Aleksey Savchenko and Bert Jennings
CYBERSIDE
DEDICATION
To my beautiful wife Victoria and my son Kyryl for all the love and understanding they give me, to my family and “extended” family at Epic Game and all the game industry that have always been my never-ending source of inspiration.
To my very good friend Alice, who once told me that it doesn’t make any sense to be afraid of anything and so I never did again.
For my Father, thank you for sharing the love of reading with me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Alexander, Sergey, Chris, Scott, Evan, Svetlana, Olesya, Tim, Mike, Ilya, and Michael. Without your help, this book will probably won’t be written.
For Scott and Evan, without either of you, Cyberside would not be a reality.
Chapter 1: “Taciturn”
His worn, dusty jacket normally feels like a second skin, but as Taciturn stands at the crossroads overlooking the valley below, he contemplates taking it off. Even as the sun sinks behind him, he can’t help but notice how warm it is.
Unusually so.
It’s likely nothing more than the byproduct of an overloaded network, or perhaps simply a remnant of faulty code. But by any reckoning, something doesn’t feel right. This far out into the Cyberside, details are often overlooked. How many people even know about the sleepy cattle community before him? Nestled within rolling hills, the meager township barely merits a first look, let alone a second. Taciturn supposes that may be precisely the point.
A warm breeze stirs the thin strands of black hair straying from beneath his bullhide hat. With one hand, he pulls the wide brim down to just above his eyes. His other hand rests on the grip of the pistol holstered low on his thigh. As his fingers slide across the polished grain, Taciturn inventories his remaining cartridges, his eyes scanning the heads-up overlay before him. Satisfied with his findings he nods the display away.
“Not making that mistake again.”
The wind picks up, and a cloud of information dust swirls in the heat, forming a dust devil. He tracks the vortex of discarded data as it begins its meandering journey down towards the serene landscape below. Modest cottages and unassuming frame homes cluster around a main street of shops and businesses running parallel with the nearby riverbank. Even from a distance, it’s not difficult to mark the decidedly suspicious lack of activity throughout the quiet countryside.
This rural, family-centric paradise had once beckoned new Cyberside arrivals to establish a life far from the hustle and bustle of the ever-more-congested real-world cities. Enticed by the promise of a simpler way of life, the settlers had come in their droves, hoping to start anew.
Whatever rustic wholesomeness those earnest pilgrims had once come seeking, a palpable pall now hangs over these territories, the state of the remaining community a mute testament to the radically-diminished population. Relegated to a small cluster of data nodes on some server in the Real World, this town represents just a minute, backwater portion of the sprawling, generated world known as the Cyberside. Much like the run-down state of the township, the Cyberside is, if not a broken dream, then at least an eroded one.
“Well, better get this over with,” Taciturn mutters, to no one in particular. As he moves closer to the town, its dilapidation becomes increasingly more apparent. As one of the early-generation colonies within the Cyberside, this place – and so many others like it – had been one of the initial creations meant to offer humanity refuge from a dying planet – a digital escape designed to be a utopia. And destined to become a ruin.
A hawk cries out somewhere above him. Squinting into the sky, Taciturn continues muttering to himself.
“For a new home, we sure brought a lot of horrors.”
A ping to his communicator brings his attention back to the road. Stopping to push the bridge of his glasses up the ridge of his nose, he acknowledges the transmission and scans the Locale interface.
“Locale 26-5, this is James Reynolds, requesting access.”
The sound of his real name, even from his own lips, still makes him wince. It’s information he begrudgingly relinquishes when dealing with different Locales, an all-around unfortunate reminder of things past. These days, he goes by the name of his profession – Taciturn. The name for the silent, ruthless, efficient mercenaries who roam the Cyberside. The word Taciturn has long carried weight in the digital realm – a world that’s quickly devolved into a new Wild West.
Taciturns live without homes, taking on all manner of jobs, never asking too many questions – and naturally keeping to themselves. It’s not a path many would choose, but it suits James just fine.
The ruminations on his chosen career-path are interrupted by a soft, friendly female voice eerily devoid of accent, inflection or the slightest suggestion of regional derivation.
“Welcome, Mr. Reynolds, to Locale 26-5, known to residents as ‘Homestead.’ From our scans, it seems…”
Taciturn interrupts the program. “Yes, your scan is correct. I have no permanent Locale index.” As a gun-for-hire, he’s has lost count of how many times he’s had this conversation, and he knows it by heart. “I’m simply declaring a request for a temporary visit.” Methodically, he recites the catechism for which the Locale Program is already queuing up queries. “Reason for visit, business. Intended visit duration, less than 24 hours. Occupation, Taciturn. No previous visits to this Locale.” (“And no future ones if I can help it,” he finishes, under his breath.)
He takes this last opportunity to survey the township from a distance, waiting for a response. After a few seconds of silence, he wonders if his rote recital has somehow overwhelmed the outdated program with too much information. Eventually, the female voice responds.
“Thank you for your information, James Reynolds. Welcome. As acting protocol, let me wish you a pleasant stay in Homestead. If there is any additional information you require, I have access to over thirty exciting tourist—”
“What are your permanent indexation settings, Locale?” Another just-too-long pause. Apparently, this outlying interface is even more outdated than he first suspected.
“I must inform you, Mr. Reynolds, that due to my current settings, you will be permanently registered to the region in 24 hours after crossing the border.”
Sighing in frustration, Taciturn asks, “Permanent indexation restrictions and regulations?”
He braces himself, and the disembodied, irksomely-polite voice offers information that has far-reaching potential consequences for him.
“You wouldn’t be allowed to leave Locale boarders without filing a request to the Prime Locale in the West Coast HQ. While awaiting clearance, you will be subject to all regional rules and regulations. If indexed, you will be provided with necessary accommodation and a designated vocational assignment option that fits this Locale’s requirem—”
“No further inquiries.” The disembodied voice continues to speak, but he waves the connection closed.
The cautionary notice of permanent indexation hardly surprises him. A bit of particularly-toxic fallout from the Traffic Wars, peremptory indexation is a means of keeping populations in their place – or, more accurately, keeping them where the ruling powerhouses of the Cyberside want them. The details vary from Locale to Locale, but all are founded upon the same principle: Stay in an area too long without proper certification and you’re stuck there. In most cases, it’s as quick as 24 hours. Taciturn toggles his overlay to showcase Locale 26-5’s Indexation Border.