* * *
As her eyes adjusted to the low light, a faint shadow in the corner of the room became visible.
“Bodybag?” DaemonS asked.
“Please ‘oman, don’ say nothin’ to the others.”
DaemonS ensured the door was closed behind her before flicking on the light.
“You know I won’t but....”
Before her, curled in a ball on the ground, was their lead scorer and the inspiration of the team.
“Kill me,” said Bodybag.
6
“...What?”
“Kill me, ‘oman. Please. It’s da only way.”
“Bodybag....”
“I can’t live like dis, you don’ know what it’s like. My mind... it’s not right. Der’s memories, dey don’t make sense. People and images scrambled. Time inconsistent. And how do I know dis if my memories are scrambled? I don’ know ‘oman. Da confusion jus’ goes round and round. And...,” suddenly Bodybag switched to a soft whisper and DaemonS had to lean closer to hear, “I can ‘ear da walls. I know it’s crazy, but dey talk to me. Dey tell me I’m da first. Dey tell me dey’re comin’... to change the world. You have to kill me ‘oman. I can’t live like dis.”
Bodybag was right, she couldn’t even outrun the the mental torment by re-entering the tournament. The next P-matrix upload would cement the issues into her future clones, meaning she’d continue to suffer, body after body. DaemonS stared at the pitiful, pleading woman before her for several long moments before answering.
“Alright,” she said. It must be truly terrible, living with half-formed memories spinning out of control around your head, hearing strange voices. “On one condition. You give us a chance to try and reclone you from the buffer of the last transfer. If that doesn’t work…,” she mimed a gun with her fingers.
Bodybag looked uncertain, but finally said, “Okay, but hurry.”
“We’ll need some time to rig a bypass on the game sensor and a shunt on the buffer — the system won’t clone you outside of the game. And I’ll have to wait until Genilon finishes their diagnostics.”
Bodybag looked up at her, eyes swelling with tears, “T’ank you ‘oman,” she said.
“It’s nothing. We’re a team and I can’t let you suffer....”
DaemonS stopped, momentarily startled as Bodybag twisted to hide again in the corner.
“What was tha....” It was impossible to be certain, but for a moment, Bodybag’s shoulder had glinted in the reflected light.
“It’s nothin’. Nothin’ ta worry ‘bout.”
DaemonS looked at her teammate for several seconds before shrugging her shoulders. Bodybag could handle herself, if she said it was nothing, then it was nothing.
“I’ll be back as soon as I’ve rigged the bypass,” DaemonS said, turning to the door.
As she turned off the light, stepping from the room, a choked voice followed her into the empty hallway, “Jus’ hurry... please.”
* * *
Two days. It took the Genilon techs two days to check all the tanks. They had left only an hour ago and DaemonS was already busy at work wiring the clone-shunt for Bodybag.
Poor woman. She refused to let anyone see her now. Pincer slipped food in the door but otherwise everyone left her alone. She hadn’t been out of the supply room since DaemonS had last spoken to her.
DaemonS coded the patch, bypassing the zone flag of the game monitor. The monitor was a bundle of nerves cloned into their bodies that responded to an ambient, non-ionizing radiation that saturated the game zones. In fact, all new gamers were given a Gandaminium injection prior their first game so they could be tracked. After their first death — generally two minutes or less into the match — the injection was no longer necessary as their new cloned bodies already had the bioengineered organ. Zone computers constantly monitored the signal from the organ, feeding the information to the team’s base. A sudden interruption was interpreted as a frag, triggering the P-matrix transfer and the final stage of the clone maturation cycle for one of the corpals.
Bypassing the zone flag allowed DaemonS to setup a pseudo-zone feed and reroute the translocator target grid. It was surprisingly easy with a captain’s access privileges. The tough part would be jerry-rigging the clone tank to accept a P-matrix transfer from outside a game zone; the matrix upload circuits necessarily ran on an isolated network. Assuming Vorpal could create a hack to get around the buffer encryption. Best worry about crossing those bridges when they came to them. There was still another day before their next match, when all the buffers would be purged.
The ping of an incoming message interrupted her thoughts. She stretched and gave a deep yawn, rubbing her tired eyes. It was time for a break anyway.
She read the message and was instantly awake.
‘Meet at Chez Guevara, 22:30. Concerns the Helldivers. Come alone.’
* * *
A sprawl of junk heaps, duracrete refineries, and warehouses littered the surrounding landscape. Jagged mounds of metallic refuse skewered the skyline, jutting high into the late twilight sky. Molten streams of yellow-red iron dribbled from window troughs, escaping along the oil-stained dirt before solidifying — long, crusted fingers warning away potential visitors. Everywhere, shadows stretched over the ground, cast from the distant lights of civilization high overhead.
Figment’s gaze roamed the wasteland of the once-proud industrial zone through the smudged window as he waited at a small table. Like a battle-hardened veteran, the zone, in its youth, had been decorated in service of species and planet before being discarded by society as a useless remnant of ages past. During the early rebuild, in the years after the last Bruuz attack, it was a crucial component of the city. Many a covert operation was plotted and executed here during that period as the corporations fought for dominance of the fledgling world. But as the city grew, reaching for the sky, it left this unfashionable piece of history behind. Now it was only useful as a home to retro-dives and lost memories.
Figment turned his attention back to the bar.
Chez Guevara was a seedy dive on the rim of a wasteland. It catered to those uncomfortable with the finer trappings of society. Spacers, miners, mercs or Luddite activists, all were welcomed and none were questioned. There was no gossip and everyone was discreet — the perfect place for sensitive business.
Outside, the place blended well with its surroundings, almost appearing to be a part of the mounds of refuse. A skin of corrugated, weather-worn paneling encased the building, interrupted only by small, beady windows projecting faint light through layers of grease. A variety of antennae protruded randomly from the roof, reaching ineffectively for the sky.
The interior served to further confirm the impression given from without. A smoky haze suffused the faint columns of light that struggled to illuminate the modest room. Dark, faux mahogany attempted to cover the old duracrete counter top of the bar that ran along one wall. The remainder of the building was filled with mismatched tables and semi-private dining booths. Projected in the far corner, away from the door, was a small, fuzzy tri-vid. It should have been showing matches; now only news and discussions on the accident occupied the static-filled image.
Returning attention to his booth near the window, Figment half-watched the overworked, underpaid waitress approach, carrying enough dishes for a small banquet on her surprisingly toned arms.
“Anything else, honey?” she asked, setting a bowl of stew and a dirty bottle of beer in front of him. He shook his head and she left to deliver the rest of the feast to her various patrons.
Figment rubbed the grime off the spoon with his napkin and shoveled the first load of dark, steaming broth and random meat chunks into his mouth as the door opened. He swallowed the deceptively flavorful mouthful while watching a wiry woman enter.
Short-cropped, dirty-blonde hair covered a strong, alert face. Her vest was open over a stained T-shirt, well stretched by her ample assets, which was tucked into a
faded leather belt supporting heavily pocketed work pants. She kicked each of her combat boots once on the doorframe to knock off excess mud before moving to take a stool at the bar.
Figment shoveled another spoonful of stew into his mouth and watched as the barkeep pointed her in his direction. Moments later she was sitting across from him.
“I hope there’s a good reason for all this subterfuge, Mr...?”
“Figment.”
“Mr. Figment.”
“Just, Figment. And you would be DaemonS.”
“Right the first time. Well... Figment. Are you going to let me in on your little secret, or did I hike down to this hole for my health?”
He swallowed one more mouthful of the stew before setting his spoon down.
“Can I get you something? A drink?” he asked.
“Nah, I’m good,” she said, reaching for his beer. Putting the dirty bottle to her lips, she tilted her head back and took a long draught before placing the half-empty vessel back on the table. She wiped the grime from her lips with the back of her hand, tilted her head back and released a loud belch.
It wasn’t nearly enough to shock him.
“Now,” she said, “you were beginning to tell me something?”
He looked at her for a moment, pausing to regain some of the control over the meeting. These Matchers had a domineering personality and he was finding it something of a challenge not to be overwhelmed by her, despite his experience. After a few more seconds, he began with practiced confidence.
“You might say I’m a mercenary, DaemonS. Not unlike yourself.” She raised a hand to take exception, but appeared to reconsider and simply nodded him to continue.
“I broker specific services — acquisition of goods, services, and information or elimination of the same — to my well-paying clients,” he explained.
“This is where I’m supposed to be impressed, right?” DaemonS asked with obvious sarcasm.
“No. This is where you’re suppose to recognize a potential business opportunity.”
She sat up a little straighter, “you want me to kill someone?”
“No. Well, not as your primary goal, anyway. Undoubtedly there will be casualties, but....”
DaemonS slammed her hand down, hard on the table. “Cut the run-around. What is it you want from me?”
Figment paused again, assessing how much to tell her, before continuing.
“As you wish. My employer has reason to believe Genilon is involved in a plot with the Bruuz. The evidence suggests that a cooperative effort to disrupt The Death Match is the first stage of the plan....”
“To what end?”
“The ultimate goal is, as of yet, little more than speculation. However, you have to admit there has been a very dramatic disruption of the tournament recently with the death of the Helldivers.”
“Yeah. We’ve also had our own little ‘disruption’.”
“You were hit too?” Even his training couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. Now his doubts were fortified. Why would Genilon hit themselves? It could be for counter publicity... but they hadn’t capitalized on the opportunity. Unless it was for insurance; keeping an ace up their sleeve in case Halandri got out of line. Still, it didn’t feel right. The Cowgirlz were too sincere. They could be unwitting pawns, of course... With an effort of will, Figment reined in his rampant thoughts. The web grew more tangled with each new piece of information. If he tried to follow the threads now, with the little information he had, he risked becoming hopelessly entangled.
“Yeah, but we’re working through it,” she answered. “Listen Filament, or whatever, I’m a busy woman and I’m sure you’re a busy man, so just what is it that you contacted me for?”
“Very well. It’s a matter of record that you are sponsored by Genilon and it’s common knowledge that you are the third tier Genilon team, after the Phalanx and Legion squads. Current odds are 25:1 against your qualifying for War Zone....”
“And your point is?”
“Simply, that you have less to lose than the others. For this reason, my employer has tasked me with acquiring your services.”
“For what purpose?” she said, taking another swig of his beer.
“For infiltrating Genilon,” he said in as nonchalant a voice as possible. It was a big request and he had to make it seem unexceptional.
She coughed, spewing luke-warm beer across the small table.
“I’m not sure I heard you right. You want... what?”
He wiped the beer from his face before continuing.
“We need operatives of your skill who are able to infiltrate the Genilon facilities. We also need someone trusted by Genilon to allay suspicions.”
DaemonS tilted back the beer again, draining the remaining half bottle in a single draught before slamming it back on the table. Then she stood up, leaned over the table, and looked him straight in the eye.
“I don’t think I can help you, Mr. Firmament. Good night.”
He wasn’t surprised by her decision. In fact, he would have been disappointed if she had been bought so easily.
He stood, nodding to her as she turned to leave. “Contact me if you change your mind.”
“I don’t think that’s likely. Good night.”
Business was over, so he allowed himself the small pleasure of watching the rhythmic sway of her hips as she left the restaurant, before returning to his cold stew.
* * *
It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds after DaemonS flopped into the captain’s chair before the questions began.
“Everything ok, Daem?”
“Vorpal, it’s late, don’t you sleep?”
“Hard to sleep tonight, Daem. Going over the mods in my head. A lot riding on our work.” DaemonS found Vorpal a hard woman to read; no worry ever seemed to crease her brow yet there was a definite feeling of depth in that mind.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“That why you needed a walk?”
“Something like that,” DaemonS answered, turning to her station computer.
“And a drink?”
Damn cheap grounder alcohol. She had forgotten the smell of real beer lingers, unlike the synthetic version.
“Uhh... yeah, I just needed to... you know, I needed some space to... unwind a bit.”
“Okay, just checking,” Vorpal said as she turned to leave. She paused, mid-step, “we’re here for you Daem, you know that, right?” she added, before leaving the captain’s station.
DaemonS turned back to her workstation. The patch was almost completed. She still had to code a virtual game zone that could be called from the monitor shunt and then run the simulation but the hard work was done. Fourteen hours until their next game, CTF, against a low seed. At least luck was with them for the replacement draw. Still, without Bodybag, there would be no substitutes. Not to mention that Geneslicer would be activated — and she still didn’t trust that metal monster.
“Hi Daem.”
She swiveled her chair to face her newest visitor.
“What’s up Defcon?”
“That’s my line. Saw you went for some air earlier.”
DaemonS leaned back in her chair with a long, slow sigh.
“You’ve been talking to Vorpal?”
“Why...?”
“Does that mean I can expect a visit from Pincer next?”
“Well....”
“Okay, look, here’s all you need to know. I was contacted by a broker.”
“A broker! What’d she want?”
“He. And it’s nothing important. You can tell the others that it was nothing. I was given an ill-conceived proposition that wasn’t in our best interests. I declined. End of story,” she explained.
Standing, she gave the other woman a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Defcon’s eyes said it wasn’t enough. “Trust me, at the first sign of trouble, I’ll ask for your help, all of you,” she said.
Defcon looked relieved. “Thanks boss. We’ll hold you to that,” she said, leaving the room.
Captain, manager, and mother all rolled into one, DaemonS thought as she returned to her station.
* * *
Bodybag ran through the lightless void. Exhausted, she nevertheless continued, running on legs of fire. They were behind her, she could feel it although only dark was visible to her quick glances. Still, she ran on.
Voices echoed from the black abyss around her; eerie, whispering voices that overlapped and echoed from side to side, above, below, before, behind.
“You’re the first....”
“...a chosen.”
“Do not fight the inevitable.”
“You will have a place of honor in the new empire.”
Images of her four teammates, friends, flashed at her from the empty surroundings, quickly growing as they neared, before receding as she ran on.
“DaemonS! Pincer! Vorpal! Defcon!”
She called to each in turn, pleading for their help. But they were either deaf to her calls or unable to lend aid, for each visage quickly faded from view as it passed.
After long minutes of running nowhere through the dark-nothing pursued by the voice, she felt herself slowing. No visual references were necessary to know that the piston churning of her powerful legs was becoming less rapid. There wasn’t much time before....
They were there, all around her. Ebony, metallic tentacles wriggled in the dark, stretching toward her. Exhausted, she ran on but one wrapped around a leg, another around an arm. She pulled free and raced forward on burning legs until, seconds, later, she was entrapped again.
This time, there was no escape as the tentacles swarmed her, enshrouding her limbs, her torso, fusing with her skull. They pierced her skin, sliding under it. Like tiny rodents beneath the surface, the bulges roamed her body in ever increasing numbers until they eventually fused. Her skin dissolved then and she stood there, a composite of flesh and metal.
Game, Set, Deathmatch Page 6