What the fuck, is the awakening mind's only thought at that.

The strange mechanical voice doesn't answer him.

>>> Diagnostic complete, all systems within accepted parameters. Good morning, Mr. Orland. Would you like to enter your personal virtual reality simulation?

My what.

>>> Your personal virtual reality simulation is your very own personal simulated world, complete with a simulated copy of your body. Most users find simulated reality more comfortable.

Sure, why don't we go with that. Also, a name, do I have one? I feel like I should have one. You called me Mr. Orland.

>>> You are James Orland, CEO of Dracarian Industries. Please stand by for simulation.

There is a strange sort of fizzling sensation at the edge of his mind, and then the feeling of falling, fallingspinningfalling...

... And then all at once, it stops. He is still and settled. Instead of nothing, he feels the weight of his limbs, and something soft beneath him. Air flows through his nose and into his lungs. His skin feels faintly warm, but only in certain places, like something is warming it.

He might realize that he has eyes now. If he so chooses, he can even open them.

James Orland. Yeah, that's his name, he recognizes it. Somehow.

It takes a bit, but eventually he does open his eyes and looks around. This place... is also familiar. "Where am I?"

He's in a large and comfortable bed, in a large and comfortable penthouse. Both look rather aggressively expensive, though it's not obvious how he knows that. Warm sunlight cascades through large windows that look out on a beautiful city skyline.

"You are in a stable orbit around the fourth planet from the sun designated F5V-692370162-49335-7B," says a voice to his left. There, a small robot hovers over the bed. Its sleek white frame gives no indication of any kind of expression, or face.

"I what."

"The phylactery containing your mind and soul is attached to a satellite, and is currently in orbit of the fourth planet of the star F5V-692370162-49335-7B."

"Bwuh?" Phylactery, that's, that's familiar. But all of this—why is he even surprised? It's not like he had any idea of anywhere else he could be, other than the orbit of whatever.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand your question. Could you elaborate on 'bwuh'?"

"No, not really. What place's being—simulated, here?"

"According to your records, you based it on your penthouse in Dubai, with some modifications."

"Okay... And why are we in orbit around wherever?"

"Because planet 4-692370162-49335-7B's Alpha Base suffered irreparable structural damage when the nuclear reactor suffered several critical malfunctions, and detonated."

"Okay, assume I don't know anything about who or where I am or why I'm here or what has happened. Can you explain it all to me?"

"Okay. I can try. Please stand by, I am processing your request." There is a very brief pause.

"You were human, and lived on a planet called Earth, in orbit around the star, Sol. With inadvisable application of magic, other humans caused the solar system's star to experience a critical malfunction, and it ceased releasing most kinds of electromagnetic radiation. Most forms of life on Earth found it aversive, frequently fatally. There were multiple efforts to preserve life on Earth through a variety of approaches, but as of last recorded contact, no efforts to fix the star were successful. Other attempts are possible, but impossible to accurately calculate the success of from our current distance. Would you like to take a moment to mourn your doomed home world?"

"Nah, I don't remember anything. Continue, please."

"Very well. One of the efforts to preserve humanity was the Interstellar Rebirth Initiative, colloquially known as 'IRI'. The goal of the mission was to find another solar system within human tolerances for life, and start anew. However, the space between solar systems is large and inhospitable enough that keeping ordinary humans alive for the journey is impractical. Instead, it was decided that it would be more efficient to rip out the souls of the participants, and store them in phylacteries for transport. Upon arrival, all participants would be woken up and eventually put into newly created bodies. From there, they would rebuild humanity. You helped fund, and then participated in this mission."

"...I see. And the reason I don't remember any of this?"

"Limited data available. In the Sol system, some subjects of soul removal experienced confusion and temporary memory loss. All recorded participants in IRI have expressed similar symptoms. It could be the length of time spent dormant, or insufficient shielding against harmful forms of radiation during the long voyage, or something else. For more accurate speculation, please contact a soul specialist."

"And... is there a soul specialist with their memories intact anywhere around here?"

"Chances minuscule. All recorded awakened members of IRI have reported near total loss of memory."

"...any soul specialists who kept very good notes?"

"Limited data available. Personal notes would be kept on personal hard drives, which this unit does not have access to and cannot accurately assess. However, an intercepted transmission implies a Ms. Yvette Linwood kept records related to the study of the soul that were fairly valuable."

"Is she awake?"

"Yes."

"Then—how can I contact her?"

"Intercepted transmission implies that she is contactable via X-band radio waves. However, data implies that a Mr. George Hanigan has access to Ms. Linwood's files, and that she does not. Contents of intercepted transmission imply that she is displeased with this state of affairs. Would you like to view a transcript of the transmission?"

"—yeah, sure."

14:53 [ylinwood]: I think you have something of mine.

  14:55 [ghanigan]: It's no more yours than anyone else's. You're not the you that you were then, and neither am I. It's all just information from a bunch of dead people. And I needed this hard drive for my research.

14:58 [ylinwood]: Really. All of my personal files. What, are you doing research on my taste in music?

  15:00 [ghanigan]: Hardly.

15:02: [ylinwood]: Then why not just ask for a copy of the relevant information after I woke up? Why not send me a copy of my own files after you stole them, if it's all just a bunch of information from dead people to you?

  15:03 [ghanigan]: There are no legal authorities to enforce anything at all. The rules are whatever we make them, and I cannot afford to spare the resources necessary to send files out to a bunch of amnesiacs.

15:05 [ylinwood]: So you'd like to open with hostility?

  15:07 [ghanigan]: For something as crucial as this? I'm afraid so. My research is very important. You can join me, if you'd like, I'd be happy to have a research assistant.

15:09 [ylinwood]: Are you looking into souls?

  15:11 [ghanigan]: Yes. I want to make sure this memory loss can never happen again. I have no intention of dying like my predecessor.

15:13 [ylinwood]: And the captured phylacteries were... what? Possible assistants?

  15:15 [ghanigan]: I have no guarantee of their personality or talents. The people they were died on the way here. Perhaps I'd get lucky if one would be amenable, but I try not to rely on luck.

15:17 [ylinwood]: ... They're for experimentation?

  15:19 [ghanigan]: Correct! I hardly want to test protections against soul degeneration personally, and if they never wake up, then no suffering has been caused. As I said, the people they were are already dead.

15:25 [ylinwood]: Ah. I see. That changes things. Send coordinates to my bots for meetup? You've convinced me of your chance of success. I would like to help you with your research.

  15:27 [ghanigan]: Excellent!

...he thinks she's lying.

"What time is it?"

"By standardized timekeeping in this system, 17:43."

"Has she arrived at her destination yet? —and what sorts of bodies do we even have?"

"One moment. Calculating." There is a very brief pause. "Calculation complete. If she left at the time of final message, it would be another three hours, forty-six minutes, thirty-seven point two three three repeating seconds until she arrived at the destination. For Mr. Hanigan, it would be five hours, forteen minutes, fifty-one point five six four seconds. Please be advised that these numbers were estimated from insufficient data, and could be subject to change."

This relayed, the robot moves on to the second question.

"Your soul is housed in the 134th version of the R9X-Orpheus phylactery series, built specifically for the unique requirements of IRI. You have two attached arms with three digits each that are capable of fine motor control, thermal and radiation shielding, six different cameras, and full Virtual Reality integration, capable of syncing with nearby compatible phylacteries for shared simulations."

"How long do I take to get there?"

Pause.

"Four hours, seven minutes, twenty-nine seconds, calculated from an immediate course change."

"Then let's go."

"Course adjusted. Satellite is now inbound to coordinates. Silent mode remains engaged, other satellites are unlikely to detect us unless sufficiently trained magic user is actively searching."

"Cool!" Pause. "What now?"

"Primary mission directives are to finish terraforming of 4-692370162-49335-7B, wake all members of IRI, begin using the genetic database to seed new life, and to record data of this new solar system for scientific study."

"—right, okay, no, that's not what I meant. I meant—what do I do on the way there? What, uh, is there to do around here?"

"You have full control over your simulation, and access to your own and publicly available data, which contain lessons on various subjects, schematics for various things you could build, and a wide plethora of media entertainment. You have full control over your satellite's direction and the signals it gives off. If there is anywhere in the solar system you would like to go, navigation systems will assist. You can send messages to other mission participants, or tell the instruments on your satellite to watch for certain signals in the solar system."

"My files, that sounds like a good thing to read, how do I go about doing that?"

A screen appears in front of him, with a large symbol set on a steel grey background. Little icons are arranged on the screen, lighting up and displaying additional explanatory text of their contents when he gazes at them.

Ooh! Okay, he can probably spend four hours reading about himself.

He didn't keep any kind of journal, but he has a huge list of contacts, and a number of saved news articles about himself. Some have variously flattering pictures attached of him, in varying states of dress, or in some cases, undress. There are a few such pictures that come with no article attached, and are... very artfully made. And definitely missing all of his clothes. Goodness, he's pretty.

He has copies of several research papers written on various topics, including a number written by Yvette Linwood; it seemed like she specialized in the interface between souls and VR. It also looked like he kept up with affairs of several companies, all ones he was involved with, one way or another.

He also has a rather impressive library of VR simulations.

He is super hot. And apparently he knew this Yvette, cool! He has lots of stuff to read.

But now he's curious about the VR.

He can ski down an avalanche! Or fight a dragon with a sword! Or go sailing in space through a nebula, despite this not making very much sense without a suit and more equipment than ropes and some flimsy reflective cloth! He can choose a class and go dungeon crawling, as a mage, a warrior, or a rogue, and kill monsters and defeat bosses and collect loot! He has many empty environments that he can choose to fill with his large library of objects and creatures, either personally or by asking his robots to do it for him. There are pretty scenic views and expensive restaurants with all kinds of food to try and a nearly endless wardrobe of clothes he could wear. If he'd like to design something, he can do that. It's trivial to change the color and texture and shape of things. If he can imagine something and describe it reasonably well to his robot, he can have it.

...awesome. He wants to try skiing down an avalanche.

It's tricky. Skiing by itself isn't easy, and skiing down a virtual avalanche is like skiing on something that's alive. The snow shifts and bucks beneath his skis, trying to send him careening oit of control, or overtake him entirely and swallow him in cold and fluffy snow. Any little mistake or mistimed movement could easily spell his virtual doom. For that run, anyway. He is free to try again as many times as he likes. There's even a score counter.

Does he have anything like muscle memory?

It's a little fuzzy, and he fumbles at first, but it starts coming back to him as he plays more. His new scores don't match the ones he left several hundred thousand years ago, but he could probably get there again with a bit of practice.

This is so cool he's gonna practice so much.

While he's in the middle of a run, he gets a... strange impression of sourceless words in his head. Rather like the mechanical voice when he first woke up. This time, though, the voice doesn't sound mechanical. It sounds feminine.

:: Uh, hello? Yvette Linwood to whomever is in that satellite, can you hear me? ::

"—uh, how do I respond, also maybe I should stop skiing how do I that—"

The avalanche comes to a halt, as does he, skis and all. A window pops up in front of him with the text, End simulation scenario? and a [Y] and [N].

His little robot buddy appears beside him.

"Message appears to be delivered through application of soul magic. This unit cannot offer direct interface assistance. Please consult Chapter 12: Soul-to-Soul Communication, of the text Basic Applications of Magic."

Meanwhile, the voice continues on.

:: My bot says I'm doing this right, so I'm just going to take it at its word. Look, you're inbound to a meetup location that I doubt you'd get to by accident. I would sure appreciate knowing what your intentions are in regards to that. So, uh, when you figure out how to reply to me, please, you know, tell me that. I'm going to stop creepily talking in your head now, sorry about that. ::

"Oh come on you're kidding me—get me this text and uh—" He taps the [Y] and tries to figure out whether it's intuitive at all to respond.

He... could... think really hard at her? No other obvious responses are coming up.

A screen pops up, with what looks like an index of chapters. Chapter 12 is indeed titled Soul-to-Soul communication.

He tries thinking really hard at her a "Hello?" then starts reading.