Soda Pop Soldier

by Nick Cole

  “The Axe of Skaarwulfe is yours, brave warrior!” reports the game. I heft the axe and check its rating, noting its severe edge and a silver skull worked into the haft.

  Now for the chest with the pulsing runes.

  I move forward, bracing myself for what will most likely be an explosion of computer-generated death. I position myself so that if the chest does actually explode, it’ll blast me back toward, and hopefully into, the Pool of Sorrows.

  I touch the lock and wait.

  The lid slowly rises, filling my screen with a pink background light. Over ambient, the tribal drums stop, and only the crooning of the desert woman continues. Low, humming monastically, as if she’s in a trance.

  “Hang on,” I mutter to the dark room and my Samurai.

  As the pink misty light fades, I find that the chest contains an Escher-like maze of fractal open-ended paths. My mouse cursor literally becomes a mouse on the screen. I need to move it through the maze to unlock whatever is beneath this layer of security. I move the mouse across ribbons and paths, looking for the end to the maze. Some stairs lead down, then up, and occasionally I pass the little cartoon mouse through a door and the screen tumbles onto its side. There seems to be no solution to this maze. Again, the maze cants over onto its side and I find myself titling my head to keep up with the on-screen madness.

  Then I realize that sliding the Escher-scape onto its side is the key. It isn’t a maze so much as a tumbler in a lock. On the fourth perspective-shifting turn, a ding rings out loudly over ambient and now the maze itself, the stairs and platforms, all of it, begin to turn like some ancient lunatic grandfather clock. My bewildered little mouse wipes sweat from his brow as I race him forward into the tick-tock madness. A missed turn or a badly timed leap from a sliding stair will send him scrabbling into the machinery of the maze. Twice he narrowly avoids being squished by the coglike turning platforms and grinding gearlike stairs. I have no doubt that if that happens, whatever deadly surprise the chest is trapped with will present itself momentarily. Slowly, the plucky little mouse manages to avoid getting crushed or pinched, and again the maze turns. Again and again until on the fourth turn, the ringing Ding is followed by a loud Baaawawawaooooongggg, signaling another “tumbler” has unlocked. Two tumblers down, how many to go? I scan the Escher-scape for some clue and find none. Time is passing and how long this game will go tonight I have no idea, but I need to get this chest open fast so I can get what’s inside and get moving back to the tower. Wherever that is. I still have to complete the quest and get a return on my thousand. So far all I’ve managed is this lousy axe. Oh yeah, and the six hundred e-bucks.

  Now the maze begins to whirlpool as stairs and rooms come together, then part in concentric rings. I stare at the screen looking for a pattern, waiting. Obviously this has gone Mario on me and I’m going to need to make the mouse perform a series of jumps and hops to get to the center of the whirlpool.

  A missed step or jump and what happens next? No doubt nothing good. And what if this is the trap? What if the tumblers never unlock? What if this chest is designed to keep me waiting and playing while the game moves on and the other contestants grow powerful enough to come looking for me and earn their kill bonus on my distracted hide?

  What if . . . everything bad happens to me?

  Forget about it. Play the game you’re playing.

  The spinning whirlpool of flipping staircases and platforms is beginning to pick up speed. Now or never, I think to myself and dodge the plucky little cartoon mouse into the maelstrom. Hop, jump, skip, roll a few times, and the little mouse almost tumbles, or skids, into the rendered oblivion below. Again the view tumbles to the side, and now the platforms and surfaces begin to secrete an oily sheen and instantly my mouse is sliding toward a rotating edge.

  Back in my room, my eyes and skull ache with fatigue. The concentration required is beginning to take its toll. I bend forward, craning my neck close to the screen, willing every ounce of focus onto the mouse as I slip and slide toward the center of the whirlpool. Now there is no stopping, no resting, no waiting; the little guy has to make it, and as he nears the center of the whirlpool for one last jump, the badly timed leap has him grasping a ledge that is rapidly spinning him toward a vertical descent. Viscous, clear sludge, oily and bright, races down, dripping onto the head of my gasping mouse. The muscles in my neck feel like taut iron cables coated in rust. I can feel their connection to my eyeballs screaming blue murder.

  Then a descending ledge below my mouse cantilevers itself into position and swings upward. I drop and bounce off this rising ledge and rocket skyward. The mouse lands on a narrow beam that seesaws upward and away from him. I race him up the rapidly rising slope and, with a final strained leap, make it into the whirlpool at the center. At last, click; it’s the final tumbler. After a ding and a Baaaawawawaoooong, the screen mists over and the depths of the chest are revealed.

  Complimentary dinner at Seinfeld’s floats in cold blue letters across the screen.

  Then a crunchy bite from an apple can be heard over ambient, as a hollow bass voice like a gong proclaims, “Warrior needs food, badly!” Then more words appear. To redeem this complimentary meal, present self at eatery after nine thirty and simply say”Gauntlet” to Tony.

  All that for some lousy meal.

  I’d never even heard of the place.

  Generally I preferred places like Chilibee’s or California Pizza Fixin’s. Anything high-class is usually beyond me. Sancerré liked the cool spots and hip eateries. Me, meat on the street is good enough. The only problem is that most vendors have mortgaged everything they have to get up onto the Grand Concourse, and with the latest batch of winter storms, the few that remain find it a little too much to brave the icy New York streets to sell hot dogs or somesuch. But a free meal is a free meal. Or maybe I could trade it out.

  Closing the chest with my Samurai’s hand, I survey my in-game surroundings. The light from outside the tent has faded to a dusky blue. I search the tent once more before going outside and find something I’d missed, a large, freestanding mirror hidden underneath a sheet. I pull back the sheet and confront myself.

  Or at least the self of my Samurai.

  He’s of medium height, more Anglo that Asian, though his burning coal-black eyes seem to hold some trace of the East in them. Behind him, I can see the flapping tent as the first night winds begin to blow across the desert sands. Palm fronds rustle above me on ambient sound, and once again, I have to admit to myself, the level of detail in this game is amazing.

  Unnerving at times.

  Smoke begins to cloud the mirror. It swirls softly beneath the silvery surface then resolves into the sanguine face of an old man, kind eyes sparkling, whiskery and a gap-toothed smile. He’s bald other than small bristles of white hair on the sides of his close-shaven head.

  “I’m Callard the Wise; come and hear my wisdom.” He speaks in a genial, almost wry manner.

  I open a voice link. “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I am Callard, sage, imminent philosopher, and wandering nonplayer character. I must tell you, Wu the Samurai, that even now, dark forces are pursuing you, thirsting for your untimely demise.”

  “I’ve barely played this game,” I almost shout back through the screen. “The one player I’ve met, I can only hope is dead. Otherwise I’m in big trouble. Anybody who can survive a fall like that . . .”

  “Alas, ChemicalFairy, the player you threw into the abyss, did perish. He expired after losing a contest of ‘Is This Poison?’ inside the Gorgon’s Jest within the very same Oubliette of Torment you fell into. But that is no longer important, wandering and enigmatic Samurai. I must warn you that Plague, a special buy-in character, has recently purchased a place in the game with the sole and consuming purpose of eliminating you.”

  “What . . .” I’m beginning to wonder when I might get a break. “Who or what is Plague and how did they buy in, and why do they want to kill me?”

  “Ah, the tale of Plague
is one that goes back many centuries, wandering Samurai. To begin . . .”

  “Hold up a sec, Callard! I want to know why someone bought in just for the pleasure of eliminating me, an unknown player. Or is it some kind of special buy-in for bounty hunter players and I’ve been randomly assigned?”

  “No, Samurai. This participant requested you personally and even now is riding toward your location. The client paid a high price, unusual but not unheard of in Black games, for the privilege of tracking you down and killing you.”

  The mirror swirls with smoke and now the dim image of a horseback rider is seen descending between two dunes. The black horse lathers and froths, its eyes rolling and wild, as it makes its way up the near dune filling the mirror. The dark horse and cloaked rider stop. A bloated and swollen moon, corpulently leering, its detail rendered by in-game graphics, hangs over the rider’s shoulder. The rider carries no visible weapons, and his face is covered in tattered dirty gray rags. He wears a dusty, weathered, wide-brimmed hat.

  “Don’t I have a right to complain? I mean, come on, Callard, this isn’t fair. I bought in and I’ve had nothing but trouble since this game started.”

  The mirror clears as Plague fades from view, returning to the smiling face of the wizened Callard.

  “Oh, simple Samurai. I would caution you that there are forces beyond your comprehension at work here. I might suggest that you get moving and get back to the tower.”

  “Still, this isn’t fair. I mean, this is like the worst Black game I’ve ever played. I’m getting nothing but the short end of the stick.”

  “You could fill out a complaint form,” says Callard dryly. “But we don’t really have a complaint department as this is a highly illegal enterprise and we don’t really feel anyone will do much complaining to the authorities. But if it’s any consolation, I’m helping you. I warned you about Plague and the skeletons, didn’t I?”

  “Skeletons?!”

  “Oh my . . . I forgot about the skeletons.”

  The flap in the tent parts and in shambles a wobbly skeleton holding a scimitar and bronze shield. The shiny surface of the bronze shield reflects the flickering torchlight within the tent. I equip my axe and swing, missing the skeleton by a yard as the clever thing nimbly hops backward and rattles its grinning teeth at me. Apparently the AI is set to “pretty good.”

  The skeleton takes a cautious swipe at my exposed position and rewards me with a slice that costs me 15 percent health.

  “Oh, at least I didn’t forget to tell you about this,” says Callard the Sage from the mirror. “There’s an underground passage beneath the Pool of Sorrows. If you can get it open before Plague arrives, you may be able to get back to the tower rather swiftly.”

  I raise the axe and swing again, cutting down from above my head, directly onto the skeleton’s chalky skull, or at least that’s my intention. Instead, the skeleton raises its battered bronze shield and deflects the blow, even though its force brings him down on one bony knee. He cuts wickedly with his jagged scimitar at my legs, but a light touch on the keyboard gives me a nice little hop, timed to miss the blade.

  “I’m telling you now, wayward Samurai. Open the gate to the Halls of the Damned and you’ll get back to the tower. Once there, we may meet again. Also, I may try to contact you in real life.”

  “Wait? Aren’t you an NPC?!”

  I capitalize on the skeleton being low and missing with his attack. I crash the axe downward onto the kneeling skeleton. The shield collapses like cheap aluminum. It does little to deflect the axe’s true course, which ends in a fine powdery spray of the skeleton’s disintegrating skull.

  “No time, Samurai, all will be explained. Hurry to the gate and get gone before your mortal enemy, Plague, arrives.”

  Chapter 15

  In the moonlight, clickety-clack skeletons, with scimitars and spears, always shields, close in a circle about the oasis. If they weren’t out to kill my Samurai, the whole scene might be strangely beautiful. The moonlit dunes, the bone-white skeletons hobbling down them and across the sands and into the night-made indigo of the Pool of Sorrows, water softly rippling in the moonlight. I grab one of the torches from outside the tent and wade the Samurai into the pool, looking for the gate Callard mentioned. The gate to the Halls of the Damned; it would lead back to the tower, the Marrow Spike.

  Painted figures, typical tomb burial scenes I’ve seen in other games, decorate the submerged green-and-gold paving stones. I move to the center of the pool as the first of the skeletons reaches the water’s edge. I look down into the clear water, searching for some sign or clue as to how to unlock the hidden gate. An approaching skeleton makes little noise as its slender shinbones barely disturb the waters of the pool. Instead, its chattering teeth and mumbling bony rattle tell me of its approach.

  All I can see beneath the water are depictions of tiny inky figures harvesting, planting, living, and dying. Their painted skin is ochre and their hair black. They all wear white linen kilts except for one.

  That’s my first clue.

  I try to fix the spot in my mind where I’ve seen the one figure different from the others, but the skeleton is on me, chattering and slicing through the air, making windy passes with its rusty weapon. I retaliate in full force with a sideways swipe of the axe and hear the satisfying crunch of a skelie’s rib cage. The blow from the silver-skulled axe sends the skeleton soaring off onto the sandy banks outside the pool as though an unusual amount of force has acted in coercion with my swing. Either that or the Samurai has an extremely high strength rating.

  I’ve shifted position with the force of my attack and now I scramble to recover the lost pictoglyph, the one different from all the rest. The ripples of my frantic wake are obscuring the shifting pictoglyphs beneath my Samurai’s feet.

  Two more skeletons enter the Pool of Sorrows.

  At last I find the figure I’m looking for. The difference is only marginally noticeable from the hundreds of others. It’s a figure wearing a gold tiara, a woman rather than a man, a queen rather than a peasant or a priest. Her eyes are thin slits, like a serpent’s.

  A skeleton jabs my backside with his spear, reducing my health by 10 percent. The water of the Pool of Sorrows is restoring some of my lost health points but not as quickly as I’d like. Another skeleton circles behind me, making small back-and-forth movements with a rusty bronze scimitar.

  I study the Queen figure, as I choose to call the tiara-wearing serpent-eyed woman. She points toward a different portion of the pool. The circling scimitar skelie blocks me from getting there. Now, spear skelie jabs again and I sidestep and chop down quickly at the haft of its spear. The blow drives the spear down onto the sandstone pavement below the water, disintegrating the Queen figure and a large surrounding portion of the submerged mural.

  Now I either know where the Queen was pointing, or I don’t.

  I execute a spinning attack, using the axe’s relativistic force in combination with my backward spin, and land a blow directly onto the spear skelie’s shield. The blow splinters the shield and smashes the skeleton in two.

  Now, scimitar skelie is on me, chopping from above, ravaging my dwindling health bar.

  Just when I’d gotten it back up again. Oh well.

  If it worked once, it’ll work again. I execute another spinning attack and send that skeleton off into the far end of the pool with a splash.

  I race to where I hope the Queen was pointing and scan the pictoglyph-covered flagstones beneath the shifting water as I move in circles. Behind me, the skeleton I’d cut in two drag-crawls its way toward me through the water, muttering revenge and death through chattery teeth. He’s using his broken spear for leverage.

  Now the paving stones tell a different story. One of judgment and suffering as the Queen, now attired in a reaper’s cloak, hews her way through an army of cowering peasants. Below them opens a yawning dark chasm as the peasants and sometimes just their body parts disappear into a black sun that is an abyss.

&n
bsp; The skeletons, all of them now, have reached the pool. Nearby thundering hooves, drumlike and hollow on the desert sands, tell me of Plague’s approach.

  The pool is as good as any place to fight. Its healing effects might mitigate some of the damage received, and the axe seems to be a formidable weapon. But this Plague player, whoever it is, that’s the unknown variable.

  A leaping black Arabian crashes into the pool. Plague, coal-dust-gray cloak and rags, draws an antiquated blunderbuss and fires at me. At my Samurai. The weapon’s more hand cannon than pistol. A spray of water from its near miss erupts in a plume at my feet. Then Plague on horseback tries to run me down. I dodge and issue a quick swipe at the nightmare’s flank, barely missing. Around me the motley collection of skelies are closing in—grinning, rattling, and chattering. Weapons ready.

  I hear a slight sucking noise over ambient.

  Beneath my feet, where Plague’s smoking blunderbuss ball barely missed me, a small whirlpool has formed, sucking the water of the Pool of Sorrows into its event horizon.

  To where?

  At the far end of the pool, the black rider, Plague, coughs and mutters to himself as he reloads the blunderbuss. The skelies close. There is no time and no choice other than the one I make. I raise the axe high over my head, mark the spot where the whirlpool drains beneath my feet, and slam the Axe of Skaarwulfe down onto the paved stones where all the little pictoglyph people had gone to hell.

  The crash is deafening, and everything on ambient gives way.

  Plague’s coughing, the rattling bones of the skelies, the tribal drums, the flute, and the keening moan of the desert woman.

  I fall into darkness.

  Again.

  I fall, bumping and sliding along the edges of a widening pit. A spiral stairway just beyond the reach of my Samurai’s fingertips winds its way upward and down into the darkness as I fall past it.

  I open a menu under Actions and scroll quickly for something I’d seen before.