Endless Online: Oblivion's Blade

by M. H. Johnson

  Heady euphoria turned to quiet dread. The sun had set. Families had long since gone home, and the park was filled with the hoots of owls.

  The cackle of hyenas.

  The coiling slither of snakes. Endless numbers. A flood of them. Gazing at Val and Julia with their cold, cold, soulless eyes.

  What did you do? Julia, what's going on?

  Her aching gaze lanced Val's heart, tears of crimson flowing down her cheeks.

  Promise me you won't play.

  You're sensitive. Just like me.

  Val swallowed, abruptly shaking his head, having no idea what she was talking about.

  (That's a lie. How often? How many times had Julia known just what Primal Power to use, perfectly synced with his own? The need to tell her every little detail fading to just a solid understanding. Like he shared with his entire group. Only when things were really crazy did he need to say it aloud, but by that time, they had already unleashed their attacks. The words were always behind the reality. Why had he never thought of that before?)

  Promise me you won't play.

  Then Julia began to scream, body twisting and writhing as hideous dark light began spilling from her pores. She shook, eyes rolling back, a grand mal seizure, and no matter how much Val cried out, begging for help, Julia did not get better.

  Her spasms worsened, head slamming against the car seat, Val doing everything he could. Too little, too late, and as all the cackling howling creatures beyond their car twisted their gazes in hideous concert to peer into his own, Val fled that awful nightmare,

  Waking up with a lurch, his father banging frantically on his bedroom door.

  Val gasped, his throat raw with forgotten screams.

  4

  Val, help me! Please!

  Val shuddered, grimly pushing away echoes of the dreams that had never stopped plaguing him since he got home. As always, it was a blur upon waking, but in his gut he knew that the accusing eyes of everyone he had ever let down in the theatre of combat could be found staring at his soul. Accusing him with their unforgiving gazes. Their laughter, their tears, the families they loved, the virtues they exemplified, how dare he be the only one to make it home? No nation builder or paradigm shaker was he. No chapters in the history books would be written in his honor, unlike friends who had their whole lives mapped out since they first enlisted, who would have accomplished so much, as opposed to being a scarred wreck in constant pain who couldn't even keep his shit together for an eight-hour shift of doing nothing more than lying on a soft mattress as opposed to shivering in the rain with the stink of rot and disease and the groans of dying men crushing his senses.

  His father's solemn gaze held his own. "It will get better, Val, I promise you."

  Val grimaced, shaking his head. "Dr. Borns told me more than I ever wanted to know about survivor's guilt. That even those who make it still carry the weight of those that hadn't." He sighed. "It's pure crap. I know it. Guilt over things I can't control, and I know damn well in the light of day that I did everything I could for my brothers. Everything!" He shuddered and swallowed. "I know it's crap, I even know how to use it to mindfuck an enemy. I'm not such a fool as to let it consume me, not in the light of day."

  He shuddered, staring at his cereal, flakes long since turned to mush. "And still, it haunts me."

  His father's hand gently clasped his shoulder. "I know."

  Val trembled, squeezing back hot tears with bitter resolve. "Goddamn it, dad, I don't even remember what the hell I was dreaming!"

  "You don't have to, Val. No one's blaming you for anything. Now you just have to work on taking care of you. One day at a time."

  Val smirked. "Now you sound like a 'get help' commercial."

  His father flashed the barest of smiles. "Do you want me to schedule an appointment with Dr. Borns? He did ask after you, wanting to know how you were handling the transition."

  "To civilian life?" Val sighed, rubbing his stinging eyes. "Does it sound crazy to say that despite all that's happened, if my legs weren't fried, I'd do everything I could to go back, to be there for my unit?"

  "Not at all, Val. Not at all."

  Val laughed bitterly. "But here I am, a worthless cripple. I can barely fucking walk more than a few steps without my legs screaming, which is fine, since they always feel like they're on fire if I'm not drugged to the gills."

  His father's concerned features hardened. "Damn it, Val, enough with the self-pity. The only one who thinks that poorly of you is yourself."

  Val hissed, vision black with sudden hate. Crockery smashed, his father staring at him strangely. Val blinked and looked down at his trembling fist, at the glassware shattered all over the table and floor, a stray fragment of glass in the flesh of his palm.

  Sudden silence.

  Val lurched to his feet, pain ignored. "If you want me out of here, just say the word."

  He forced himself to take each agonizing step without the damned walker, without his father, heading back to his room and the screams that waited inside.

  "He's stunned, Val, finish him off, finish him off!"

  Val smiled as Finn's excited voice washed over him, dextrous fingers flicking over the keyboard, crushing his opponent with shield bashes and thunderstrikes, saving his Primal attack until the sniper's health was...wait for it... flashing red, and he was casting port!

  Three keys hit in tandem and a roar of triumph as the screen flashed with crimson and gold, his Hammer Guardian Primal attack exploding the enemy player in a spray of crimson and bone.

  "Nice one! Now he's got a 'Primed' on his kill sheet he has to swallow down with a fuck-ton of chicken soup!" Finn crowed.

  Val chuckled, finally feeling the horrors of the night before, and a damn awkward breakfast ease away at last. "Yeah, it was a good kill. And look at that, our battle leader just put us both up for silver medallions."

  "What, that will be our fourth set?"

  "Damn straight. No one I'd rather earn pins with than my buddy in the trenches."

  Sudden silence, but not too awkward, Finn was good people, after all.

  "Strange you should say that."

  Val smirked. "I'm guessing you're still in? And not wet behind the ears."

  A rueful chuckle. "Not too shabby. I'm serving stateside right now, but I've seen my share of shit."

  "And a shit storm it is."

  "You got that right, buddy. What division?"

  Val felt his smile falter, the blossoming connection he felt with a guy who could very well be a battle buddy suddenly fading. "Shit," he said.

  A strange pause. Val could almost imagine his friend's furrowing brow, wondering if Val was fucking with him. Few things were more pathetic than a poser, after all.

  Then he got it.

  "Water treatment specialist?"

  Val grinned, suddenly feeling better. "Nothing like a fresh glass of water to wash the sand and cordite down."

  Finn chuckled ruefully. "I bet."

  Val sighed. "Good times."

  "That they are. Army life is great, so long as you're not bored silly or terrified at the shit storm you find yourself in."

  Val grinned. "Isn't that the truth." He was glad Finn didn't press further. A savvy player sat at the other side of his lighthearted, flippant demeanor. He knew Val had seen action, whatever his official title, maybe he even knew what WTS soldiers really did. They bullshitted some more, Finn sharing stories of life in an armored division, savvy enough in that day and age to say nothing of specific units or locations, using nicknames only, speaking as they both were on TS.

  "Hear anything from our other healer?" Val asked as the conversation flowed back to Elerium, both of them stalking enemy spawn grounds, the main fight on the other side of the PvP map.

  "Not a word," Finn sighed. "You know how high strung he is, and his wife isn't a gamer. I wouldn't be surprised if he's taking a break." A pause as they sprinted to a new area, the previous zone utterly dead. "Hear anything from Julia?"

  Val frow
ned. "Not a peep. Not for days. Strange. Normally she's pretty connected on social sights, always sending links to colleges or conventions that catch her interest."

  "That she does. Maybe it's that beta testing thing? Endless? Do you think they make players sign a non-disclosure hush-hush agreement?"

  "Who knows? Your guess is as good as mine."

  "All right, buddy, I'm not seeing hide nor hair of anyone. I think it's time we called it," Finn said, Val forced to agree.

  "Same time tomorrow?"

  "Why not? Our adventuring group might have gone to shit, but dual boxing in PvP suits our styles well."

  Val grinned. "Take care, Finn, don't go driving any tanks my way. I'm betting you drive for shit."

  Finn laughed. "Good thing it's a huge desert we play in, right? God knows how many tickets I'd get when my blood's pumping."

  "I'll bet you're the only tanker with a suspended license."

  "You'd lose that bet. Civilian traffic laws are bullshit."

  Val grinned and logged off, feeling in high spirits until the pain hit as distraction left, and he remembered the mess he'd made of the kitchen.

  It would be so easy to do nothing, of course. Being a temperamental asshole was par for the course he was playing, and the maid would come by eventually.

  But that was bullshit. He cleaned up his own messes.

  Grimacing, he forced himself to stand and didn't hold off on the medicine this time, knowing just how much it would hurt to crouch down, picking up shards of glass and pottery on his hands and knees since he couldn't use a broom for shit, and the glass might tear up the insides of his vacuum. He'd use a disposable sponge and a paper bag inside plastic, then throw the mess away.

  He got ready to open the door then swallowed, girding himself for the lecture he feared, slowly opening the door to his father's raised hand, a heartbeat away from knocking.

  His father blinked. "Well timed."

  Val shrugged. "You're my father. And I have a mess to clean."

  His father's hard features softened into the barest hint of a smile. "That's all I needed to hear, Val."

  Val frowned. "You already cleaned it?"

  He nodded. "You're not fifteen, throwing a tantrum over petty shit, needing to make amends. Your legs are on fire. You're my son. I chose to forgive." He sighed. "Next time though, I will take you up on cleaning your own mess. No matter how damaged your soul, reparation is redemption, and nothing beats a clean slate. But I'd still help, Val. All you need do is say the word."

  Val grimaced, lowering his head. "Now I feel worse."

  His father gripped his shoulder. "You're a good kid, Val, and I should let you do things at your own pace."

  Val swallowed the strange lump in his throat, frowning at his father's anxiety, so carefully concealed. "Dad, what's wrong?"

  His father blinked, giving a slow nod of approval. "Just like your mother."

  "Dad?"

  His father sighed, and suddenly Val's heart lurched.

  "Fuck it all, what's wrong dad?"

  A momentary flash of irritation, quickly shaken away. Val suddenly remembered that his father hated profanity amongst his men, for all that most officers paid it no head, especially in the theater of war. Not that his father had ever dressed down loyal men for their choice of words, but his gaze would make his feelings clear to even the most dimwitted soldier under his command.

  Val squeezed suddenly throbbing temples, strange flights of fancy racing through his mind. "So how much did soldiers curse in your unit?"

  "Not at all, if they wanted to get on my good side, Val. What brought that up?"

  "Nothing, dad." He closed his eyes, suddenly certain that he really didn't want to know what was preoccupying his father.

  But he was no fool. He could feel the weight of it, stopping only long enough to freshen up before making his way to the car once more, somehow knowing that was where he needed to be. He turned to his frowning father. "So where are we going?"

  His father gazed thoughtfully at him for some moments, finally nodding and helping Val seat himself as comfortably as he could, a second wheelchair reserved for the car already secured in back.

  "I gotta say, son, your intuition is so sharp it's almost scary," his father commented once they were off, well-manicured gardens outside stately homes passing them by as they slowly drove through their well-kept neighborhood, a couple of their neighbors sending friendly waves their way.

  Val grinned at his father's words. "Hardly, dad. You popping by the bedroom just as you did was coincidence, and for all your words, you would normally have given me time to think about and clean my own mess before cleaning up after me." He grimaced then. "And I shouldn't have spent hours lost in my game before I took care of my own business. I apologize for that.

  "Anyway, your gaze was intent, and it had nothing to do with our conversation this morning, so something must have come up. And you are dressed casually but professionally, slacks and a polo shirt. Comfortable but classy. Not as formally as you would for a business partner. Fine to shop in, but you wouldn't worry about coordinating with those shoes, if shopping was on your agenda. You'd wear sneakers and not think twice about it."

  His father nodded.

  "So my guess is something has come up with a friend, or a business associate who wanted your help with a personal matter."

  Val swallowed, turning his gaze to the window, smiling at children laughing so freely in the finely cared for park complete with friendly security guard that their neighborhood sponsored. "And I have some experience with troubleshooting, and you're desperate to give me a sense of purpose. My guess? A friend asked you for a favor, and you thought it couldn't hurt for me to network and perhaps make myself useful."

  His father gave a satisfied nod. "Well done, Val. I've always held that intuition is just unconscious perception and deduction. No one has time for detailed analysis when engaging the enemy, so trusting your gut and reacting in a heartbeat is vital. But for an entrepreneur, investigator, or officer, it pays to understand the insights keeping you alive, to fathom that part of your mind that can see the bigger picture." He flashed a quick smile Val's way. "That said, you made occasional leaps as a child that left your mother and I astounded. I don't suppose you know where exactly we are going?"

  Val laughed at that. Of course not, he almost said, before he blinked, finally taking in the direction they were on, the late afternoon sun, the way the seagulls cried, plucking bread from tourists and locals taking their ease by the park adjoining the lake.

  Lakeshore Drive.

  Val clenched his fist, eyes squeezed tight as the sound of his heartbeat roared in his chest.

  It was a dream. Just a goddamned dream. Like so many. And it means nothing, no more than any other. And I hardly remember it in any case. Only a cherry red convertible, and forest green eyes that hid so many secrets along with a smile that could sear my soul. If I were just a few years younger, if I could wake up to that almost-life... hold her hand, share all my dreams and secrets.

  Screaming in my arms, horror leaching into her soul.

  "Val?" His father's voice, heavy with sudden concern. They had stopped. At the goddamned park. Just like he had with Julia, sharing the sweetest kiss he ever had with a girl in a life he had never lived. "Talk to me." Voice of a commander. Demanding answers.

  "Colonel Petrovsky. Your friend from West Point. We're going to see him, aren't we?"

  Utter silence, save his father's deep breaths. For a time there was only the sound of the seagulls and the clean smell of the lapping waves, just as it had been in his dream.

  "Level with me, Val. What do you know?" Val snapped his head around so fast his father had no time to even blink. Old reflexes, fearing accusation. Recrimination.

  All he saw was his father's concerned stare. "It makes no sense, dad. It makes no sense at all."

  His father frowned. "We have time, yet. Why don't you tell me what you suspect?"

  Val swallowed and shook his head, una
ble, unwilling to think that the skein of reality was so twisted as to give dreams such terrible purchase.

  No matter the time Val would wake in the dead of night, grabbing his sleeping fellows by the ears, everyone awake in panicked seconds, the whole unit knowing without a word being said to follow him in absolute silence... moments before their former location was firebombed to hell.

  His immediate superior's ire had vanished the second the first bombs hit. He had just blinked, gulping air like a fish, and had actually flinched away from Val, even as his fellows had given him quiet nods of respect.

  There was a saying in the service. You could be atheist all you liked, a solid man of science. But when bullets and shrapnel were flying through the air, when the night was alive with screams and fire, that was when you found god. And when the man with the knack darted for cover like his tail was on fire, you didn't even think to protest or disprove. You ran like your life was on the line. Because more often than not, it was.

  Val had always thought of himself as utterly practical, for all that he loved history and fantasy, and found the battlefield accounts of strangeness the products of minds tormented by stress, looking for certainty. He had thought the idea of gut checks and trusting your intuition to be the stuff of the big screen.

  Until he turned out to be the one with the golden gut, trusting to something he didn't even understand to keep them all alive.

  And then it had failed him.

  Because there was no magic sense. It was all in his head. Flashes of intuition that had some logical correlation. A subtle change in air pressure, perhaps; the smell of explosives so faint it hardly registered, just before the bombs fell. Light from odd angles hitting your eyes, the flash of insight telling you that you were in someone's crosshairs. All of that, explainable. Senses as finely tuned as a hound's. No magic necessary. And any man, no matter how brilliant, could make a mistake. Even the best hounds could be fooled.

  But the dream he had...

  No. Just... no.

  Grimly, Val shook his head. "Let's assume I don't suspect shit." Strained words, barely a whisper. "Why don't you tell me what's going on?"