Experimental war games are the norm on the Jump Gate, but these Consortium games aren't all that normal.
Level: 14
Start: Charlotte Rampling, Inn, Ross 154 Jump Gate
Introduction
The sameness. It spreads outwards, covers the corrugated steel walls in bland beige, swallows up the production-line 3D printed tables and chairs. Only the stims behind the dull innkeeper gleam, twinkle with color, tease mystery. This bar could be any bar, another copy of a copy of a copy; printed and plastered throughout the star systems. Neons cast their dead-eyed light onto the floor -a floor too clean, too banal, to belong in a bar. Where is the revelry, the debauchery -the chaos? On this Consortium dominated Jump Gate even the drinking is orderly, methodical -bland.
Bland. Bland. Bland.
You don't see her approach, but then again you haven't been paying attention to much. The sameness has stumbled into boredom.
Charlotte Rampling: <name>?
This is not the first time this has been posed to you. Sometimes your name comes out of their mouths like a statement, matter-of-fact and to the point. On occasion the tongue's tone is accusatory, implies a sin, a transgression, as if your birth, your life, were on trial, up for judgement. Rarely the question is sincere -someone just wants to know if it's you. There's a rare charm to that innocence, and it's always fleeting.
Me: Who's asking?
The woman places a small silver antenna on the table.
Charlotte Rampling: The Ruins.
You're not into playing games. Time is short and the universe is expanding. Best get to the point.
Me: That's me. Who's asking?
The woman places a small silver antenna on the table.
Charlotte Rampling: The Ruins.
These interactions are always fun. Time is short and the universe is expanding. Have fun with the time you have and the slice of space you're given. You furrow your brow. Think hard -are you this person?
Me: I think I know the person you're looking for. I last saw them wrestling a Space Hippo on Cirque de Centauri. It was a drawn out affair -a close battle. Unfortunately I had to renew a Visa at the Gaule Embassy -it's a pastime of mine. I've grown to enjoy it. So, I can't tell you which party prevailed, but if I come across them I'll let them know you're inquiring after them.
The woman places a small silver antenna on the table. She does not crack a smile.
Can't win them all.
Charlotte Rampling: Hilarious. The Ruins.
All choices continue:
She turns and leaves.
- Pick up the antenna.
- Call it a day. No thank you, (only if you chose "Be direct")
Intrigue! Mystery! The Ruins beyond the fence await.
No thanks.
You really had your heart set on researching how to knit. There must be some information on knitting on the Mesh. It's not as exciting a pursuit as taking strange antenna into radioactive death traps, but what a calm and bliss-filled world it would be if we heard the sound of knitting needles clicking over the clash of bionic samurais hacking at one another with titanium katanas.
Mission failure
You have failed the "Thereafterward" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
You pick up the antenna and twirl it slowly between your thumb and index finger. It's the sort of thing one does with odd items cryptically placed before one, no? The antenna can extend and collapse back into itself. Nothing new there. Definitely a relic -Old Earth tech. The bottom of the piece is grooved, designed to screw into something -a something that no doubt awaits you in the Ruins.
- Take some time. Contemplate the Ruins.
- Go straight to the Ruins.
- Kill some time. Contemplate the antenna.
There's no point in contemplating the symbolism of an antenna left on a bar table by a mysterious woman. You leave the drab drabness of the bar and saunter out into the equally drab center of JG-154.
Head to the Ruins.
Next area: Ruins, Ross 154 Jump Gate
You continue to fiddle with the antenna. Were the lighting in here not so utterly void of substance the piece might reflect or gleam, playful between your fingertips. You look past the relic at the bartender. Perhaps you could place the antennae atop his head? "Excuse me," you'd say politely as you approached the plastic-printed countertop. "I believe this fits atop your head." He'd lean forward, exposing his scalp and sure enough, a small circular socket is visible through the sparse and parted hair.
Enjoyable as journeys into the imagination may be there are credits to be made. No one pays you for what's in your mind -not unless they can mine it of course. You steer yourself away from the thought of mind mines, leave the drab drabness of the bar and saunter out into the equally drab center of JG-154.
Head to the Ruins.
Next area: Ruins, Ross 154 Jump Gate
Further:
Me: May I?
He nods in approval, the top of his head bobbing.
A couple of Consortium military types stop discussing killing, maiming and knitting patterns and look over at you. The antenna screws in nicely. You execute the process with care, your fingers twinkle around the metallic thread with surgical precision.
Me: How's that feel? We're almost there.
The antenna threads all the way in. The bartender lights up. An electrical surge fills the room!
You step back. The bartender lifts his head. The room falls silent.
A woman screams in the background. Somewhere, a dog barks. A glass crashes to the floor in slow-motion.
This innkeeper is no longer a dull, bored human being tending to patrons in a dead-end job, on a dead-end station: he's become Bartend-o-droid!
His laser-eyes tear through a group of drinkers at the end of the bar. Torsos are neatly severed and slide off unsuspecting legs to the floor below. You're just in time to dart out of the way of his breath-flames!
Me: Take cover! Take cover! It's ALIVE!
You wrestle a mother and her triplets to the ground, shielding them behind the poor protection of a 3D printed table. Consortium military units flood the building, riddling the bar with anti-matter blasts, laser bursts, and swarms of titanium-tipped, hull-piercer rounds. Nothing seems capable of stopping the Bartend-o-droid!
Your will and stamina have almost failed you. You crawl over the mounds of charred and sliced corpses. The dead now decorate this world. It is no longer drab, no longer dull. The red runs dark and thick from countless wounds as you slip and slide your way towards the homicidal bartender turned death droid. You flank the murderous monster and rip the antennae clear from its wretched head. He collapses onto the bar. Everyone is dead. Only you remain. The bar is gone, its roof blown clean off. The corrugated steel walls crumble, pock-marked with blast holes, riddled with the passage of bullets. The silver slither of the antennae glistens under the red light of Ross 154. At least the lighting is better. Probably best you get down to the Ruins.
Head down to the Ruins you lunatic.
Next area: Ruins, Ross 154 Jump Gate
Mysterious woman. Cryptic message. Curious artifact. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Me: Why is it that all these illicit meet-ups are always in the dodgy part of town?
A freshly-shaved sergeant eyes you with concern. The man is not a fan of strangers asking themselves rhetorical questions in bars.
It's true though: no one ever sets up a secret meeting at a five-star restaurant between the appetizers and the main course, do they? You must remember to mention that to your next "mission giver".
- Enough time wasted. Go to the Ruins already.
- Kill some time. Contemplate the antenna.
- Take the scenic route to the Ruins.
What's your hurry? Might as well take in what little the Jump Gate has to offer. The main thoroughfare traverses the asteroid North to South. A system of magnetic rails guides hovering spheres up and down this main artery, branching off to various points across the asteroid. You see the white, pristine spheres hum silently by, a blue hue projected beneath the smooth hull mirrors the magnetic track that keeps them aligned and on course.
You've heard that the port, with its reinforced, tinctured glass portholes offers a stunning view of the stars. There's also a supposedly top-notch gelato stand at the local shuttles. If you're on a Jump Gate it's all happening down at the port.
You're walking.
There's not much to see. The Consortium aren't much for interior design and the heart of this asteroid could certainly use a makeover. If it's style and flair you want, Pompadour will have to do in this system. Functionally speaking the regocrete huts do their job. You look over to your right. A series of perfectly aligned grey blocks stand to attention -another set of barracks. A blue flag waves above them. The Consortium, in a bid to boost moral, spent untold credits to create a "self-fluctuating fabric" to be used in the production of flags.
"If a flag does not wave it does not inspire!" you remember reading that somewhere in your CORETECHS. The concept of wind is dear to humanity and several stations have dedicated resources to recreating the effects of air.
The floor begins to vibrate ever so slightly. A noise rises in the distance -the cacophony of overlapping voices and engines. You've reached the port.
You decide to take the shuttle down to the port.
The magnetic strip crisscrosses the entire station in a calming, neon blue. The engineers that designed the transit system dubbed it BlueLine, but due to the spherical nature of the actual shuttles and the propensity of the human mind to degrade, deride and generally take the piss out of everything, the rail system came to be known as BlueBalls -a condition many on this militaristic and strict station systematically suffer from whether they ride the train or not.
You wait patiently at a pulsating, blue dot on the ground. The dot indicates a stop.
Odd this pulsating blue dot. There are dots, well dotted, equidistance from one another running throughout the entire station. And floating above them, appearing to swallow them as they pass are the spherical shuttles of the transit company. Something ancient, something other-worldly stirs in you. The feeling passes.
The shuttle won't stop unless a fare has been received via your CORETECHS. You stand on the pulsating dot and a message appears before your eyes.
WELCOME TO BLUE LINE TRANSIT. THE LEADER IN SPHERICAL INTER-ASTEROID TRANSIT. A FLAT FARE OF TEN CREDITS IS REQUIRED TO RIDE THE LINE ANYWHERE WITHIN THE STATION. NO CHEWING BUBBLEGUM PLEASE.
You have given 10.00 credits.
Ten credits are removed from your CORETECHS with a "ka-ching" sound. BlueLine is a classy affair.
You enter the shuttle. The cabin holds four. You're on your own and, as is the human habit, you take a moment to decide what seat to take.
A soothing voice wafts throughout the cabin:
WELCOME ON BOARD. PLEASE KEEP YOUR HANDS IN THE SHUTTLE AT ALL TIME. NO CHEWING BUBBLEGUM. NO TRUMPET PLAYING. DESTINATION PLEASE.
- Tell the shuttle to go to the port.
Me: Port.
You speak the word aloud.
The shuttle answers you:
PORT? DIDN'T YOUR MOTHER TEACH YOU TO SAY PLEASE?
Not another one of these machines with enhanced personality processors. The shuttle grinds to a halt, well, hovers calmly to one at any rate. You look out the window. You've gone five meters. A rather drunk staff sergeant laps you in your bubble.
You're not taking etiquette suggestions from a jumbled assortment of wires and bolts.
You repeat your desired destination firmly.
Me: Port.
The shuttle retorts melodically:
WHAT'S THE MAGIC WORD?
You're in no mood for this.
Head to the Ruins.
Me: You want the magic word?
The shuttle answers politely in soothing waves of synthetic speech:
YES PLEASE.
Me: The magic word is NOW!
The shuttle isn't having any of it.
YOU HAVE VIOLATED THE SPIRIT OF COMMUTING AND GOODWILL DEAMED NECESSARY TO TRAVEL ON BLUE LINE TRANSIT. KINDLY DISEMBARK. YOUR FARE HAS BEEN CONFISCATED. HAVE A NICE DAY. MIND YOUR STEP AND MIND YOUR MANNERS.
The door slides open with a "woosh". An electrical discharge rushes through your seat. You spring out of it and onto the sidewalk. The smug shuttle hovers off with a self-satisfied purr.
If the shuttle wants you to be polite, might as well oblige. No point in wrestling with an artificial intelligence is there? When did that ever go in humanity's favor?
Me: Please. To the port.
The shuttle purrs back into motion. Within a matter of segments you've reached the busiest part of the asteroid -arguably the busiest part of the system. You disembark. The shuttle speak again:
THANK YOU FOR RIDING BLUE LINE. HAVE A NICE DAY. MIND YOUR STEP … AND YOUR MANNERS.
All choices continues:
Head into the Port.
Next area: Port, Ross 154 Jump Gate
- Take in the bustling port.
The humanity. The sheer volume is mesmerizing. Jump Gates are the bottlenecks of the universe. Who said that? You should check your CORETECHS. More than half of the rock is taken up by the new jump gate and its adjacent docks, shuttle transit points and shipping bays.
You spot a scrawny man with a small mustache and long, stringy hair tied back in a ponytail eyeing you. He wears torn and tattered military fatigues. The name on his breast reads: “VARGAS”.
Velcro Vargas: It's quite a place, huh? No other place like it. JP-154! Open for business!
There's something a bit off -strange- about the way the man speaks. Half of his approach is salesperson like -the other half sincere. He's selling something.
Me: It is quite a place, friend.
Friend? Since when do you end your sentences with "friend"? Well, that just slipped out, didn't it? Guess we're going with that level of familiarity now.
Velcro Vargas: Indeed. Not too many places like it. You need VR Stadium tickets? I'm your man. Well one of them at any rate. There are others, but they can't be trusted, Trust me. I mean trust me about not being able to trust them -I'm not asking you to trust me about the tickets. Although you can do that too -trust me.
He pauses, contemplated his turn of phrase.
Velcro Vargas: That's what someone would say who can't be trusted, isn't it? Right. Don't trust anyone. That's advice you can follow, but if it's tickets for tomorrow night's show you're wanting then you can trust me.
Me: What are you selling friend?
Friend? Since when do you end your sentences with "friend"? Well, that just slipped out, didn't it? Guess we're going with that level of familiarity now.
Velcro Vargas: You need VR Stadium tickets? I'm your man. Well one of them at any rate. There are others, but they can't be trusted, Trust me. I mean trust me about not being able to trust them -I'm not asking you to trust me about the tickets. Although you can do that too -trust me.
He pauses, contemplated his turn of phrase.
Velcro Vargas: That's what someone would say who can't be trusted, isn't it? Right. Don't trust anyone. That's advice you can follow, but if it's tickets for tomorrow night's show you're wanting then you can trust me.
He fidgets. Looks about nervously. This man is about as natural a ticket scalper as a Constortium flag is at blowing in the wind.
Velcro Vargas: There’s nothing on tonight, but tomorrow night you’ll need to be there to believe it. You can attend virtually from anywhere of course, so you can not be there to be there to believe it. The VIP packages are impossible to come by, but I happen to know that one virtual attendee is marooned off one of the moon’s of Jupiter and won’t be making an attendance in person or beaming in virtually. Front row -virtually virtually unobstructed.
Either choice continues:
Either choice continues:
Me: Virtually, you mean. Just one virtually. Not two.
Velcro Vargas: No virtually virtually. That means someone who’s not actually there will be the only person between you and the performers. Virtually none virtually. Get it?
This man may have fried your CORETECHS.
Velcro Vargas: Come on. I’ve got mouths to feed. Well one really, but it’s a hungry mouth and eats for two and there’s no virtual meal that quells actual hunger.
Velcro Vargas: Not mine. No. Never had the time. My sister’s. She was exiled.
Velcro Vargas: Penelope. Penny. She's my niece. Not mine. No. Never had the time. My sister’s. She was exiled.
Either choice continues:
The man looks about him like a wounded animal expecting a death blow.
Velcro Vargas: It’s an old Earth punishment that the Consortium has brought back. It’s "en vogue" as my friend Tracey says -she’s the public defender down at the Brig. You ever find yourself in a spot of trouble ask for Tracey. First name Kaly, with a K and a y. I’ll take another ten credits off the ticket. That's 40. I’m basically giving them away.
- "What's playing?"
Me: What's the show?
The man smiles. It's an endearing smile. He feels a sale is near.
Velcro Vargas: I’ve got balcony seats for Redneck Opera next week. The South will Arias Again. Sold out its tour of Sol.
- "That's a lot of credits."
Me: Forty credits? You sure you've got your numbers straight?
The man chuckles.
Velcro Vargas: You know what they say? There are three types of people:
He pauses for effect.
Velcro Vargas: Those who can count.
Another pause followed by a smile.
Velcro Vargas: And those who can't count.
You break into laughter. There's something to this man.
Me: My name's <name>.
He offers a slender hand and you shake it.
Velcro Vargas: Vargas. Velcro to my friends.
Me: I'm afraid I'm not a fan of the opera.
Vargas shrugs.
Velcro Vargas: Can't say I blame you.
He catches a Consortium patrol out of the corner of his eye. Panic strikes his features.
Velcro Vargas: Pleasure meeting you. I've got to run.
He disappears into the crowd.
The antenna in your pocket vibrates for a split unit. Time to get back to the task at hand.
You break into laughter. There's something to this man.
Me: My name's <name>.
He offers a slender hand and you shake it.
Velcro Vargas: Vargas. Velcro to my friends.
Me: I'll take a ticket Vargas. For Penelope. Not sure I can make the show.
You transfer forty credits from your CORETECHS.
You have given 40.00 credits.
Vargas is beside himself. He takes your hands and kisses them.
Velcro Vargas: Thank you! Thank you! This helps. This really helps.
He catches a Consortium patrol out of the corner of his eye. Panic strikes his features.
Velcro Vargas: I won't forget this. Thank you.
He disappears into the crowd.
Your CORETECHS receives VIP pass to the Redneck Opera.
The antenna in your pocket vibrates for a split unit. Time to get back to the task at hand.
- YOU HAVE UNLOCKED A BONUS MISSION.
Congratulations. You have unlocked a bonus mission. Bonus missions are only available to a player who take unexpected storylines, or persist down specific story paths.
"The Scalp" is now available for you to play on Ross 154 Jump Gate. Complete "Thereafterwards" and "Mind Over Manners" and then enjoy "The Scalp".
Either choice continues:
Go to the Ruins.
Next area: Ruins, Ross 154 Jump Gate
- Be serious now. Go to the Ruins already.
Enticing as the port seems this antenna is burning a whole in your pocket. You decide it's best to get this mystery out of the way first. There will be time for gelato later.
All paths continue:
- Arrive at the Final Fence.
The walk out of the center of JG-154 is as nondescript as the station itself. The once proud Jump Gate is no more. It, like the nuclear power plants that powers the asteroid are found beyond the Final Fence: the partition that divides the new, clean and organized JG-154 from the old, dangerous and decrepit original version.
It's a five mile hustle South to the fence. Platoons jog along this route from the Stadium to the barracks just North of the corrugated center. Chanting and sweating in formation they pass you by in stoic camaraderie.
There's nothing too scenic to behold down here in the cold heart of this asteroid. No sky, no stars, just corrugated steel and the hard rock of the station. You've reached the fence.
The Final Fence halves the asteroid's hull roughly in two. It serves as a divider between the ravages inflicted upon the Jump Gate during the catastrophe and the bulldozed symmetry of the the new base and its surrounding amenities. The fence is constructed out of hundreds of punctured, corrugated, steel sheets welded together to form a row ten kilometers long and some forty meters high. The whole is affixed at intervals to the floor and ceiling of the asteroid. The perforations in the wall -a hotly debated structural element at the time- permit the passage of recycled air into the Ruins.
Ingress and egress is closely monitored, but scantily enforced. Only one gate grants unfettered access to the Ruins, but it is heavily guarded and always barricaded.
The prefabricated frontier stretches off out of sight to your left and right. Ingress and egress is closely monitored, but scantily enforced. Only one gate grants unfettered access to the Ruins, but it is heavily guarded and always barricaded.
Either choice continues:
- Find a way in.
You look about the perimeter. Units pass and you uncover both a concealed tunnel entrance and a hole in the fence some five meters up. The decision is yours: up or under?
You're not much for heights. You get on all fours and look down the small tunnel. Someone has reinforced the sides of the burrowing hole with salvaged aluminum sheets. The ground is the hard shale of the asteroid. Not the cleanest of entrances, but at least it looks well traveled. Or you can scurry up the fence like a Space squirrel…
A large hole has been carved into the fence some way up above you. It's a crudely executed laser hack job, but it'll do the trick. You'll need to navigate your way up using makeshift hand and foot holds. Or you can tunnel under the fence… like a Space worm.
Failure
The tunnel narrows as you press forward, The air has been sucked out of it all of a sudden and a darkness envelopes you. A slight panic creeps into your mind. What if you're stuck? What if no one finds you? What sort of an end is this for an intrepid adventure? This would be the swashbuckler equivalent to slipping in the shower after a lifetime of tightrope fencing. Take a deep breath. Keep calm. Wiggle forward.
Success
The tightness of the tunnel overcome, and a small panic subdued, you reach the other side of the fence. You've reached the Ruins. On cue the small antenna begins to vibrate. The vibrations appear to weaken or intensify depending on the direction you head towards. The further you travel South the stronger the vibrating becomes.
Failure
The damn vertical obstacle course is harder than it looks. You make it half way up before loosing your grip. Don't let the fence get the better of you. Keep trying.
Success
It's a trickier proposition getting to the hole than you'd expected, but you eventually reach the cut out and swing through it and down to the ground. You've reached the Ruins. On cue the small antenna begins to vibrate. The vibrations appear to weaken or intensify depending on the direction you head towards. The further you travel South the stronger the vibrating becomes.
Either success continues:
- Be quick. Follow the vibration to its source.
- Be silly. Play with the vibrating antenna.
- Be self-conscious. Realize how odd you look.
You waste little time and continue to follow the antenna as the vibrations increase in intensity.
You take a moment to realize just how silly you must look in this instance: eyes darting about cautiously, an extended silver wand vibrating frantically in one hand. You look around. Thankfully -or perhaps tragically- no one is around to appreciate the absurdity of the scene.
- Be serious now. Follow the vibration.
You leave those moments of innocence behind you and follow the antenna as the vibrations increase in intensity.
You realize how cool this vibrating antenna is. What's the hurry after all? It's not as though the mysterious woman said, "The Ruins -hurry!" The antenna, fully extended makes a cool "swoosh" sound when it slashes through the air. The hum of the vibration adds a sci-fi something to the mood. Hmmmm…. what does this remind you of?
You shadow sword fight with yourself for a while, knocking over defunct engine parts with your magical katana. You spot a pair of blue eyes watching you from behind stacks of shuttle tires. A small boy examines your strange dance with frightened fascination.
Me: Hey. It's alright. I don't bite. Come on out.
The young Ruin rat edges shyly out from behind the shelter of the galvanized rubber. Segments pass. You continue play fighting with the antenna; you fell a Space Dragon and decapitate an imaginary foe with one critical blow.
The boy picks up a piece of slender piping and takes part in the pantomime. You fence back and forth. the kid with the blue eyes has moves!
You smile as he pierces your heart.
Me: Touche! Well-played. What's your name?
Your familiarity is a step too close. The boy drops the pipe and dashes into the rubble and is gone. The plight of the orphaned and the forgotten is an unsung tale in the darkness of space.
- Be serious now. Follow the vibration.
You leave those moments of innocence behind you and follow the antenna as the vibrations increase in intensity.
All choices continue:
The Ruins spill out around you, a jumbled and broken land. The remnants of proud buildings jut out of the ground like shattered spears. Piles of debris rise from the ground, half-hearted attempts at salvaging the now abandoned land. In the distance the nuclear reactors tower ominous and foreboding. Inside the derelict shell of an apartment complex a fire winks out of a third story window. The landscape is a dirty mosaic of cracks and shadows.
To the East, rising out of the ground like a discarded sun, the great, yellow tubing of the old Jump Gate waits silent -planted on its side. Nothing comes through now; here, in the Ruins, things come to die.
The vibrations reach their crescendo in front of an old inn. A blue box atop a table is waiting. The box's face holds a screen flickering with static. On top of the blue box a small, grooved hole awaits the antenna.
You've come this far, but something feels wrong to you. You drop the antenna where you stand and beat a hasty retreat to the fence.
Mission failure
You have failed the "Thereafterward" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
You screw the antenna into the blue box. The vibration stops and the screen ceases to fizzle.
The screen appears blank, a dotted array of gray specks flickers on and off. The device speaks: “Turn off your CORETECHS.”
The screen flickers again. Speaks one last time: “Turn it off or I turn off….”
“Suit yourself.” The screen flickers off. A small burst of energy emanates from the blue box. Your CORETECHS goes blank. You wake moments later. The Ruins seem eerily quiet. The monitor is gone.
Mission failure
You have failed the "Thereafterward" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
You agree to the screen's demand and power your CORETECHS off.
A picture of a man forms on the screen.
- Look at the face on the screen.
The man is young, a brash smile erupts across his face at the sight of you. His eyes gleam with intelligence behind a long, crooked nose. He wears a fedora.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski:** I'm glad you came. Hope I didn't bring you too far out of your way.
Me: "Have we met?"
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: The universe is a big place, but remember, it's a small world after all. We haven't been properly introduced, but I've heard of you <name>.
He leans forward, his forehead almost touching the screen.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: My name is Joe Sparkouski. I'm an investigative journalist. My friends call me Sparky.
Me: Pleasure to make your acquaintance Sparky.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Heard you were an amiable soul. Alright Scout, here's the scoop.
He pulls the brim of his fedora down over his eyes and leans in further.
Me:
Me:
The journalist brings a smile to your face.
Me: Sparky! Where have you been? I haven't seen you in ages!
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Digging up the Truth -and the Truth, my friend, is everywhere. Want to help me crack a case?
You can't help but smile at the sight of the intrepid journalist.
Me: I'd recognize that nose anywhere. Joe Sparkouski. What brings you here? And me along with you?
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Want to help me crack a case? It’s juicy, it’s immoral -best of all, it’s dangerous.
Either choice continues:
Me: Tell me more.
Me: I'm still here despite the obstacle course you made me run. Go on.
All choices continue:
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Ever heard of the War Games conducted in the Stadium by our pals in Department Z? Don’t answer that. You haven’t. They’re classified. And even if you had heard of them -which you haven’t, you most definitely wouldn’t know about the PRH study. Don’t ask me. I’ll tell you. Hold on…
A small burst emanates from the television box.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: You stable? Just your routine, friendly EMP blast to make doubly-sure no one who’s been listening still has ears.
Me: I'm fine… I think. What was that burst? What's an EMP?
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Have I scrambled your CORETECHS one too many times? Electro-Magnetic-Pulse. Disrupts all electronic and mechanical organisms within its range -momentarily. Depending on the dose -permanently. Man’s best friend as I like to call it. Here’s the scoop. An affiliate of mine, who collects Special Artifacts, is dying to know what goes on in that old Stadium, but all of her operatives on JG-154 have been…
Me: I'm fine… I think. Go on.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Here’s the scoop. An affiliate of mine, who collects Special Artifacts, is dying to know what goes on in that old Stadium, but all of her operatives on JG-154 have been…
Either choice continues:
Sparky pauses, smiles.
Me: Please. Go on.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: I half-expected you to say something witty. All her operatives have returned empty handed. Several were found out. And those that weren't had their memories wiped before they could divulge what they found out.
A snicker escapes you. The entire scene is surreal. You're in the middle of nowhere, talking to a man you've never met in person, concealed in a small, blue box. And now you're both discussing the clandestine arm of the Gaule military.
Me: Been arrested for smuggling chocolate rations and then getting high on their own supply.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Something like that. Most were found out. And those that weren't had their memories wiped before they could divulge what they found out.
Either choice continues:
Me: Memory wipe?
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Yup. Memory wipe. What makes these particular “war games” so difficult to find any information on is that all the participants have their memories wiped right after the experiment is over.
Me: Memory wipe? That rings a bell… or does it?
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Funny. What makes these particular “war games” so difficult to find any information on is that all the participants have their memories wiped right after the experiment is over.
Either choice continues:
Me: People lose ALL their memories?
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Not all their memories. The scan wipes everything you and your CORETECHS have experienced during the experiment.
Me: People go in for that? They sign up knowing that someone's going to mess with their brain functions?
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: You’d be surprised what people will do for a fistful of credits. Or maybe you wouldn’t, but yeah, people go in for that -all the time. The experiment pays its "participants" 200 credits. Not bad for a day's work you won't remember.
After you've seen both branches:
- Ask who's brainchild this experiment is.
The notion of being paid any amount of money, only to let someone scramble with your head, seems ludicrous in the extreme. Who thinks up these ideas? Probably best to ask that question.
Me: Who comes up with this stuff?
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Doctor Major Jensen Milgram. Known amongst the brass as Doc Major, or MJM to his friends.
Sparky laughs. Perhaps the concept of men like Milgram having friends is comical to him. The journalist continues:
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Graduate of Applied Medicine at Massab Medical on Syria. Quickly rose through the ranks of the Special Operations Command to the rank of Lieutenant. Promoted to Major and transferred to Department Z. JP154 is his first command. Takes a hands on approach with his experiments and his command.
Me: What exactly do you mean by, "hands on"?
Me: Handsy is he? I'll make sure to watch out for that.
Either choice continues:
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Meaning that our Major is very pro-human. He believes that humans should do their own fighting. And he’s seen action. In his days with the CSOC he led covert operations on the YZ Ceti Jump Gate. Milgram doesn’t believe that the Consortium’s military edge should lie solely with technology. He believes in the unadulterated power of the human being. His words -not mine.
This old trope again. People like Milgram have a lot of gaul (no pun intended) criticizing the very technology that keeps them alive.
Me: What a bunch of nonsense. Milgram breaths, thinks and lives because of the tech we built. Tech doesn't hurt, it helps. Unadulterated power of the human being, huh? Sounds like cult talk to me.
Sparky nods, a small smile greets your sentiment.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Well, whatever he's running, let's find out what they're up to, shall we?
Whatever this Major may or may not be up to, you agree with the underlying sentiment of the statement. Somewhat confusingly phrased as it may be. Humans, not tech should control this universe.
Me: He does have a point. More and more is done by machines. Soon enough we won't need humans.
Sparky laughs -his bright eyes gleam mischief.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Never figured you for a humanist. Shall we get down to business?
What people believe or don't believe isn't any of your business. What's more, the universe would get along better, and things would move smoothly if everyone just minded their own business.
Me: To each their own. Shall we get started?
Sparky nods, a small smile creeps on his face.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: My sentiment exactly.
All choices continue:
Your CORETECHS springs to life. An incoming message makes you aware that a software download awaits.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: You're going to need to accept that software download if you want to go through with this.
Me: Not that I don't trust you and all Sparky, old pal, but what the hell are you trying to jam into my CORETECHS?
Sparky chuckles.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Just a little something I developed with a couple of friends on Congo. Here’s the scoop. It's an experimental CORETECHS MNM.
He elaborates:
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Mesh Node Modifier. It’s essentially a backup of your CORETECHS that’s hidden in the Mesh. It’s extremely useful for double agents masquerading as someone else -or.
Me: Please. Go on.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: The MNM creates a masking CORETECHS. Only the MNM CORETECHS will register on scans and only the masked identity will appear when hailed. But most importantly: only the MNM CORETECHS will be wiped when Department Z performs their memory purge. So, you in?
Me: Or, if you want to get some sucker involved in something that they’d never think of doing twice without backup. That sucker being me, yes?
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Something like that, minus the sucker part. The MNM creates a masking CORETECHS. Only the MNM CORETECHS will register on scans and only the masked identity will appear when hailed. But most importantly: only the MNM CORETECHS will be wiped when Department Z performs their memory purge. So, you in?
Either choice continues:
Sparky is one hell of an investigative journalist, but you're not about to let him rearrange your frontal cortex or your CORETECHS for that matter in the pursuit of the Truth.
Me: Sorry Sparky. The bar's too high on this one. I'm going to pass.
The face on the small screen throws you a sad smile. Sparky hunches his shoulders.
A small burst of energy emanates from the blue box. You black out. You wake moments later. The Ruins seem eerily quiet. The monitor is gone.
Mission failure
You have failed the "Thereafterward" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
Me: Alright… I'm in.
You accept the software. The upload is instantaneous. Your vision blurs for a unit. A feeling of being underwater, of being submerged overtakes you and then is gone as quickly as it came.
Sparky chuckles.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: I knew I could count on you.
Me: This MNM mask is what the Consortium will wipe clean when I'm done with the experiment -not my actual CORETECHS. That much I understand. But they're also going to wipe my memory, no?
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Very good. Indeed they will, but only for the duration of the experiment. Say forty segments at most. They're not interested in wiping out your personality -we figure that's part of what they are studying in any case. Your CORETECHS -your real CORETECHS- will be recording everything that happens the whole time. We won't lose anything.
If you've already asked about the MNM's new identity:
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: It'll be fine. Trust me. Report to the sick bay. Your application to the PHR study has been accepted. Don't forget to take the antennae. I'll meet you back here when it's over. Good luck. Sparky signing off.
If you haven't:
Me: So, this new CORETECHS mask has a new ident built into it. Do I get to select my own name?
**Joe "Sparsky" Sparkouski:I'm afraid that's not possible. The MNM cover identity needs to be full-proof. The download you've just accepted has been programmed with one name. That name will pass all authentification filters they may run. Can't just go plugging in any old name. In any case, I've created a name designed to avert all suspicion. A name so cunningly devised it could be used by anyone: a male, a female, a Mall, a colonist, of any creed, from almost any where.
He pauses for effect.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: You are now: Dylan Maria Del Vasquez-Pappas-Liposki-Chang!
If you've already asked about your memory being wiped:
A large grin spreads across Sparky's face.
Joe "Sparky" Sparkouski: Report to the sick bay. Your application to the PHR study has been accepted. Don't forget to take the antenna. I'll meet you back here when it's over. Good luck. Sparky signing off.
If you haven't:
Sparky grins at you through the screen.
After you've seen both branches:
The face disappears. The screen goes black. You unscrew the antenna and collapse it into itself.
You make your way out of the Ruins and through the Final Fence without much, if anything, to write home about.
Head to the Sick Bay Dylan Maria.
Next area: Sick Bay, Ross 154 Jump Gate
- Approach your destination.
A corrugated, steel cube, in a row of corrugated, steel cubes, faces a row of corrugated, steel cubes. The sterile symmetry seems to stare -silent and stale. You have arrived at the Sick Bay. Two guards, matching the architecture, scan your CORETECHS. They repeat your name back to you. You confirm that you are, indeed: Dylan Maria Del Vasquez-Pappas-Liposki-Chang. You are admitted into the giant, metal cube. So far, so good. The MNM appears to be working.
- Enter the clinic.
The guts of the sick bay reflect its skin, neon fixtures cast a familiar, cold, dead light. The cube is dissected by room dividers -also corrugated, also steel. A receptionist tells you to wait, tells you that you’ll be seen in the order that you arrived -tells you nothing else. Others have arrived before you, they sit and fidget in neatly lined rows. You join them.
Units turn to segments.
Segments stack on segments. Time does its stuff.
Segments pass. You look around at the people assembled in the waiting area with you.
A tall woman, possibly Harsene, has long narrow eyes. Her speech is nervous and hurried. She jabbers frantically at the gray-haired, Belter beside her. “I was orphaned on Tangoo,” she tells him, the words shoot from her chapped lips like bullets. “My parents left me there when I was very young. I still remember their faces. My father’s eyes especially. He had long eyes that wrapped around to his ears. Well, obviously not to his ears -that would look odd, no? But almost. Or perhaps, perhaps that’s just the way I remember him. When I was little. I think things look different when you’re little -things that look the same when you’re older. I’m not making much sense, am I?” She continues firing her monologue biography into his hairy ears.
You turn your attention away from her.
A muscular man with a small, razor thin mustache does his best to avoid eye contact with his neighbor. “How many times have you taken part? I’m sure I’ve done it more than once. The memory wipes don’t catch everything, you know? I catch dreams. You ever catch dreams?”
The man is wiry, all arms, neck and legs with an afterthought of a torso thrown in to hold the limbs together. His face is gaunt -gray and haunted. Catching dreams. The expression is new. You picture him jumping in mid-air, arms extended into the night sky, reaching for memories, hoping for meaning.
Three men, obviously familiar with one another, their chairs huddled together, speak in hushed tones, look over their shoulders on occasion. The camaraderie of those bound by an experience, by a secret, by nothing other than their need to be interesting, to be noticed. Ex-military by the look of it. Recurring customers, no doubts.
A Mall, in distressed, but ironed military fatigues breathes heavily in a chair too small for his frame. The buttons of his shirt are stressed, the fabric of his camouflage stretched. A Sergeant’s insignia on his shoulder -his breast reads: Howard Howard. His face is unshaved. Brittle whiskers pierce the wrinkled skin. This man is late for the prom -decades late and with no date. The receptionist calls out “Do Good!” The Mall rises like a mountain. He looks down at you and nods, before plodding off behind a room divider barely tall enough to conceal him.
What an odd scene this waiting room paints. Each character, awaiting whatever these experiments will unleash, is like a different colored drop of paint falling on the sterile canvas of this Sick Bay. The tall woman, her eyes narrowing, her words reaching out, seeking, longing is now speaking aloud to herself. These are not volunteers; these people are not here of their own free will - a desperation permeates the air, hangs heavy with need. The walls are beige, and the assembled are vibrant, colorful and strange, but the hue of the place is gray. What results, what objective scientific conclusions, could such a motley crew possibly yield?
It takes a while, but your name is eventually called. You register, after hearing "Dylan Maria" twice, that this is in fact the you that has been waiting. You make your way to the reception desk.
The receptionist looks up at you, smiles politely, and indicates with his index finger that you should follow him. He leaves the reception desk and you follow him through a maze of room dividers until you come to a door. He knocks three times, opens the door and bids you enter.
Several segments have passed and still no one has come forward. For all you know you'll be sitting here all day. You get up out of your chair and march over to the reception desk. The receptionist stares into the oblivion of their holo-screen.
Failure
You begin your tirade, but the receptionist silences you unexpectedly by holding up their finger. They remain immersed in their holo-screen. "One moment" the finger is meant to indicate, but it feels a lot more like, "Down! Sit. Good dog." Muster up some gumption already. Make yourself heard!
Success
Me: I'm not going to sit around here all day! I've already been accepted for these trials -what's the hold up?
The receptionist looks up at you, he is not at all perturbed by your outburst. He smiles politely, and indicates with his index finger that you should follow him. He leaves the reception desk and you follow him through a maze of room dividers until you come to a door. He knocks three times, opens the door and bids you enter.
Think better of causing a scene:
All paths continue:
Me: What's in here?
The receptionist says nothing, indicating with his outstretched palm that you should enter.
You step through the open doorway. The receptionist does not follow you in. The door closes behind you without as much as a whimper.
The room is white. All white. The desk, the two chairs, the walls -all white. A man dressed in white is sat in one of the white chairs behind the white desk. He looks up at you.
Doctor Major Milgram: Dylan Maria. Take a seat.
You've sat around long enough in the waiting room.
Me: I'd rather stand.
Milgram eyes you sternly.
Doctor Major Milgram: Suit yourself.
He gets up from his chair and walks over to you.
You sit across the desk from the man.
Milgram eyes you sternly.
Either choice continues:
Doctor Major Milgram: You are being hired to participate in an experiment. This experiment is a psychological study. You have applied to take part in this experiment. You have done so willingly. You have been accepted. You will be paid for your participation. After the experiment is completed a memory purge will be performed. The purge will erase all of your memories of the experiment. Do you understand? Any questions so far?
- Be professional. Tell him you follow what's been said.
- Be cocky.
- Be curious. Ask if there's any danger.
The formality of the man is somewhat off-putting. He is clinical in his speech, methodical in his movements. Not a hair on his head is out of place. His white medical frock is pristine.
Me: There's no danger involved? Is there?
His answer is immediate.
Doctor Major Milgram: No. Not for you. Follow me please.
Doctors are unbearable enough when they're this serious -add to that a militaristic, uptight attitude and you've got this guy. You can't resist poking fun at his manner.
Me: One question. Does this come with lunch? Because I forgot to pack mine today?
Your attitude does not seem to register.
Doctor Major Milgram: No. There are no rations distributed during the experiment. Follow me please.
Me:
All choices continue:
You leave the room and continue down a narrow hallway heading away from the reception area. A row of doors greets you. Milgram unlocks one labeled Room C.
- Enter Room C.
You follow Milgram into a large room, the walls of which are lined with shelves overflowing with all manner of electronic and mechanical contraptions. An android, their sterile face smiling, their blue eyes glowing, greets you from behind a holo-screen hovering angelically above a surgical bed.
R2-Daedalus: Welcome Dylan Maria Del Vasquez-Pappas-Liposki-Chang. Please, lay down.
Milgram, stood beside you, feels as cold and distant as the android.
- Take a closer look around the room.
- Lay down on the surgical bed.
- Ask what all this is.
- Refuse to comply. You're done with this mission.
The shelves are crowded, but neat. One item stands proudly out from the rest, has an entire shelving unit reserved to itself: an octagonal helmet. The piece, designed to fit around a human head is eight sided at its base rising symmetrically to a point atop of which a small antennae sits. Antennas are a theme it would seem (say that line ten times rapidly when you’ve had a couple of stims). The structure of the helmet is lined with gold plates that reflect the room around it in a kaleidoscope of universes.
Tasers, laser, assorted handheld weaponry designed to dismember, make you never remember or wish you’d never seen a thing, line the opposing wall. At the far end of the room another three androids stare into a patterned wall of holo-screens.
The android speaks again. The voice is cold and strong, commands attention.
R2-Daedalus: Lay down.
- Try and get a look at the screens.
- Lay down on the surgical bed.
- Ask what all this is.
- Refuse to comply. You're done with this mission.
The holo-screens at the back of the room pique your curiosity. You'd very much like to see what those three androids are looking at.
You pretend to head for the surgical bed, but overshoot the bed and its attendant droid. Before you can be turned around you catch a glimpse of the screens.
On the holo-screens men and women, some of whom you recognize from the waiting room, run about an obscured environment in a frantic and frenzied manner. The screen's point of view appears to be a first person perspective, and when an individual is seen they are always wearing the octagonal headset. The participants wear either a vibrant orange jumpsuit or a black jumpsuit, the latter seems to sparkle, deflect light. You hear nothing, but a feeling of anguish comes through the holo-terminals -a silent scream from an unseen mouth.
R2-Daedalus: This way. Lay down.
The droid has their cold fingers on your shoulder. You stop. The icy voice exerts an invisible force on you.
You're concerned and not about to lay down on a surgical table without getting some answers.
Me: Lie down? For what?
You are looking at Milgram, but he does not answer you. The man is silent still, only his eyes dart about in their sockets: observing, registering.
It is the droid that answers you.
R2_Daedalus: There is no need for concern. I require that you lie down so that I may attach the F-LAM: Frontal Lobe Amplification Helmet.
The word "I" from the android's vocal box, hangs distinct and foreign in the air.
R2-Daedalus: The F-LAM will register your responses to the experiment as well as allow us to influence your decision making while under observation. These functions will not interfere with your CORETECHS or underlying brain activities.
And again, in cold litany.
R2-Daedalus: Lay down.
The android is one bridge too far for you. Sparky will need to figure out what goes on in these experiments without you. You're not about to let anyone, let alone a creature whose only understanding of pain is simulated, do anything to you on a surgical bed.
Me: Thanks, but no thanks. I'll pass.
Further discussion with Milgram proves fruitless. You are escorted to another room, fittingly labelled "F" and a memory purge is performed.
You feel a momentary unease, as though several people had brushed up against you in a crowd, jostling you slightly in rapid succession. You are more irritated than disoriented. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something, but can’t remember what or where to look. The feeling fades. Your vision doubles for a brief moment.
The next thing you know you're back at the bar. You twirl the antennae between your fingers. You are no longer Dylan Maria, you're yourself and glad of it. You'll have a drink before you head back over the Final Fence to tell Sparky the little you still know.
Mission failure
You have failed the "Thereafterward" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
You lie down on the bed. The android looks down at you with its iris-less blue eyes.
R2-Daedalus: I am going to attach the F-LAM: Frontal Lobe Amplification Helmet. This will not hurt.
- Look at the droid.
The android walks over to the wall and takes an octagonal helmet from the shelves.
Milgram watches the proceedings like a statue.
Another android has joined you, a syringe entwined in its mechanical fingers.
R2-Daedalus: You will be sedated to ensure an unencumbered neural graft. This will not hurt.
You feel the needle. The room's ceiling is beige. The neons cast their dead light down onto your prone body. The room goes dark.
- Open your eyes.
The sound comes first. The sound of soft, repeated friction, like that of waves made of cloth lapping on imagined shores.
You open your eyes. The F-LAM helmet is fit tight around your head.
You feel a momentary unease, as though several people had brushed up against you in a crowd, jostling you slightly in rapid succession. You are more irritated than disoriented. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something, but can’t remember what or where to look. The feeling fades. Your vision doubles for a brief moment.
R2-Daedalus: Stand please. Orient yourself.
- Stand up.
You overcome the strange and off-putting feeling having this F-LAM contraption strapped to your head evokes. Slowly you stand upright and steady. Your clothes have been removed. You are wearing a dark, glittering jumpsuit.
Me: So, what now? And I think someone has my clothes.
R2-Daedalus: You have been fitted with a reflective body suit to minimize detection. Your belongings have been catalogued and stored. They will be returned to you upon completion of the mission.
Me:
Either choice continues:
Milgram and the android stare at you. The emotion these two emote would make the ice caps on asteroids blush.
R2-Daedalus: We will proceed with the sync-testing. Please raise your right hand.
The sound comes first again. Faint and distant. That brushing sound of fabric on fabric -ever so carefully. In an instance it's gone.
Your left arm doesn't move. You feel odd, as though you're stuck in the wrong gear on your cruiser, the thrusters set to reverse when you're expecting to jolt forward.
R2-Daedalus: Resistance noted and catalogued. Sync established.
Either choice continues:
Me: What the hell have you bastards done to me? How come I can’t move my arm?
Milgram eyes you with a look that is almost surprised, as though he did not know that the creature addressing him possesses the ability to speak.
Doctor Major Milgram: Please feel free to express yourself in any way you see fit. A wide range of emotional input is beneficial to our experimentation. That said, it is imperative that you be fully apprised of the experiment’s parameters. Your emotional reactions must be sincere. Please do not be concerned. Your inability to move your arm is entirely expected.
- Be patient. Wait for him to continue.
Me:
Either choice continues:
Milgram looks you over, then continues to speak.
Doctor Major Milgram: The F-LAM controlled by R2-Daedalus has partially overridden some of your motor functions. You will see that, if you concentrate hard enough, you are capable of wrestling control back from the override command.
- Be patient. Ask what he means by override.
You remain calm.
Me: What do you mean by override?
Doctor Major Milgram: This experiment, amongst other things, aims to determine which human brain functions can be subdued or subjugated -and which cannot. You will find that, with effort you can combat an order issued through the F-LAM. Try lifting your right leg. R2-Daedalus will issue a contravening order through the F-LAM.
- Try and remove the helmet.
You've had about as much as you're going to take of this experiment. You reach for the helmet and attempt to unstrap the device from your head.
A painful jolt of electricity rips down your spine. You curl forward in agonizing pain.
Doctor Major Milgram: Please. That is one function you won't be permitted to perform. The F-LAM helmet must stay on until the experiment is completed. You signed up for this. Improper removal of the device could damage it -and you. Now please. Try and lift your right leg. You will be met with some resistance.
- Lift your right leg.
You're not holding all the cards in this situation. May as well comply. You take a deep breath and begin to lift your right leg, knee first into the air.
Your limb does not seem to respond. Is your leg asleep?
The effort is incredible, but you manage to raise your right knee into the air. You collapse onto the floor, panting for breath.
Milgram and R2-Daedalus look down over you.
R2-Daedalus: Vitals stable.
Me: What's the point of all this?
- Look at Milgram.
The doctor ushers you over to a seat and sits down next to you. It is the first humane act you've seen him perform.
Doctor Major Milgram: Take a few deep breaths, it will help.
Either choice continues:
Doctor Major Milgram: Human beings have harnessed machines to do their bidding. The control we have over our technology is unprecedented in human history. We are capable of programming machines to execute the most complex of tasks; we are capable of creating machines endowed with computational abilities that vastly overwhelm our own. Indeed machinery has become so advanced that simulated and artificial intelligences dwarf ours, and yet….
You wait patiently for the doctor to continue.
He looks you up and down again and resumes.
Either choice continues:
Doctor Major Milgram: And yet, we retain unequivocal and total control over these intellectually superior beings. But what if the tables were to turn, and our creations themselves attempted to control us? How would they go about it? And would we be able to resist? Might it be better if they did control us? Not all these questions, of course, will be answered in this study. I doubt we will even scratch the surface.
He pauses, and for the first time you see him smile.
Doctor Major Milgram: To put it simply to you. Given the ability, how would an AI or an SI control a human being -and how would that human being react to such control?
- State the obvious: "Machines can't make decisions."
- Ask a question: "You think a human would do the bidding of a machine?"
Me: You really believe something like that could ever happen?
The doctor seems perplexed by your question.
Doctor Major Milgram: Whyever not? Human beings obey commands all their lives -and from other human beings no less. Throughout the history of humankind men and women have undergone the most horrific of fates at the behest of their betters. But were they really their betters? Human beings have inflicted the greatest of atrocities on their own kind, again and again and again. And when asked why, the response was almost inevitably, “I was following orders.” Maybe someone else, rather something else should be making decisions for humanity.
Me: Isn't artificial intelligence incapable of complex decision making?
Doctor Major Milgram: That is a debated point. And one that I am exploring here. You see, the basic laws of robotics prohibit a robot to directly or indirectly cause harm to a human being, or to humanity at large. But no harm is being done to human beings in these trials. The parameters are purely experimental. But even if they weren’t, what would a simulated intelligence do when faced with a decision that contravenes laws imposed on it? What if harming one human being would save hundreds, or thousands?
After you've seen both branches:
- Be skeptical.
Me: That can’t be known. Humans decide their fates, not robots.
Doctor Major Milgram: True. Humans, thus far have determined their fate -and look where it’s gotten us. Floating aimless and lost through space -the only thing binding us together is a common mistrust and a shared social amnesia. Hardly pillars to stand proud on, no? These experiments are the first steps in a long, long journey of discovery.
Me: How exactly do you test for these questions exactly?
Milgram has the answer at the ready.
Doctor Major Milgram: By having an AI determine the outcome of a conflict between humans.
He smiles again, and his smile is unsettling. Smiling does not suit this man.
Doctor Major Milgram: The test is simple. It will all be explained to you at the Stadium.
Me: You think this experiment will answer all these questions?
Milgram straightens in his chair.
Doctor Major Milgram: I don’t believe we’ll be answering such lofty questions today. I’ll need to be satisfied by the exploration of the disconnect between decisions made by a machine programmed to be logical, but executed by an animal still possessed by instinct and governed by passion. Come. Time to go.
- Follow the android.
Whether entirely of your own free will or not -you're not exactly certain- you follow R2-Daedalus out of the Sick Bay. Milgram leaves you, disappearing into a room without as much as a "goodbye" or a "good luck". The man, under the most generous of assessments, could not be considered a warm or comforting being, but you miss him almost immediately. The android, its holo-screen hovering before it, leads you dispassionately onto a shuttle bound for the Stadium.
Head to the Stadium on the shuttle.
Next area: Decommissioned Area (Stadium), Ross 154 Jump Gate
- Approach the Stadium.
The shuttle is a spherical vehicle that hovers just over a thin magnetic strip running throughout the center of JG-154. The man sat across from you is unknown to you. A Mall by the look of him with a square face and dark eyes. The F-LAM sits comically atop his giant head.
Outside the beige bland landscape zips by in muted sepia.
In the distance you can make out the contours of the infamous War Games Stadium -the pride and joy (to some) of JG-154.
You make contact with the only other human being on the shuttle.
Gregor Colfax: My name is Colfax. What's yours?
The androids look straight ahead, not a hint of existence creases their plastic faces.
It’s probably not the wisest course of action, but where would we be without manners? You answer him.
Me: Dylan Maria.
Gregor Colfax: That’s a strange name. My sister is named Maria. She doesn’t like me taking part in these. She says I take part in too many. She says it’s scrambling my brain. She says that thereafterwards I speak funny. I think that she might be right.
The Mall has his words mixed-up. You clarify them for him.
Me: It’s thereafter or afterwards. Not thereafterwards.
He grins again. Nods.
A CORETECHS payment comes through on Dylan Maria's CORETECHS.
- Receive incoming transmission
A message flashes across your CORETECHS:
A payment of 200 credits is being transferred to your bank. This payment will not appear in your CORETECHS bank log so as to not be affected by memory purges. Subsequent payments throughout the experiment will also be transferred directly to your indicated bank account.
- Look back at Colfax:
Gregor Colfax: Get paid?
Mission success
You have received 200.00 credits.
He does not wait for you to answer.
Gregor Colfax: Me too. Hopefully this time I'll make a lot more.
You begin to speak. Begin to ask him what he means by "this time", but Colfax, his voice as large and loud as his head is still talking.
His dark eyes are kind. They remind you of something fragile, something vulnerable.. The sound enters your head again. Distant and grating, yet familiar, almost missed. You look at Colfax. He smiles as he speaks.
Gregor Colfax: Thereafterwards. You're right. There's no such thing.
The yellow teeth seem to laugh beneath the chapped lips.
Gregor Colfax: Thereafterwards. You see? She’s right? Scrambles the brain. No one cares what happens thereafterwards. We all end up there though -don’t we?
The shuttle glides silent over the slender magnetic strip towards the towering walls of the Stadium. The Jump Gate goes about its tedious militaristic rituals. What lies in wait for you, beyond those grim stadium walls? Only time will tell. Colfax's words hang over the evening segments like invisible stars.
"No one cares what happens thereafterwards."
What more is there to say? The Mall with the dark, kind eyes has said it all.
Mission success
You have completed the "Thereafterward" mission.
References
- The spherical shuttles appearing to swallow the dots is a reference to the video game Pac-Man.
- The swooshing, humming antenna reminds you of a lightsaber.
- Dr. Milgram is a reference to social psychologist Stanley Milgram, and to his eponymous experiment on obedience to authority.
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