Trust Me

Geryon's Code Cycle | The Orphaned Earth | Chapter 7

Veliard Reed, November 5, 2140

“Does the Deadman write those creepy lyrics too?”
“No, I do,” Wilhelmina replied serenely, covering my hand with hers. Talking about outside reality was a breach of the unspoken but strict etiquette of the Omniverse. But for the first time, curiosity gnawed at me harder than the rules.

“So much pain… Is something that bad happening to you out there?”
“It already happened, Veliard. One bad person—and everything went off the rails.”
“Your father? Boss? Lover?”
“Neither.”
“Could I help you?”
“You can’t. There are abysses I shouldn’t drag others into.”
“Is he in the Omniverse?”
“Everyone’s in the Omniverse now... The trouble is, I have no idea which disguise he wears.”
“He has that many avatars?”
“Too many to count.”
“So, the guy’s wealthy...”
“Don’t try to find him, Veliard. And it’s better if he never knows about you.”
“If he’s stalking you, we can’t just leave it like that.”

It felt strange, talking about things like that while enjoying the beautiful weather and the slow, steady way we were growing closer. In the Omniverse, people could indulge in the wildest erotic fantasies. But today, I discovered how wonderful it was just to walk with Wi around a cozy little island in the Baltic Sea, hopping across rooftops with a bottle of wine and a simple lunch stashed in my backpack. Every now and then, I’d pull her close and shower her with kisses.

I kept reminding myself that outside the virtual world, disappointment might be waiting—something harsh and unforgiving. But what did the offline world matter now? It was hostile. The only place that felt like home was here.

“Listen, I can actually do something out there. I have enough—”
“You don’t,” Wilhelmina said firmly.

And just then, I remembered an old rule my mother had instilled in me—never pressure someone unless it’s a matter of life and death. Unless you're ready to break their ribs to get to the truth, it's better to back off and just pay closer attention. If they feel safe, they’ll open up—step by step.

“Ever heard the legend of the Shadow?” Wi asked as we lay there, watching the clouds and guessing what animals they looked like.
“Can’t remember.”
“They say a ghost haunts the Omniverse. A man who died while connected, and now his mind lives on here…”
“If only things were that simple,” I replied.

You had to tread carefully with topics like that. I hadn’t worked directly on the Soul Depository project, but I knew enough to slip up if I wasn’t careful. I still wasn’t ready to reveal my connection to Nautilus.

“I’ve also heard he became what the Moon Cross call the Prophet.”
“I thought the Prophet belonged to Islam,” I lied again. A strange sensation prickled across my skin—phantom hairs standing on end. Damn body memory.

Since my mother perished, I’d spent some time digging into the Moon Cross—and I had access to tools far more powerful than what ninety-five percent of the planet could dream of. There really were mentions of a Prophet, but only at the very top of their hierarchy—among the so-called Priors, Marshals, and Commanders.

For a while, I assumed the fanatics had just invented some symbolic figure, like an Archangel Gabriel knockoff. What made things trickier was that they rarely used email and never touched holographic communication. Which meant they had to pass information either face-to-face, by drone mail—or through the Omniverse, which looked tailor-made for this kind of gathering.

Rent out a place like the Palace of Bloody Orgies or the Temple of Heavenly Delights for a "private party," activate a group anonymizer—and instead of an orgiastic free-for-all, you’re quietly planning terrorist attacks. What could be easier?

Sure, it took money, skilled coders, and seasoned players to maintain that kind of secrecy—but the fact they’d nearly gotten to me told me they had no shortage of any of it.

Since the copter crash, twelve cells had been uncovered—five in the Sub-Cities, three in small towns, and another four directly within the Omniverse. None had managed to do any real damage; even the cell leaders, who went by the title Fishermen, held only modest ranks.

Analysis of seized computers and the memories of those detained showed that the Fishermen’s bosses communicated exclusively through the Net. But when we tried to trace those higher-ups, we ran into something unexpected: they’d never registered accounts. Their connection points and timestamps were unknown, as if they weren’t even real people—but NPCs, mimicking life inside the Omniverse.

It took millions of years for the first amino acid chains to emerge from Earth’s primordial soup. It would likely take just as long for even the simplest bot to spontaneously appear in a network—unless, of course, it was written by an Omniverse engineer... or by another program.

Which meant the tentacles of the Moon Cross had already wrapped around my own corporation—and its cornerstone creation.

We launched a series of quiet internal audits and uncovered about a dozen individuals connected to the Brotherhood. Among them were three Omniverse architects and one character engineer. But here’s the catch: they’d all been recruited by someone else.

And that’s when I heard the name again—the Prophet.

The Prophet knew everything about those he chose as followers—down to their childhood wishes, shameful secrets, and deepest fears. That alone didn’t surprise me. The top recruiters, psychologists, and corporate spies at Nautilus—armed with the latest tech—could just as easily be called clairvoyants.

But there was more. Our villain influenced minds through music—compositions he apparently wrote himself, slipping them to people under various pretexts, each track tailored to the individual.

The music contained frequencies beyond the range of human hearing but capable of weakening neocortical control. Not magic—just physiology and biophysics.
The “victim” would fall in love with the melody, convinced they’d never heard anything more beautiful. They’d listen to it dozens, hundreds of times, while their brain gradually became more malleable. Critical thinking dulled. Strange dreams began to haunt their sleep.

Before long, the chosen ones became open to suggestion. The Prophet used each recruit’s values, struggles and hopes to convert them to his belief system. And that belief was blunt as a slap: by turning away from God and deifying technology, humanity, arrogant and foolish, turned into a monkey with a grenade. And when that dumb monkey finally pulled the pin, the true believers would be ready to usher in the kingdom of God under the Prophet’s wise guidance.

I didn’t show it, but I was deeply unsettled.

First, my knowledge of Wi started with the haunting song which took my breath away. Second, the song pressed on my greatest fear.

Third, after surviving the crash and losing my mother, I’d felt completely unmoored—more alone than ever. And Wilhelmina, with her odd behavior and sudden presence, had come into my life at just the right moment to light up my life with new emotion.

Now, almost casually, she’d brought up the Prophet. That’s four.

What exactly was she hoping for, after the sect nearly had me killed? Or had her handlers decided it was easier and wiser to recruit me rather than eliminate me?

More than anything, I wanted to shout, Go on, just say it—what do you want from me? But trained by my mother to keep a cool head, I simply asked, as casually as I could:
“Where’d you even pick up those stories?”

“In the Abyss, of course! The stories are the softest thing you can hear there,”

“You and Deadman don’t belong to them, do you?” I tried to sound as if I was joking, even teasing. “Your songs are all about the same stuff. Scorching sun, the end of the world, Earth without humans…”

“Alright, you got me,” Wi smiled again. “Not too long ago, I really was at their gathering for new recruits. And nearly died…” she waited a second. “Of boredom.”

Her “bad guy” may belong to the cult. At least, that’s what she needs me to believe, I thought.

Some time later I asked if the songs of '“Cryptides” was available offline. With a broad smile and blue eyes lit up with happiness, she reached into her bag and proudly handed me a CD—generic plastic case, name of the album handwritten with a waterproof market: “Kill Me, Infinity.”

Downloading it from my player inventory on a file storage, I went over the music files with a fine-tooth comb.

I even brought in two trusted specialists to help without going into details. Never thought I’d feel so relieved when my fears turned out to be wrong. No viruses, no potentially harmful frequencies. It was just music—maybe even written by a real, living person who seriously approached his duties in the virtual world.

---

March 26, 2143

Even now, months after the catastrophe, I’m more convinced than ever that Wilhelmina knew—or at least suspected—what was coming.

Back when our happiness was in full bloom, she gave me an old book on radio engineering. In the Omniverse, it looked like a typical mid-20th-century paperback textbook. I’d studied with very different materials, and under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have given it a second glance. But love makes you do strange things.

I got curious, read through it in just a few evenings, and saved it to my digital library—which I later brought to Antarctica.

I couldn’t find out what was happening in the nearest city to the biostation—New Beijing. Outsiders simply weren’t allowed in, and the fact that I was with Winged Sun didn’t change anyone’s mind.

Railtown had sunk into despair. People dreaded the coming winter—the first without electricity. That’s when the stash of seeds I’d brought came in handy. By some miracle, I managed to trade them for a surviving microchip from one of the local stockpiles.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t compatible with communication equipment at home.

That’s when the book came back to me. It helped me build a simple radio receiver from whatever I had on hand—something not too different from what Marconi once put together.

The quantum comm device strapped to my wrist was out of the question. I’d kept it external—not implanted—so I could ditch it if needed and throw off anyone tracking me. But hoping for a working quantum signal in Antarctica? That was a lost cause, especially since even Heliopolis went silent.

Now, using my homemade receiver, I scan the airwaves every day, hoping to catch a signal from someone—anyone—who’s also managed to reestablish communication. Just to stay informed, to know what’s happening beyond this frozen nowhere.

Anyway… where was I?

Lovestruck girls give their boyfriends all sorts of gifts—some useful, most not. But something that ends up saving your ass at a critical moment?

I’m more inclined to believe this whole blackout circus was kicked off by actual demons crawling out of hell than to chalk it up to coincidence.

More than once, I was tempted to make my way to Heliopolis. One time, I even set out on the journey. But by the fifth day, I turned back. The risk of not returning was too high—and I’d grown too attached to my biostation, invested too much into its development to simply abandon it.

Believe it or not, an artificial body somehow dulls the need for human company. If they need me, they’ll remember on their own. They’ll come. They’ve got more resources anyway.

In the meantime, I’ll keep playing the role of a small-scale demiurge. Actually, why not build a couple more receivers and sell them in Railtown? The earnings should be enough to buy a sled full of fish or seal meat for my four-legged family. And the signal will start spreading across the continent again—since those brave railroad men still haven’t managed to put together their own radio station.

---

April 8, 2177

“Sir, is it true you’re a mutant?”
Sky-blue eyes scan me from the ground up.
“What? No, little one. I’m just like everyone else—two arms, two legs, two eyes.”
“But my dad saw you when he was a boy, and you haven’t aged a day since.”
“Ah, sorry—I must’ve forgotten it was time to start getting old!” I chuckled. “I’ll work on that.”

Really, though—thanks. Her father clearly isn’t the only one asking that kind of question.

So, after picking up the dried meat I just bought from the curious little girl, I head straight home without hesitation, even though it’ll be dark soon and a sane person would probably wait out the night in town.

Faithful Yanka has long since passed, and now I’m accompanied by Juan—a strong, imposing dog of the Greenland breed. Unlike my other dogs, he wasn’t born at the biostation. I bought him as a tiny ball of fluff in Railtown to console Selma, who was heartbroken after the loss of her newborn puppies.

Now Juan is fully grown—four times the size of his foster mom.

During my rare ventures into town, I have to be careful—not to move hundred-kilo boulders, not to make five-meter leaps, even when I really want to help someone.

As long as people think I’m flesh and blood, my biggest problem is haggling over prices with a trader. The elders who remember the Golden Age still treat me as an equal, but the younger ones? They’re a danger. To them, I’m just a collection of working chips, sturdy alloys, and valuable metals—with a powerful power unit thrown in.

It’s time for Railtown to forget I exist.

Once, I dreamed that humanity would defeat old age with my help—but in the end, I was the only one who succeeded. Two prototype bodies, still salvageable, were transferred long ago to the Njord, whose fate I no longer know. Reaching it now is out of the question.

But instead of Railtown, I could explore Seven Winds. I hadn’t been there since before the Blackout. There’s even a small Nautilus facility there, where we once conducted psionics research. The trouble is, the master key I kept after relocation was probably deactivated when they declared me dead.

I first noticed the tail back in town—four of them, two unfamiliar faces, probably out-of-town punks. After I left and followed the Highway, I soon spotted a handcar rolling out through the eastern gate. The unbreakable rule—not to engage within ten kilometers of any settlement—kept me tightly bound, so I took off running at the highest speed my human form could manage: forty kilometers an hour.

Delighted, Juan raced beside me. The handcar picked up speed in response.

I remembered what it felt like to be prey. I’d always known that a quiet life could end in an instant, but I’d grown careless—and now I was running again.

And from who? From savages, each one a child compared to me.
I would’ve gotten away without trouble if it hadn’t been for a cruel—and all too human—move: they struck at the weakest link.

My dog, who had started to fall behind, suddenly tumbled down the embankment, his leg shattered. One of those bastards had a gun.

Hearing Juan’s cry and the sound of his fall, I instinctively tucked into a roll and bolted after him—not thinking about the bullet I might catch, but about how I was going to drag him all the way back to the biostation.

He was whining, struggling to stand, and seeing him in pain, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time—rage.

Before the handcar could rattle up to us, I grabbed a vial of liquid bandage and sprayed the wound. Keeping a medkit close isn’t just a precaution—it’s a rule carved in stone.

I found a good spot to brace myself, picked up a rock, and waited.

Killing me wouldn’t help them—not that they could.
“Hey, freak!” one of them shouted, aiming a pistol. “Hands on your head!”

I obeyed, fingers clenched tightly around the rock, and whispered the trigger word for automated combat mode: dandelion. My fear was nothing more than leftover instinct.

“He’s holding something!” another called. “Show your hands, monster!”

“Here—you want a look?”

The stone flew as fast as the bullet—but unlike me, my opponent didn’t dodge. There was a scream. No, not a scream—a roar.

The others rushed in with axes and rods, but the fight ended faster than it began. I slammed two of them together so hard they dropped unconscious. My hand, transformed into a clawed paw, tore through the third’s face in three wide crimson streaks.

The group was down, though not dead. And a sense of satisfaction crept in. But I didn’t savor it.

“Why did you attack me?” I asked the guy with the slashed-up face. “Did I get in your way? Hurt someone?”

“No…” he wheezed, choking on fear. “We just wanted the fish… to resell…”

I said nothing. Just slowly extended my claws and raised them to his eyes, so he understood what lay ahead for those who lie.

He screamed—high-pitched and sharp, just like my poor dog did minutes earlier.
“And… and the treasure you’re hiding! We wanted to know why you don’t age!”
“Was it really that hard to ask like a human being?”
“Forgive me! By the Sun, forgive me! I have kids!”
“Maybe you should’ve remembered them when your buddy shot at mine.”

If he weren’t completely in my power, he’d argue that dogs are just livestock, transport, warm fur—anything but children. But right now, all he could do was wisely stay silent.

“If you had even a sparrow’s worth of brains,” I said, rising to retrieve the fallen gun, “you’d have known better than to cross someone who’s beaten aging.”

But before I could switch back into combat mode, the gun’s original owner pulled something from under his jacket and hurled it.
Clang!

A blinding flash. The next moment, I was fire.

Level-three threat detected—critical damage to external layer that would have killed a biological human. My synthetic skin was burning away, exposing what I truly was.

Under the embankment, Juan whimpered again.

I flashed back to the plane crash. And for the first time in years—I felt fear.

The raiders could’ve finished me off. They had a chance.

But they didn’t.

They ran.

Screaming like they were being torn apart.

Because they’d seen it—what I am.

A living, thinking being of metal and carbon. Stronger. Smarter.
Beyond anything they could ever be.

Realizing my human form is gone—not metaphorically, but in the most literal sense—I stripped away the last scorched shreds of clothing and charred skin. My body shifted, reshaping into something more beast than man.

Before they could scramble back onto the rail cart, I was there—two leaps, no more. The screech of titanium claws on metal was enough to send them scattering into the twilight. I could’ve chased them down, torn them open like sacks of grain. Nothing could’ve stopped me.

But thankfully, I had known Winged Sun. A being whose mission was to sow life in barren land would never take pleasure in slaughter.

I took the stolen gun. If this could happen right outside Railtown, then nowhere was safe.

But what haunted me more than the men… was the animals.

How would I feed them now, when the sight of me could send a town into panic? When any road into civilization was now closed?

The worst pain is when someone else pays for your mistakes.

I gathered the dried fish that had spilled from my half-burned backpack. Watched my would-be killers until they vanished into the dusk. Then I returned to Juan, scratching behind his soot-dusted ear.

He sniffed my scorched skin and recoiled, wrinkling his nose—but his tail thumped against the gravel, and his head pressed into my skeletal hand.

When someone still needs you—no matter what you look like—you’re already luckier than most of the people left on Earth.

And Wilhelmina...
If she saw me now—
Would she be afraid?

I looked up, searching the bruised sky for answers. I’d bet someone invented God in a moment of absolute loneliness. Then I saw it—a flicker, a slow-moving glint overhead. A satellite. A forgotten thing still circling the planet, waiting for a world that no longer needed it.

I lifted Juan into the rail cart, made sure he was comfortable, and pushed off down the tracks. The Highway would take us most of the way. After that, I’d carry him up the mountain. It would be harder for him than for me.

For the first time, I regretted coming out so far. But there’s no use grieving trouble that hasn’t happened yet.

Then a green light flickered on my wrist.

Quantum link. Damn it. Could it be—Heliopolis, finally remembering I exist?

Took them long enough.

“Receiving,” I said silently, activating the headset and bringing the cart to a halt.

“Veliard…”

She was alive. Alive, after all these years.

“Vi, you’re going to have to explain everything to me,” I said, though what I really wanted to say was something entirely different. But I knew I’d die inside if I didn’t learn the truth. “First—where are you?”

“Somewhere you can’t reach… and where I can’t escape.”

“Second—who are you?”

“As you might’ve guessed, I’m not human, Veliard. I’m a phantom. A construct. An artificial intelligence.”

“You come from a Soul Depository,” I said at last—the truth that had haunted me for years. “One of our clients… or maybe even staff. You always knew who I was—didn’t you? You knew from the start. You don’t even have to admit it. I don’t care. Even if you were a man in your previous life—it doesn’t matter. What matters is who you are now, and what you’ve done for me. Love, why did you stay silent so long?”

“Each contact between us may lethal for both of us. Even now, I wouldn't have spoken to you. But another cart’s coming, and you don’t want a new fight now that your dog is injured.”

“So… You’ve been watching...”

Far above Juan and me, a tiny white dot moved in the sky.

“Yes, my love. And I’m desperately looking for a chance to join you. Please, trust me. I’m asking for nothing more than your trust.”

Once, I’d had enough of her secrets. I gave her a ring—one that was actually a virus in disguise. I needed to be sure she wasn’t working for the Prophet.

She saw through it immediately. Logged out of the Omniverse, threw the ring at my feet, and left.

The only thing I learned from that trick? Her connection point was on the Moon.

And honestly, that made sense. Maybe she was part of the Sogdiana or Solveig crews. More likely, she’d masked her trail from Earth. Back then, both the Lindons and the Soviets had reasons to keep eyes on me.

The Soviet leaders wanted to win me over and have access to my technologies. The Lindons desired my company. No doubt, if I resisted, they would take my life, too.

The timing of Wilhelmina’s return—right when I stood at a crossroads—pushing me toward Winged Sun… it reeked of long-planned persuasion. I always suspected she worked for them.

Despite the noise around the Mars revolution, it wasn’t the Russians I feared. It was the Lyndons.

Moving to Antarctica was my way out. And maybe that was their plan all along.

In the end, they got what they wanted: they removed me without spilling a drop of blood, then swallowed most of Nautilus whole. I had no doubt some of them had survived the Blackout in an underground bunker. Maybe, it was in Antarctica, too.

Which meant…

Wilhelmina could’ve been one of their constructs. Refined. Perfected. Trained to pass for a human in every way.

“That’s too cruel of you, Wi” I said. “To show up every few years, drop another riddle in my lap, and vanish again—leaving me alone like I was just a machine to begin with. Didn’t it ever occur to you I might stop waiting?”

“No, Veliard. It’s not hard to be alone. The real torture is being forced to part with someone you can’t let go of. Do you understand that? What do you mean by “stop waiting?” You’re not going to take your own life, are you?”

“Huh. You saw it yourself—there’s always someone willing to help.”

“Listen, love,” she said. “You’ve got a real enemy, not just a bunch of brainless hobos. Right now, he’s just not focused on Antarctica, but things may change.”

“Anyone smarter than the Railtown scum would want me alive. Even the hypothetical Lindons.”

“I’m taking a hell of a risk telling you this. But you need to know three things.” She took a breath.

“One. You’ve been almost right. I am entirely a digital entity. But I’ve never been a human of flesh and bone, even though I spent years believing otherwise.”

“Let me guess… You’ve been created to spy on me?”

“Things are creepier, Veliard. Believe it or not, I’m a system error which developed its own personality. Let’s shift to number two—your mother’s death. That was the Prophet. Not maybe. Not probably. Definitely. The moment he finds out we had a talk, he’ll come fix that error…”

And with those words—that error—Wilhelmina slipped, revealing her biggest secret. One so vast, her artificial origin no longer shocked me.

“Three… The Prophet is Geryon Lindon and I’m afraid, he doesn’t need you alive..”

See Book 1: No Life but Immortality