Jet went through each segment of the course that way, right up until Richter nudged her. Tearing her eyes off the arena, Jet found herself facing a row of Nirreth, none of which she recognized.
Still, she knew who they were.
The Rings Judges.
The judges kept the actual rules of the contest, as opposed to the Board, which voted on execution and made final decisions on each candidate’s performance. The judges would be the ones to validate points and kills, offering these to the Board with recommendations.
All final decisions rested with the Board.
In addition to the Rings Board and the Rings Judges, Jet knew there was a team of operators led by a Ringmaster, meaning one who had an undefeated run at the Rings of more than fifty wins.
Not course wins, per se, but point wins.
The current head of ops was a Nirreth named Trazen.
He’d been the first Ringmaster to rise to that position in over forty years. He’d also been the youngest, which made him the youngest ops head in Nirreth history. Since the head of Rings Operations remained in their position until a new Ringmaster won the spot, the previous head had been getting pretty old when Trazen replaced him, less than a year earlier.
Apparently, the new ops commander was good, but tough.
Jet preferred that to what she’d heard about his predecessor.
The last Ringmaster could be a bit “whimsical” at times, Laksri said.
He could be vindictive and petty, too.
It was thought to be the real reason it took so long for another Nirreth to reach the required number of wins to qualify as Ringmaster during his tenure. From what Jet heard, it wasn’t even about the ops job; no one really believed he’d been designing programs to defeat contestants in some twisted effort to hold onto his position.
No. They just thought the guy was a nutcase.
The prevailing theory was, he just got off on killing people in the Rings, sometimes for no discernible reason.
In the Rings, the Ringmaster was God.
How Trazen managed to survive, when others did not, no one knew.
Trazen, the current Ringmaster, managed to hit the magic number in spite of his predecessor’s predilections. To many, this made his accomplishment more impressive, although a few still insinuated that he’d cheated, or that he had some kind of “in” with the Board.
Richter told Jet, flat-out, he never would have recruited a rebel into the Rings while the previous Ringmaster remained in charge of ops.
He seemed to think she’d be okay with Trazen.
At least Trazen wouldn’t kill her on some bizarre whim.
Given some of the other things Jet heard about Trazen from Richter, she wasn’t so sure. Apparently an unusually high number of Trazen’s human “companions” had a strange habit of dying after he’d taken them into his bed. Trazen also burned through a lot of those companions, even compared to most Nirreth.
Jet was beginning to think all Ringmasters might be serial killers.
Jet had even seen Trazen once, if only at a distance. He’d attended her demonstration, and she’d seen him with Prince Ogli, down by the canals. All she remembered was his stare, and his unusual eyes, which had a gold rim around the black.
That, and for a Nirreth, he’d been surprisingly handsome.
Even by human standards, he’d had an attractive face.
All this went through Jet’s head in a rush as she stood over the row of Rings Judges. She was still trying to remember what to do, when Laksri’s fingers pressured Jet’s arm, even as the impulse from his mind reached her.
Kneel.
Jet dropped to one knee without thought.
Luckily, the floor before the judges’ table was carpeted.
Silence fell over the crowd.
It was spooky how complete it was––far closer to a real silence than the same number of humans could ever possibly manage. Not only did they stop talking, they stopped moving. They seemed almost to stop breathing, their postures eerily uniform as Jet glanced up and around where she knelt.
The effect was like turning off a radio.
When Jet looked up next, the judge in the middle, a male Nirreth with dark, seaweed-green eyes, was staring at her.
“Who owns this mammal?” he said.
Jet flinched, although she knew his wording was a formality.
Behind her, a familiar voice answered.
“Kraken Mosendre, Seventh Brother of the Supreme Royal Leader, Father of Olgidan Mosendre, Divine Eldest Son of the same family and future Supreme Royal Leader of the Greater Realm of Asteti, Forever-Blessed Empire of the Stars.”
Richter intoned the words formally.
Maybe it was in her mind, but Jet still heard the barest edge of insolence in his voice.
To her left, Laksri repeated the same words, only in Nargili.
When both finished, the judge in the center leaned back in his chair, glancing to the four other judges in turn, two on either side of where he sat.
Jet remained where she was, her head lowered.
Out of her peripheral vision, she still attempted to go over the map she was building in her head. As a result, Laksri had to tap her shoulder when she missed the center judge speaking to her.
She refocused on him, and the Nirreth with the green eyes laughed, then said something to the other judges. When the others laughed with him, Jet glanced up at Laksri, who still had one hand protectively on her neck.
They think you are nervous.
Jet felt the words through his skin.
That time, when the judge looked at her, pity shone in his dark green eyes, as well as a more subtle shade of regret.
“You enter this contest willingly, human?” he said in heavily-accented English.
Jet was hard-pressed to stifle a disbelieving snort.
Luckily, they’d prepared her for this part, so she managed to keep her expression open, even enthusiastic. At Laksri’s warning squeeze, Jet forced herself to nod, gritting her teeth only a little.
“I am willing,” she said. “It is an honor to fight in the Rings.”
When she said it, it even almost felt true.
After everything she’d been through the last few weeks, she was ready to do this.
Also, Jet had Black strapped to her back. Kneeling there, in front of all these Nirreth who clearly expected her to wash out, if not die outright in her first encounter, feeling Black so near to her hand––these things alone made her strangely confident.
If the stakes weren’t so high, Jet might even be looking forward to it.
In that brief instant, she could almost understand how Tyra felt about this.
Almost.
As it was, she felt her legs shaking as she rose slowly to her feet, even with the venom. She knew it stemmed as much from adrenaline as fear, but she willed it away almost angrily as she straightened to her full height, which admittedly, wasn’t all that impressive.
When Laksri touched her shoulder, she half-expected him to chide her for freezing up, and for seeming too afraid.
Instead, his hand exuded approval, a near-humor.
That was good, he thought through her skin. It was all very good, Jet. We want them to underestimate you.
With the thought, she felt a pulse of excitement on him, coupled with a harder thread of desire. That time, instead of pulling it back, he let it linger.
I want you, he told her, quieter. The boy isn’t wrong.
Jet looked up at him, startled.
He released her before she could think of an answer.
She just stood there, between the three of them, unable to incorporate that new information with the rest of what whirled in her head. Briefly, it crossed her mind to wonder if Laksri told her that deliberately to throw her off, or if he really thought it was a good idea to lay that on her now, five minutes before trigger-happy Rings operators aimed live rounds of ammunition at her head.
Throwing both thoughts out of her mind, Jet went back to t
he map, letting her eyes roam across the eight corners of the walled cage, then higher, when she saw the hatch that led to a whole other level above that. Remembering what Alice told her about thinking in three-dimensions, Jet found herself smiling, in spite of herself, even as she made sure she had the location of each hatch mapped exactly.
Even as she thought Alice’s name, Jet saw her.
Her trainer’s hair had been done up as well, and she wore elaborate make-up that hinted of some exotic origin, coupled with a dark gray shirt that emphasized the severe lines of her muscular frame. Her feet wore jeweled, open-toed sandals.
Jerking her eyes off the severe-faced woman, Jet focused back on the track, taking it all in one last time, while she still had the chance.
Overall, the course was a brighter, cleaner and slightly larger version of the model Laksri had shown her from Astet.
Given that the Astet model was probably a hundred years older, if not more, Jet was a little surprised how little the basics had changed.
The fake mountains and rocks, structures to climb on and jump to (or from), the moveable tracks, the mud pit, sand pits, large and small ponds, the ladder and hanging ropes… very few areas of variation existed between this version and that original model, apart from the larger body of water, and that had to be because Nirreth couldn’t swim.
They even managed to simulate space by using steel cables and timed freefalls, along with sensory generators within the projections themselves.
From what Alice told Jet, she could expect a lot more elaborate challenges in the real thing, compared to anything they threw at her in practice.
They let new contestants train, yes, but they were still supposed to be coming in relatively fresh. The judges wanted an idea of their potential and versatility, versus a win based on memorizing a particular set of variables.
Beyond that, at least a percentage of the ammunition would be live, even in the trial run.
The points system remained the same; from what Laks told her, the difference between live and virtual would be minimal, in terms of points.
Other points Jet could earn came from the accuracy of her hits, style for hand-to-hand, and various “bonuses” that could be found throughout the course––anything from weapons to armor to enhancements of speed, the ability to fly, reversal of virtual injuries, supplies.
Jet would also be timed.
She had four hours to make it through this initial, trial run.
Whether they broke that up into segments or gave her a single, long stretch on one elaborate course was totally up to the Ringmaster and his team.
Jet knew four hours condisered a short course.
From the perspective of the pros––who sometimes spent a whole week on a particular run, sometimes with as many as three other live contestants, along with whoever they threw at them from the virtual end––four hours was nothing.
It was barely a training exercise.
The suit Jet wore would ensure that most of the physical sensations reached her, pleasant and unpleasant, and accurately enough that it might be difficult at times to tell a real injury from a fake one––or a real person from a fake one, for that matter.
Real or not, any significant injuries would make it hard to move.
The difference would be important more in terms of whether it was a good idea to force her way through a broken leg, or tap out and request assistance, or even call out a willing defeat to make sure she’d walk again at some point.
For this match, Jet didn’t need to worry about that so much.
No one said it outright, but Jet knew that if she were seriously injured… if she let herself be seriously injured, she told herself… it was likely game over for her.
It also likely meant game over in terms of her future in the Rings.
In either case, they would call a halt to the demo match, since it was her first time. As little room for error as there was, in terms of Jet’s career, there was significantly more in terms of safeguards around her actual person.
Or so she hoped.
Jet knew she couldn’t think that way, though, or she’d be doomed.
It was clear a lot of Nirreth came here, expecting a good show, even if it was only Jet getting her costume torn off by virtual cave-Nirreth and watching her get stung a few dozen times before they gang-raped her.
“Remember, you are the first,” Laksri said softly. He was no longer touching her, but must have read at least some of her thoughts off her expression. “They came for this. More than your death. If you give them a good show, they will love you for it.”
Looking up at him, Jet found herself nodding, even as an odd, and completely unwarranted flush of confidence infused her limbs.
“Well,” she said, tilting her head, Nirreth-fashion. “Then I guess I’ll have to give them one.”
From the other side of where she stood, Richter smiled.
17
Going Home
Laksri, Richter, Anaze, and Alice left her at the edge of the arena.
Jet barely crossed the white line between the ramp and the edge of the play space when everything disappeared, leaving her alone.
For the briefest instant, just long enough for Jet to really get a lock on her location among the arena components, she stood inside the artificial landscape, her feet on solid ground––
Then it was gone.
Jet stood inside a flat, gray space, nothing under her feet and nothing above her head, or to either side of where she stood.
Thankfully, the crowd disappeared, too.
She didn’t move in the gray space, other than to check that the hilt of Black still protruded from the scabbard on her back.
A tinny, accented voice rose, echoing around her in English.
The echo was large enough, Jet had to assume it had been amplified throughout the entire stadium above.
“Virtual settings check…” it said in a cheerful voice, like from one of the machines from Old Earth. “Projection beginning in three minutes…”
Jet’s heart hammered in her chest.
It hit her again, that all of this could be over, in a matter of seconds.
She could be shuttled off to Ogli, and Richter’s “Plan B” would suddenly be in effect, whether that meant Jet kidnapping the Prince, blowing up his sleeping quarters, the rebels simply breaking Jet out, or whatever else Richter might have planned.
She’d still be wearing the implant.
They could just throw a switch somewhere up in security and Jet’s head would be separated from her neck.
Game over.
Forcing that out of her mind, even as it occurred to her that her emotions may have already spiked high enough to prompt a scan of her brain activity, she gripped Black’s hilt tighter in her hand. She tried to unsheath the blade from the scabbard altogether. It wouldn’t move. She tried again, yanking harder, and started to panic.
Then she remembered Alice warning her she wouldn’t have access to any weaponry until the session started.
Forcing herself to take a handful of deep breaths, Jet recalled the map of the arena as clearly as she could, her body taut as she watched the seconds tick backwards slowly.
One minute. She’d already burned through two, freaking out.
Forty-five seconds.
Thirty.
Jet fell slowly into a crouch, almost without noticing she did it.
Pulling up every memory of every training session she’d had with Alice, and with the old man, Mishio, back home… and with Anaze himself, back when they used to run little contests about who could do what when they were “bored.”
Those “contests,” Jet now realized, had been designed to test her abilities in this very thing. Obviously, Anaze decided Jet could do it, or she wouldn’t be here. He never would have offered her up to his father as a candidate.
The thought comforted her. But only a little.
She remembered what Mishio told her, what had been true for every fight in which Jet had found hers
elf since. He said if you had to think about a move in an actual fight, it was already too late.
Only he said it in Mishio-speak.
“Training is training time. Fight time is fight time. You train while you fight, and you’re dead. No time to remember in a fight. Your mind is too slow. You move. You act. Hope your body remembers.”
Jet sank into her body as the memory of his voice repeated in her mind.
She watched the clock tick down the last few seconds. Too late to learn anything new now. She knew what she knew. That was it.
She’d find out soon enough whether it was enough.
In that last second, Jet took a breath.
Before it was completed, the gray walls melted in front of her eyes…
…and reformed into something else.
Giant, burned-out buildings appeared in front of her, still smoking from recent fires.
They rose up dozens of stories, into a flat, gray sky, decorated with plumes of smoke, a churning, red-tinted black. Their dark trails looked like a wound cutting through the pre-dawn light.
Jet didn’t move for a long set of seconds.
She simply stared, conscious of the terrain around her, trying to map it to what she knew of the physical course, and where she stood in relation to it. None of the structures she’d mapped made sense, given her current landscape, so apparently she was meant to walk, at least until that terrain shifted.
She didn’t walk though, not right away.
Instead, she scanned the skies, and the windows of the nearby buildings, trying to get a sense of what the target might entail.
There was always a target… in every game.
There was always a goal of some kind.
Sometimes it was as simple as staying alive long enough to be rescued by an alien ship, or a group of warriors with whom one got separated.
Sometimes it was reaching a village or well-fortified town or city. Sometimes it was more specific: rescuing a teammate from enemy soldiers, detonating a bomb inside a heavily-fortified strategic target, kidnapping a particular leader from the other side’s team, obtaining a serum for some deadly disease.
From looking around, the time period was modern.
The Complete Alien Apocalypse Series (Parts I-IV Plus Bonus Novella): An Apocalyptic, Romantic, Science Fiction, Alien Invasion Adventure Page 34