. Stupid, she thought. Should have hidden there and seen who came out. Then you’d know who murdered Georgy.

She massaged the ache in her side while considering what to do next. Her hand found the package in her pocket, and she pulled it out. It was rectangular, smaller than a playing card. She thought about opening it to see what could be so important, but then a terrifying thought struck her. If they’re looking for me, they’ll start at home. Mama!

She whirled about to look for an air taxi. One was just hissing by fifty meters overhead. She waved at a second one, but it was going too fast. Again she wished for wireless so she could ping the bastards. Two more taxis whipped by before one finally slowed and hovered in the street nearby.

It was a gypsy cab, so there was no meter. No autodriver either. She negotiated the price down to merely criminal and hopped into the back. The screen on the seat showed the agreed price, so she pressed her thumb to the rectangle until there was a beep. The scruffy driver smirked into the rearview mirror and took off.

Zoya reached for the Web connection but saw only a broken wire.

“Where’s the cord?”

“Broken.”

“I need to call home.”

The driver shrugged.

A decade ago she’d have been able to use a handset to call home, but the cash-strapped government had sold the bandwidth off to Goom-Zon, and now prices were unaffordable on her salary from the morgue. She guessed how long it would take to reach her place near the Kolomenskoe refugee park. Ten minutes, perhaps.

“Could you go a little faster?”

“Cops harassing us. Too expensive to pay fines.”

She rocked in the seat, staring out the window as the buildings grew newer and taller. They were approaching the ancient first ring road and the familiar hurricane shape of the central city, with its funnel cloud of vast skyscrapers broken in the center where the Kremlin stood.