Game, Set, Deathmatch

by Edwin H Rydberg

  DaemonS waited, breath shallow, heat signature masked by the pair of clone tanks beside her. The Geneslicers still hunted as a trio, knowing their superior firepower could counter any attack the two Cowgirlz could make with their assault pistols. That was surely true for a frontal attack, but she and Bodybag had other plans.

  As the Geneslicer trio passed behind the tanks she was hiding by, DaemonS stuck her pistol through the gap, and fired off a clip into the back of the closest one. Turning, she rushed from her hiding space as the tanks erupted behind her. Running down the aisle away from the synthoids, she heard the staccato fire from Bodybag’s pistol and another series of rocket detonations.

  Cutting hard left into the central aisle, the yell just reached her above the bursting tanks, “One down, boss. Two to go.”

  They were still out-gunned, but at least the numbers were even. Now, it would be easier to lose the synthoids and get to the captain’s station. The priority remained calling off the game; every second it continued was another chance for a teammate’s permadeath.

  DaemonS paused at the next aisle long enough to see the speeding form of Bodybag blur across the central corridor. Then she raced down the aisle toward her station. She was almost there when a synthoid stepped into the aisle before her. There was no pause before the telltale flare of a rocket erupted from the barrel pointed at her.

  As she threw herself against the hard duraglass of the cloning cylinder to her left, the rocket streaked by, destroying two more clone tanks behind her. DaemonS pushed off from the duraglass and raced through the gap were the tanks had been. Her body still healed quickly even out of the game zone, but the cuts and bruises were beginning to wear her down.

  She waited in the carnage for a few seconds, as Geneslicer approached, then she eased her way down the new aisle, staying close to the tanks and moving only when it passed from her view. As it reached the gap, she ran for the end of the corridor, reaching it just as Geneslicer exited from between the two clone tanks. If it kept on her like this, she would never have enough time to trigger the suicide circuit. There had to be some way to lose it. She stood, watching the approaching synthoid and willing her mind to come up with a plan.

  “Over here, metal head!” It was Bodybag. DaemonS peeked into the corridor, to see her teammate unleashing several clips into the back of Geneslicer. It whipped around, raising the rocket launcher. A jet of smoke ejected from one end.

  In the diversion, DaemonS slipped unseen around the tank and into her office. Keeping low, she loaded the Cowgirlz game link on her computer. For obvious reasons, it wasn’t a simple matter to cancel a match and the tournament had a three-tiered system consisting of personal ID numbers, passwords, and a team captain’s biometric scan. Only a captain could call off the match; if she rode a rocket to permadeath there would be no saving the others.

  She punched in the password and began entering the PID number as more tanks erupted throughout the base. Bodybag could move like a Talonian rock monkey on miner juice, but even she couldn’t be expected to last long against two synthoids wielding rocket launchers.

  DaemonS placed her thumb on the scanner as a blur streaked past the aisle behind her. Moments later came the call, “No time Boss! You got incoming!” Bodybag cried as one of the Geneslicers stood poised, staring at her a corridor away. For a moment all was quiet as they faced each other like some mock showdown from the ancient west. Her biometric scan never seemed longer and, as it neared completion, the Geneslicer raised its rocket launcher.

  A message flashed on the screen.

  Confirm match abort, Captain DaemonS?

  She glanced to the synthoid. A puff of exhaust from the far end of its rocket launcher. A dark cylinder heading toward her. Time crawled past as the events rushed toward their meeting point.

  “Yes! “ she yelled at the screen. The rocket had covered half the distance in those few hundred microseconds.

  DaemonS paused long enough to watch the display change and to hear the klaxons begin their pulsing before she leapt up and over her desk. Shielding her head, she crashed through the semi-polarized window of her office as the rocket exploded behind her spewing shrapnel in every direction.

  The burning sting of multiple lacerations streaked through her arms and back as she fell hard to the floor. The faint glow of the functioning clone tanks died as she looked up, into the barrel of a rocket launcher.

  * * *

  What had happened? None of this was making sense.

  Figment stood beside the seated liaisons watching the strangest match of his life. With the score now fourteen-thirteen, the Iron Skull had a meaningless lead. The next team to score would win; but that wasn’t what bothered him. At most, he counted only five combatants in the zone. Three for the Cowgirlz and two Bruuzs.

  “... looks like an unofficial player walk-out, like the big one of ‘97,” the announcer said, searching for an explanation. A rotating walk-out, a demand for a higher cut of the sponsors’ earnings, was a possibility but very unlikely; there hadn’t been so much as a hint of it on any of the usual channels. Furthermore, why only the one match and why so late into the tournament? No, a walk-out didn’t ring true, but then what?

  Pre-emptive Strike and NIGEL were still watching, still cheering; not unaware, just unconcerned. The match had reached its own equilibrium. Three defensive-minded Cowgirlz and two, aggressively attacking Iron Skull. Feint, attack, retreat, heal, repeat. That was the pattern the game had fallen into.

  But dammit all! Where were DaemonS and Bodybag? And what happened to the other three Skulls?

  Images of another clone tank malfunction swam in his head. A lifeless corpal dripping green fluid fell toward him from a cracked duraglass portal; it had the face of DaemonS. With a shock, he jumped back to reality.

  A moment’s confusion. There was something wrong with the tricast. The entire tri-vid throbbed an angry red and blaring sirens filled the tiny room. PS and NIGEL looked just as confused as he felt. Their eyes targeted him for information.

  Everything comes to him who waits. Medicine and advice, both should only be taken at the right time; and this was the right time for at least one of them. Figment strained to hear the tricast over the urgent questioning of his companions.

  “What’s going on? What happened?”

  “... automated adjudicators have confirmed....”

  “It can’t be a technical error, the Halandri systems are perfect.”

  “... the activation of the ‘suicide circuit’....”

  “It must be those damn bugs.”

  “... we are awaiting official confirmation of the source....”

  “Such a thing has never happened in Death Match history.”

  “... yes, confirmation is coming through now. Let me just remind you....”

  “That would explain where the other three went!”

  “... upon triggering the suicide circuit, all weapons in the zone go dead and the zone is reset before all translocator beacons go offline....”

  “Genilon must be pulling something.”

  “... and — wait a moment — we have official confirmation now....”

  Figment held his breath, hardly daring to hope.

  “... Captain DaemonS of the Apocalypz Cowgirlz has triggered the default. By Match rules, the Iron Skull are the winners! I can only say that, for her sake, I hope she had a good reason, because her teammates are going to be furious.”

  Figment was just glad she was still alive.

  * * *

  This was it — the end. The muscles in her leg were torn and bleeding, her arm was limp and she could feel several long shards of duraglass protruding from her back. Even on her best days she would be hard pressed to dodge a rocket from point blank. Now it was impossible.

  Geneslicer looked at her, staring with those emotionless black visual receptors. “You will not live to see the glorious future that is coming,” it said, almost sounding sad.

  “Bos
s, you okay? Talk to me!” Bodybag’s voice rushed toward her from the other side of the base. She was close, but not close enough.

  DaemonS’s entire life, it seemed, was swallowed by the large, dark barrel stretching toward her. A slow movement to one side, a metallic finger sliding back the trigger. The snap of the firing mechanism. Her life was over.

  Click.

  Her mind snapped back to reality. Misfire? Could she really have been so lucky? It didn’t matter, crushing the shards of glass further into her back, DaemonS rolled backward and scrambled behind a tank as Bodybag rounded the corner.

  Twin assault pistols clicked harmlessly at the chest of the synthoid but she wasted no time in contemplation. Throwing the weapons down, she scooped up a large shard of duraglass from the floor and leapt at him with a blood-curdling scream.

  Bodybag landed on the Geneslicer backup, slamming it to the floor. Before it could respond, she had plunged the shard deep into its neck, severing the casing and numerous wires and conduits within. She grasped its head on either side and twisted viciously. In seconds, the synthoid lay still, head flopping on the ground tethered only by loose cables from the neck.

  “The other one?” DaemonS asked her savior, amid pain that stabbed at her from her entire body.

  “Already scrap,” Bodybag replied, looking down at her and smiling.

  “What’s so funny?” DaemonS asked.

  “Now we’re even,” came the answer as Bodybag knelt to help remove the duraglass shrapnel from her wounds.

  * * *

  Even Genilon couldn’t keep the news quiet. Within ten minutes of the forfeit signal — the colorfully named ‘suicide circuit’ — going live, stories of the three Iron Skull permadeaths filled the tricast and reporters swarmed outside the two team bases. None of the Cowgirlz had spoken to any reporters, and yet Geneslicer was standing, larger than life, in the center of each news report.

  Both Genilon and the official Halandri technicians were swarming the demolished base, scouring each square inch of destruction for clues and trying to stay as far from each other as possible.

  The five Cowgirlz stood in a small circle to one side, watching a news tricast and glancing at the techs out of the corner of their eyes.

  “I’m still not clear on what happened, Daem,” Vorpal said.

  “Neither am I,” DaemonS confessed. “I don’t know much more than you guys — a homicidal Geneslicer trashed the base, destroying most of the clone tanks. I called a forfeit to save you guys from permadeath. But what caused the big blue hunk of metal to go all end-of-the-world on us?”

  “... corporations are still throwing blame like machine gun fire, hoping to strike a vulnerable point on their competitors. Genilon claims Halandri tampered with the Death Match game system and their synthoid, while Halandri has countered with claims of an Genilon plot to upset the tournament. As of yet neither company has provided evidence to support their claims,” the reporter said, standing before the large facility that housed the safe zones.

  “The funny thing is that we’re the ones most affected and yet, we’ll probably be the last to find out what really happened,” Vorpal said to agreeing nods.

  “I’d just like to know what happened with its rocket launcher. Someone must like me to still want me alive.”

  “We all like you Daem,” Defcon said, putting her arm around DaemonS’s shoulders. The other Cowgirlz patted her in mock sympathy and support.

  “Thanks guys, but seriously. I’d love to know that it was more than providence.”

  “All weapons went offline when you triggered the suicide circuit. It seems that included weapons smuggled from the zone as well as your standard set,” a familiar voice said.

  DaemonS turned. Standing behind them was the last person in the galaxy she wanted to see at that moment.

  “You’ve got some nerve, showing up here,” she said, after they had withdrawn from the others, moving to the far end of the base. How Figment had gotten into the Cowgirlz safe zone was beyond DaemonS. Perhaps he had squirmed his way in like the snake he was, or maybe he used some of his Halandri contacts to sneak in. However it happened, she didn’t care. There was nothing she wished to say to him.

  “We have to talk,” he said, looking deep into her eyes.

  A part of her wanted to believe there was some meaning in the stare, in those soft, brown orbs — some hope for more than just a professional relationship. But another part couldn’t accept it.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she answered.

  “We have unfinished business. The other night....”

  “I want no more of your ‘business’.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t the best place to bring up the issue.”

  “No. It wasn’t.” Why wouldn’t he look away? She glanced around the room to avoid his prying eyes.

  “Regardless, it was something that had to be discussed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, like it or not, it is my business. You are my business.”

  “And that’s all, isn’t it? Just business.” She turned, spitting the words at him like daggers.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “It sure sounded like it.”

  “Listen, this is getting us nowhere. I have to speak with you about important....”

  “Business?”

  “Yes, business.”

  “I’m not interested. Take it elsewhere.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not, dammit!” It was the first time she had heard him raise his voice. A little victory; so why didn’t it feel that way?

  DaemonS glanced around the room in the sudden silence and noticed the Cowgirlz looking everywhere except at the two of them.

  Figment stared at her for a moment. Then he gave a long, deep sigh before speaking in a firm voice that brokered her respect and compliance, “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I’ve done to earn your ire, but right now it’s irrelevant. Whether you like me or not, you have a contract with my employer — a contract that will be fulfilled. He has kept his end of the bargain, now you must keep yours.”

  “Why?” She knew the answer, of course, but she wanted to lash out at him.

  “Because you have a contract,” he stated matter-of-factly, if her tone had hurt him in any way, he didn’t show it. “And if you break it, neither you or your teammates will ever fight in another Death Match.”

  “Fine. What do you want?” He was right, but that didn’t mean she had to make it easy for him.

  “We need to arrange a time for the briefing.”

  “So we can run your noble quest for you?”

  Figment stared at her for a moment before answering, “Yes,” with childish sarcasm. “We need to plan where the knights in shining armor will enter and how to kill the dragons.”

  “Whatever,” she said. “You know we’re a member short. If you think this is such a damned important mission, maybe you want to be our new teammate.”

  “I can’t,” he answered without pause. “I’m too closely linked to my employers. Were I to be captured, too much information would be at risk.”

  “I bet,” DaemonS said, with a knowing smile.

  Figment had the look of someone debating whether to continue a pointless fight. His silence appeared to indicate a decision.

  After a few moments more, DaemonS asked, “So, what do you think?”

  “What?”

  “What do you think about this mission?”

  “I think it’s do-able. A well coordinated team should be able to....”

  “That’s not what I meant. Why do you think your employer wants to invade Genilon?”

  Figment paused for a long while. He seemed to be compiling his thoughts, and when he spoke it was with careful words. “My employer has reason to believe that Genilon may be involved in a plot to undermine the stability of the Earth Global Government.”

&nb
sp; “That’s a nice sound-bite,” DaemonS said, “but you didn’t answer my question, what do you think?”

  “I’m not paid to let my....”

  “Come on!” Now it was her turn to get upset. “What do you think? It’s an easy question.”

  Figment paused, staring straight into her eyes for many seconds. She met his stare; anger giving her the strength to resist. After a time, he looked down, withdrawing something from his jacket pocket.

  “Meet me, with the team, here,” he said, handing her a slip of paper. “We’ve got an assault to plan.” With that, he turned and walked away. DaemonS was too shocked by the thin leaf of compressed pulp to even register his departure. Paper! This situation was becoming stranger by the moment.

  * * *

  The room was tiny and square, and very crowded with the six of them filling it. The five Cowgirlz sat in a narrow ring surrounding a solid metallic table that had a black faceplate with numerous buttons flush with its surface.

  “This information has been acquired over many years and with much sacrifice. Now, there is a chance to use it,” Figment said, humility in his voice that carried with it the implication of numerous lost lives. He peeled a thin film from his thumbnail and placed it in a shallow indentation in the table before them, keying a hidden button on the side as he did so. A highly detailed hologram of an immense facility filled the air above the table. Apparently there was a preprogrammed fly-through sequence since the three-dimensional image rotated and raced toward them, the installation rushing forward as they flew through numerous doors and corridors with no input from their host.

  “The entire installation is under an electromagnetic blanket. The EMB virtually ensures no electronic information can be transmitted into or out of the facility; that includes translocator skipping.

  “The facility is staffed with more than fifteen thousand researchers, administrators, security, and other various support staff. Administration, barracks and low-level research facilities are in the alpha wings,” he continued, pointing to a squarish, walled section. Omega wings,” he indicated a bulbous, irregular-shaped region that extended outward from the main, “house the ‘advanced’ research projects.”