The craft shudders. In the cockpit's view-screens the stars disappear, and a strange resonance begins pulsating in my head. I close my eyes, gently massaging them while I manage the disorientation.
In the darkness behind my eyes, I "see" several massive, wide band concentric rings surrounding something titanic. Some of the "bands" seem to completely encompass its orbit while others are mere "ribbons" in comparison. Dotted in the empty spaces are spheres, in various placements. And among them are even smaller things, tiny and indistinct.
We start moving, a tiny thing accelerating rapidly. "What am I seeing?" I think before I am interrupted.
"You are immune." West says, still talking about zombies. "You're at least an Olympian Splice. Your mitochondrial DNA matches the mods in the actress who portrays our Storm." Noticing that she had not stopped my distress, she adds. "There have been no outbreaks since we took possession of the planet twenty solar years ago."
"How long have you been here?" Carnifax asks changing the subject. "When were you Culled?"
I feel like I've been asserting this nearly constantly for the last few days. "I was culled around two-and a half months ago."
"The sooner he is on set, the sooner he can acclimate and reduce environmental stress." West says.
"I was on set less than a day after arriving." Carnifax says.
"Same." Said one of the pilots.
"Exalt, I think you are expecting instant immersion." West says. "There are on set facilities you can visit to decompress before going back out. They are not absolute havens, but it helps us to acclimate. You'll see."
I take a deep breath. "What happens when we die?"
"Unless you have a power to resurrect youurself, or otherwise preserve yourself, Mr. 'elder god' telepath, you stay dead." West says. "Many faiths are represented on IC-GC1 you can worship as you wish."
That is not what I meant but, I leave it alone. "Sorry for all the questions. It probably seems like I am not taking this well."
"You are fine." West says. "We would not have hired you otherwise. The only downside is that you can't go through one of our BSM's for fine tuning. If you want a power make over you have to do more than just participate in an event like the Megafauna Spectacular."
"Did you get what you wanted Carnifax?" I ask.
He gives me a hard look. "I thought I did." What he is thinking is. "How in the fuck is he reading my thoughts and how far can he read?"
I turn away from his mind and check the others. Outside of the pilots, Producer West, Carnifax, and myself, the rest of our party are androids, battle androids. Their thoughts are extremely organized and networked, communicating with each other.
When I touch the pilots' minds, I learn what I saw when the stars disappeared.
We are in interstitial space, and I am "seeing" the mass reflections of the bodies in this part of the solar system. No, not just "solar system," the inner layers of a Matrioshka shell... what some would call, a type of Dyson sphere; an entire star surrounded my multiple rings with the whole thing sealed off by a massive outer shell. If the whole thing is covered, how are we seeing stars?
I snatch my awareness back inside my head, even managing to blank out the map of interstitial space that I do not recall even conceiving , much less asking for.
"You look disturbed." West is looking at me intently.
"We're in a Dyson Sphere." I say.
"It is more complex than that." She replies. "And the Audience is actually the population of a network of Matrioshka Shells. Do you know what that is?"
"Nested semi-permeable layers to maximize energy capture, named after the Russian nested dolls." I say dully.
"This is why there is no escape outside of death." She says. "Our... patrons... control the power of stars and they freely distribute it among the shells. Even if we somehow managed to control of this sphere, and when you consider the size and our ignorance about the very physics that make us function..." She shrugs. "We make do."
"So, the Kryptonian and Herald class Talent are scary powerful, but not top-end comic-book powerful." I say.
"Correct." She says. "And do not bandy that around."
"I won't, but why tell me?" I say.
"I think that you are not going to Immerse." She says. "But you will be able to Blend."
"You think the suppression field is going to fail?" Carnafax asks.
"Yes." She says. "Same way it stopped working on you when you became an Olympian."
"Suppression?" I ask. "Oh... so I won't think outside of 'the fourth wall.'" I blink.
Carnifax finally smiles. "There you go." He looks to West. "I told you he'll be alright."
"I knew that when I accepted Rikkard's offer." West says. "He still has to be vetted by the Continuity Police."
"I think they'll let him in." Carnifax says. "Thanks to how you dressed him, he can even go in as a street kid." He looks at me, an odd questioning, expression on his face. "Lotus, Exalt, have you ever read City of Night?"
"The book with the chapter featuring Miss Destiny?" I ask.
He smiles wider. "Yeah. If you read that, then you know what to expect. Hopefully that will be the worst of it."
City of Night by John Rechy, published towards the end of the beat generation, depicts the life of a young drifter who made his money by prostituting himself. It is lurid without being overtly sexual. It is best known for its depiction of the lives of outcast gay young people living their lives on the edge during a time where being gay was criminal. Hell even drag, or "masquerading" was grounds for being arrested.
I take off the Wayfarers. "This... isn't just X-Men, it's Marvel Comics' Earth, an alternate depiction?"
"The Continuity Police can answer your questions." Carnifax says. "But don't ask too many questions, or he will get nervous." He peers at me. "What color are your eyes?"
"Citrine." I reply.
"Why?" He asks.
"Because I was not allowed any of the colors I wanted." I say. "This color was at the edge of the collision of green, orange, and yellow. Not banned, but a subtle combination of banned colors, very subtle. So I took it. I had to fight for the hair too.
I had no choice about my body. I wanted to look like you. Okay not exactly like you, but I wanted to be tall and muscular, not a hairless, alien-looking escape from an anime with barn-door shoulder blades." I sigh. "Okay, I chose the wide ass shoulders because it was the only way that I could see 'man' in my silhouette."
"And the donkey dick isn't a sign?" Carnifax presses.
"When I'm walking down the street, you don't see my cock." I reply.
He smirks. "That's what you think."
I manage to blush so hard I turn a shade darker. Carnifax falls over laughing. Well, not quite falls, the safety belts hold him in place.
We decelerate sharply, Carnifax laughing through the breaking. The ship bucks, but does not feel like it actually moved. The stars come back, and there is a planet, blue and green, covered with wisps of white clouds. The ship shudders again, and the light coming from the stars and sun takes on a sickly cast, oscillating from pink to purple and back. Two massive spherical space stations appear each sitting on a pole, one north and one south seemingly utterly stationary.
"Woah." I mutter.
"Why do so many people culled over the last decade-and-a-half sound like surfers?" Carnifax says, shaking his head.
We change course, heading towards the northern station.
"Welcome to Imagineering Consolidated-Content Generator One." Producer West says. "Our lone solely-owned self-sustaining production planet."
I have no words, so I nod rather stupidly and gape until the planet is out of immediate sight and we are heading for an equatorial groove in the sphere, which resolves into a row of landing bays.
We creep slowly into the brightly lit chamber, the pilot maneuvering us deftly, into a berth. The craft seems to sigh when it finally settles down, and West and the androids stand up.
"It was good working with you 'Fax." West says, turning to me. "Do not fuck up."
With that, she, the androids, and the pilots leave us alone in the ship.
"Exalt, may I ask you a question?" Carnifax asks.
"Go ahead." I reply.
"Did you know that you were being filmed having sex?" He asks.
I swallow. "Yes."
"And you did it anyway?" He asks.
"Titus said it was my only opportunity to demonstrate what my personal and preferences and predilections were before being put out to the field." I say. "Titus is my type physically, but he likes girls...mostly.
With some sort of drug, he can get it on with guys. He took it before he came in with my clothes. I was so... so scared that the Producers would get angry with me when I never hooked up with any woman they arranged me to cross paths with... I went ahead and did it, monitoring the experience telepathically to make sure I was not injuring him."
"And they... they just broadcast it like it was so much... cheap porn." Carnifax says. "No context, no story. They must be really angry with you for spoiling the Megafauna Spectacular."
"Here I thought the plasma plume was going to spoil it." I cannot contain my sarcasm
"Would you have survived it?" He asks.
"I knew it was coming." I says. "So, yeah."
"Most of the others would not have." He explains. "It would have also scoured the field of weaker kaiju leaving injured people and monsters to flail at each other." He smiles. "But you had to go and make it an actual competition by warning us, and then you had the nerve to leave the field."
"So... how ruined is my reputation?" I ask.
"West and I have been communicating with the Continuity Police via entanglement rig, and the suggestions I made regarding the City of Night is their actual decision. They do not want anyone with such, well, pornographic footage as their first studio work with no actual narrative credits, near their marque stories and property. The Audience will be wondering when the sex will start and not how the story is progressing."
I touch his mind. I "see" the digital teleprompter his implant computer is projecting for him. The continuity police are feeding him information. They probably think that he is the best person to do so and could survive a tantrum if I threw one.
"Will... will I at least have somewhere to live?" I ask.
"Between the prize money, selling your outfit, and a few gifts that came in after your sextravaganza, a track-side walk up in a co-op was secured. You will have an identity. You won't be a cypher. Trust me, this is a good thing."
"And I'll have a place to bring tricks." I say with a brightness I don't feel but manage to force into my face.
"Somehow I don't think you will do that." He says. "But that is the role that has been opened for you."
"Where will I be based?" I ask. From the description it could be several places.
"New York City of course." He says, unable to keep a straight face like it was a foregone conclusion.
"Better than full on blood sports." I think.
I ask. "What else do I need to know? "
"The Continuity Police are waiting to escort you to your insertion." Carnifax stands. "Maybe we'll see each other inside."
The hangar is deserted except for an obvious robot with no consciousness activity. "Welcome to Orientation Lotus, Exalt. Please pay attention."
"Don't freak out too badly." Carnifax says. "We've all been where you were... well not exactly... but the sentiment is the same." He leaves, aiming for another exit.
Once Carnifax is gone, all of the doors in the room close.
"It is against our better judgment to allow you onto the set." The robot growls at me. "But, the programming team likes the tenuous way that you are tied into one of the Major Properties, without requiring being in said property to advance your potential storylines."
"But, you are the Continuity Police." I say. "If it is against your judgment, why are you allowing me in?"
"Our job is to maintain the integrity of this set at any cost; including maintaining society's structure against various threats from smart asses with delusions of top billing, to others who just want to watch the world burn to protest against the Audience."
I almost hesitate to ask. "How... do I violate the integrity of the set?"
"You don't." It says. "Not yet. Although we have been successful at minimizing your impact and hopefully you will be so depressed you will kill yourself."
I cock my head. "Is this reverse psychology? If not, you've overplayed your delivery."
"No, it is what we expect." It says.
"Based on what analysis?" I reply.
There was a very long silence and the robot begins speaking again. "According to your BSM record, you value legitimacy. You value authority. You value your education, and the legitimacy that it gives your self perception. You value and miss former perceived age. You miss your height, your size."
The robot's head cocks, mimicking me. "That's all gone now. According to the rough of the story you will bring to life, the boy who's body you commandeered, the body you wear, who just happens to be named 'Exalt Ayeshason. He is a sixteen year old only child, orphaned, emancipated.
You were left a small trust that pays a small stipened and maintains a tiny studio apartment, keeps your association fees, taxes, utilities and associated fees paid. You cannot alter the terms of the trust until you are chronologically twenty-five."
"Sixteen year-olds get jobs all of the time." I retort.
"Not sixteen year-old underage porn stars." The robot purrs. "Don't worry, every one's faces were blotted out except your own."
"How could you do that?" I splutter. "Why? And I'm not sixteen!"
"You look it." The evil bot replies. "The Audience will be entertained by your pain and rejection." The robot says as another robot arrives with several bundles in its arms which it sets down carefully.
"Please approach Lotus, Exalt." The new unit says with none of the venom of its companion.
I do and it hands me a wallet. Inside is a State of New York id card, a Social Security card, a laminated card with an emergency contact number to a "Sister Mary Guardwall at the 32nd Street Shelter."
"Who is 'Sister Mary Guardwall?'" I ask.
"Your, sponsor of sorts, in the city." The non-surly automation says. "Someone you can talk to with no fear of violating Immersion."
"There is no filming in the shelter?" I ask.
"No, but there are stringent rules." It says. "She will explain." It hands me a folio. "Here are your important legal papers. I would advise that you put them in your safety deposit box and the New York Offices of The Bank of Latveria."
"What?" I choke.
"It is an old and very solvent bank." The android says.
I was going to say "Dr. Doom is the king of Latveria," but an overwhelming feeling of choking danger almost made me black out. "I hope there are branches in other cities."
"I am sorry." It replies. "The only offices are in Latverian Embassies and Consulates."
I flip through the wallet and find two passports. "I have Latverian and American citizenship?"
"Yes, your parents were shady characters." The snarky-bot says. "Serpent cultists who died to keep a secret, one that only you hold. After birthing the vessel, they decided to hide the jewel from their benefactors. Good thing they were good at their jobs. No one knows who or where you are.
Their sacrifice and your soiled reputation will provide you with the agnst and impetus that will impell you into villany."
I stare at the robot. I sense no mind there. I also sense the Sword of Damocles about to be released onto my head.
The thing shrugs. "Or heroism. Villany is more likely. Preferred even."
I frown. The story strikes me as clunky and kludgy, but every impulse I have to comment brings back that feeling of impending danger.
Gooseflesh raises on my skin and I nod. "Latverian Embassy... check."
Non-evil robot hands me a large duffel bag. "There are three changes of clothes including shoes, underwear, hats, sunglasses, and sunglasses bands. Now, follow me please."
"Almost got you to break." The snark bot says. "Almost got you."
I pick up my duffel; and I follow my guide. A grid of light traces the air around it and a moment later, instead of a metallic, humanioid robot, I am following a woman in a stylized police uniform down a narrow hallway to another hangar where a police cruiser with "NYPD" emblazoned on the doors waits, sitting on what seem to be wheel-wells rotated down to be horizontal.
"Get into the front seat." Its voice has changed to an authoritative alto. "I do not want anyone thinking that you are in real trouble."
With my bag under my feet and myself firmly belted in, the police car exits the space station on an arcing dive for the eastern seaboard of the United States.