Game, Set, Deathmatch

by Edwin H Rydberg

  DaemonS couldn’t help thinking that something must have been wrong with her shunt. Or maybe if they’d killed that monster quicker. Possibly they took too long getting to the clone tank....

  She sat, slouched in the captain’s chair, a deep hole in her heart. Her heavy arm reached across to the keyboard. The press of a button. Team info scrolled across her screen. It sat there unread, her eyes roaming the pale wall before her.

  In the ten months the team had been together they had grown very close, becoming the best of friends. Bodybag would be sorely missed.

  And then, the sorrow wouldn’t be held at bay any longer. Doubling over, head in her hands, great sobs racked her frame as the tears ran down her face and then her arms.

  “Daem?”

  She pulled herself together, quickly rubbing her eyes dry before turning to the door.

  “Yes, Pincer? What is it?” There was still the quiver in her voice and she didn’t trust herself to say more.

  “I... that is, we... me and Vorpal and Defcon....”

  “Yes?”

  “We just wanted to tell you that, well, we don’t blame you, Daem.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t blame you for what happened to Bodybag and you shouldn’t blame yourself. You did as much as you could — we all did. It just wasn’t meant to be.”

  DaemonS shook her head, “I was thinking maybe the shunt wasn’t....”

  “Daem,” the small woman interrupted softly, “the shunt was fine, the P-matrix transfer was fine. There was nothing else we could do,” Pincer said, turning to leave.

  DaemonS sat quietly, thinking over the words. Images of the monstrosity appeared before her, superseded by the empty corpal falling from the tank. And behind it all was Bodybag’s energetic smile, her contagious hyperactivity.

  Pincer was right, but it was just so hard to accept that Bodybag was gone. It was going to take time. DaemonS dried her eyes and turned to the other woman.

  “Thanks Pincer,” she said to the retreating form.

  * * *

  They were bad. Worse than bad. They looked like a completely different team. Only the synthoid was playing at anywhere near tournament caliber. The others seemed to be in slow motion.

  Figment watched the giant tri-cast in the market square as he waited for his transport. The crowd had noticeably thinned since the start of the match — a rarity in games after the qualifiers. The remaining die-hards actually boo-ed the match on occasion.

  He stood, transfixed by the horror. It was like watching the scene of a traffic accident, he was unable to turn away from the spectacle. Somehow, the Cowgirlz still seemed to be winning but, if anything, that was only a testament to how bad the other team was. There was a definite lack of energy, of creative, vibrant carnage, of the desire for any kind of destruction. In fact, now that he thought about it, there was the lack of a teammate!

  * * *

  Two captures a side. Against a low-seeded team like Meteor Crash! The Apocalypz Cowgirlz were stinking up the map, the only one keeping them in the game was Geneslicer.

  “Flag incoming,” came the metallic voice over the comm channel.

  Moments later the announcer’s voice rang in her ear, “Red team scores. Red team wins the match,” the voice said, as the auto-translocator triggered and the zone faded from view.

  Silence permeated the base as the team left the game translocator grid. It was their most subdued victory ever. Everyone knew how badly they had played, yet DaemonS suspected that most, including herself, didn’t really care. It was too soon. Their hearts weren’t in it.

  She made her way directly to the captain’s station as the others went to their quarters or, in the case of Geneslicer, to stand deactivated by the corridor wall.

  Flopping into her chair, she exhaled loudly feeling the energy drain from her body, feeling her mind sink into that cloud of apathy. Indifferent, she punched up the message board. There was only one note.

  ‘May I offer my condolences? I assume someone must have died for you to play as badly as you did,’ it said.

  The blood boiled in her chest. Damn that guy... Figment. Why wouldn’t he leave them alone?

  ‘What do you want? What will it take for you to stop harassing me?’ she sent.

  ‘Meet with me again,’ came the quick reply.

  ‘My decision hasn’t changed.’

  This time there was a long pause. DaemonS stretched in the chair. She hadn’t realized how tired she was. Perhaps it was time for some sleep, after all, today had been a long day.

  She stood to leave when the screen flashed again.

  ‘Does it concern your missing teammate? Perhaps I can help,’ she read.

  A cold chill ran down her spine. He must be watching them a lot to know something happened.

  ‘What do you know about it?’ she sent.

  This time the reply came in seconds. ‘I know that Bodybag was noticeably absent from your team in the last match. The first time you haven’t played her in the entire tournament.’

  It was a guess then. Still, it meant he was watching them closely. Time to take a chance.

  ‘What could you do for us?’

  ‘I’m very well connected. Perhaps we can help each other,’ he replied.

  ‘How?’

  ‘That depends. Meet with me and we can discuss the details.’

  Now it was her turn to pause. Maybe he was above board, maybe not. It might be that he knew more than he was letting on, playing on her weakness, on her hope that there was still some way to save Bodybag. If so, it worked. What did she have to lose by meeting with him?

  ‘Same time and place?’ she asked.

  * * *

  Chez Guevara, the grounders’ Ritz. That fine establishment of real beer and questionable meat. Once again DaemonS found herself the object of lonely stares as she let the door slam closed behind her, stepping over to rest her back against the dimly-lit bar. This was her second time in a week, she was becoming a regular. Not an inspiring thought.

  “Homca,” she said to the barkeep before sweeping the room with a casual gaze.

  A few moments later, a brown drink in a browner glass was dropped before her as she spotted the dark trenchcoat and dirty blonde rat-tail of Figment. He sat, back to the door, hunched over a steaming bowl.

  DaemonS swiped her card across a slot in the bartop with a casual, practiced motion before picking up her drink and striding to the booth.

  “Not smart; back to the door,” she said, sliding in to the seat across from him and setting her glass on the table.

  Figment looked up, clearly unsurprised by her sudden appearance. “You see that?” he asked, nodding toward the wall. She turned, following his gaze to the mirror, set halfway up.

  “My usual seat was taken,” he said, glancing to the corner booth, “so I had to make do. You’re ten minutes late,” he continued, before returning to his stew.

  “You’re lucky I came at all,” she answered. She was still uncertain how much he could be trusted.

  “It’s your teammate.”

  “It’s your job.”

  He looked at her a moment and then chuckled. “Fair enough, we both have something to lose. Before we start, can I get you anything? The stew is quite good. Maybe a beer?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, motioning to her homca. “It’s surprisingly filling.”

  “I’ll bet,” he answered. The look on his face suggested he wasn’t interested in learning the truth of her statement.

  “Perhaps we can get down to business? I don’t think you called me here to discuss the cuisine,” DaemonS said.

  “Indeed not.” He paused several seconds before continuing, “Am I to understand from our recent communication that you have had a... ‘setback’... in dealing with your ‘disruption’?”

  The pain had almost worn her out and she was already numb to the recent memories. It was that and the fact that she had known this topi
c would be on the agenda that had steeled her to the question.

  “In a manner of speaking,” she answered, when she was sure of her voice. “We had an accident with a clone tank during the Lockdown match. We’ve lost Bodybag.”

  “You have my condolences.”

  She glanced up quickly but something in his eyes assured her that he was sincere this time.

  “There was nothing you could do?” he asked. “It might be possible to initiate a new clone, transfer her P-....”

  “We tried that already. Rerouting the zone monitor, P-matrix shunt, everything... it didn’t work. She’s permadead.”

  “I’m impressed. And sorry,” Figment said, before falling silent.

  DaemonS swirled her homca a few times and gulped down the pale sludge.

  “I’m guessing that your attempt failed because your teammate’s....”

  “Bodybag.”

  “Bodybag’s P-matrix was too corrupted. From your story, I’m guessing the corruption occurred upon receipt of the zone transfer. Such failures usually result in a continually degraded matrix. If you left it for several days....”

  “We had no choice.” She shoved the image of the squirming, metallic squid that was once her friend, from her head.

  “... then it was almost certainly degraded beyond a state that could be recompiled by the system.”

  “Yeah, whatever, it’s not important now,” DaemonS said, staring at her cold homca. “She’s gone and we have to live with it.”

  “Well, actually... I may be able to help you recover your teammate... if you are willing to do something for me.”

  DaemonS’s head snapped up, staring hard at Figment. “This better not be a joke!”

  “I assure you, I almost never joke.”

  She stared at him hard before challenging him. “Alright, what can you do for us?”

  “It’s not common knowledge, but Halandri keeps a backup of every Matcher’s P-matrix as it uploads to and downloads from the zone. It’s part of their contract with Genilon. Clearly privacy concerns mean this is not information the company shares easily.”

  “So? The matrix was corrupted, remember?”

  “Corrupted at the clone tank, from what you’ve told me. The transfer from the zone and hence, the archived version, is most likely in perfect condition.”

  She just stared at him for several moments. If what he said was true...

  “Let’s say I believe you. I don’t think we can just walk in to Halandri headquarters and politely request a P-matrix upload.”

  Figment gave her a wide smile. “My employer has... vast resources at his disposal and has certain good reasons for wishing to help you.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as procuring your aid in infiltrating Genilon.”

  Of course. Figment was a very single-minded individual.

  “I can’t speak for the others, but if you can do what you say, you have me.”

  “That’s a start, but we’ll need your entire team,” he said. “The P-matrices are stored indefinitely. However, given the nature of our problem, we are on a rather tight schedule. I’ll give you until tomorrow, noon, to dialog with your team.”

  DaemonS stood, offering her hand. Figment took it, shaking it firmly.

  “You’ll be hearing from me soon,” she said, turning to leave.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he answered, returning to his seat to finish his meal.

  * * *

  As she entered their headquarters, the three Apocalypz Cowgirlz were waiting for her.

  “Just needed another walk, Daem?” Vorpal asked.

  DaemonS looked each of them in the eye, seeing the same question reflected three times, and the steadfast determination to have it answered. Might as well get it over with now.

  “Let’s go to the lounge,” she said. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

  DaemonS felt the curious stares on her back as the four marched through the base. She couldn’t blame them. She would also be suspicious if her captain behaved as she had.

  They entered the lounge and she indicated for them to sit. She remained standing while each of the trio sat on the edge of their seat, staring intently at her.

  “Ladies, I’ve been in contact with a Halandri representative.”

  “What?”

  “Who?”

  “The broker?”

  The other two turned briefly to Defcon.

  “Yes, the broker. He’s operating on behalf of Halandri. Something about a plot involving Genilon.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Vorpal

  “What did he want to speak to you for, Daem?” Defcon asked.

  “Well...,” this wasn’t going to be easy, “he wanted our help in infiltrating the Genilon Earth headquarters.

  “What! Is he out of his f....”

  It was the first time she’d seen Vorpal lose control. “I thought so too, at first. In fact, I’m still not entirely convinced otherwise, but things have changed now.”

  “The first time? How many times have you met him, Daem?” asked Pincer.

  “Twice in person, once on the captain’s board.”

  “Well, I hope you told him to take a long leap from a high place.”

  DaemonS again looked into each of their eyes. There was fire there, the same fire that had been present in her own eyes before the last meeting.

  “What if I told you there might be a way to get Bodybag back?”

  “I’d say you lost it,” said Defcon to agreeing nods.

  “Ladies, Figment....”

  “Figment?”

  “The broker. He says that Halandri has an archived copy of Bodybag... of all of us. They copy each P-matrix transfer as it leaves the zone... before it reaches the clone tank.”

  “What! How did they....”

  “Who gave them the right....”

  “That doesn’t matter right now!”

  “DaemonS is right,” said Vorpal. “All that is important is that we have a way to get Bodybag back.”

  “But how, exactly, does he suggest we acquire her P-matrix from the Halandri database?” asked Defcon.

  “To be honest, I don’t know. All I know is that his employer has a way.”

  There was a sudden silence over the room. Each was digesting the new information in her own way. DaemonS was sure they would come to the same conclusion she had.

  “So he wants our help infiltrating Genilon in exchange for Bodybag?” asked Vorpal.

  “That’s about it, yes.”

  “I don’t like it,” Defcon said.

  “We have to take any chance we can to save Bodybag,” Pincer reminded them.

  “Sure, but we don’t know anything about this guy and even less about his boss,” answered Defcon.

  “I agree,” added Vorpal. “Even if it’s possible, what happens after we infiltrate Genilon? We could be imprisoned, or even permadead. What’s to make them keep their end of the bargain? I, for one, don’t trust megacorps.”

  “Who said anything about ‘after’?” DaemonS said. As one, they turned to her and she watched as smiles of understanding broke out on their faces.

  * * *

  Figment waved her into the seat before him and she dropped her beer to the table before sitting.

  “That must be great stew,” DaemonS said. “Everytime we meet, you’ve got a half-eaten bowl in front of you. I hope it’s not the same bowl.”

  He laughed. “It might seem ironic, but downside is the only place I feel safe enough to have a decent meal. Otherwise, it’s just hurried nutrient capsules and energy drinks.”

  “Sounds... appetizing.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the reality of modern life. Living in the fast lane, a dagger in one hand and a second in your back. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to learn about life outside of The Death Match. What’s the word?”

  “We’re in. On one condition,” DaemonS said, taking a swig of h
er beer.

  “What’s that?”

  She put the half-empty bottle down hard on the table and stared straight into his eyes.

  “We get Bodybag back first.”

  “No deal,” he said, meeting her stare. “How do we know you’ll follow through on your end?”

  “We’re Matchers. How do we know your man will deliver? How do we know it’ll even work? We’re not stupid, Figment, we deal with megacorps a lot in this business. We want a Halandri team to....”

  “I can’t do that! If they were seen in your base!”

  “Dress them like cleaning staff, dress them like Genilon techs, hell, dress them in Synth-suits, I don’t care. We want a Halandri tech-team to oversee the procedure. To ensure that our Jerry-rigging wasn’t what caused the failure.”

  “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “It is now. If you want us to work for you, you gotta give us Bodybag first.”

  “I don’t know....”

  “You want your best shot at getting’ inside Genilon? I know Bodybag’ll want to be there too. So, it’s in your own interest,” DaemonS said before draining the last of her beer in one gulp and standing to leave.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can do....”

  “You’ll manage. I have faith in you,” she said, smiling as she patted him on the cheek before turning and walking toward the door.

  9

  Four techs arrived the next day, but not the ones DaemonS had expected. The dark suits stepped from the shadows of the clone room, deactivating their camo-cloaks as they entered the captain’s station. A white circle with a scripted ‘Genilon’ across it was blatantly visible on the chest of each.

  “Where’s the body?” the first one asked.

  “How did you...?”

  “We’re not authorized to answer questions. We have come for the body of your teammate,” he paused, consulting a small pad, “Bodybag.”

  “But, we never... how could you...”

  “Please miss,” his tone suggested he was used to getting his way, “any questions or concerns should be addressed to the Match liaison. Now, if you would show us the body.”