"So be it," he muttered, making no effort to disguise his displeasure. "We have other matters to deal with. Return immediately to Underhill and proceed with the next plan in our conquest. And do not fail me in obtaining the Avalon technology I seek. Our kingdom's future depends on it."
Chapter Five
It felt strange, quitting his job. Dobie had wanted to go in and give them notice or something, or at least show up in person. It seemed the decent thing to do. But Morgan had convinced him that that wouldn't be necessary, that he was better than they were and he was only starting to realize his potential. What felt stranger was believing her.
He called the Mega Burger to tell them he quit. In words bathed in acid his boss informed him that the cost of his uniform would be deducted from his last paycheck, and had hung up on him. After a few moments of staring at the receiver with the bell tone blaring away, quitting didn't seem like such a bad idea after all. He felt liberated.
On the suite's couch, they both enjoyed the glow of the night before. Morgan cuddled him as if he were a teddy bear, and reclined in the couch with his legs across her lap; he felt rather special. She could lavish whatever attention on him she wished, and did.
Dobie had quit asking himself what she saw in him. Obviously, she saw something. Who was he to question her?
"Let's go shopping," she announced, and in a fluid, magical motion plucked him from the couch and led him out of the hotel to her Corvette, which as waiting for them, door open and engine running, precisely where they'd left it. The valet was different but his smile was the same. She tipped him another hundred dollar bill.
On the road in full daylight they drew even more attention. High schoolers maybe a year older than him blared horns and gave him the thumbs up. If he hadn't felt godlike the night before, he did now. She drove directly to Woodland Hills Mall in expensive South Tulsa, and in the ensuing shopping rampage Morgan bought him an entire wardrobe, from casual to formal, a mountain of clothing he couldn't even see over. As soon as he started to wonder how it was going to fit in the 'Vette, Morgan said, "I'll have it delivered to the room."
Dobie tossed the orange polyester Mega Burger uniform into the trash with no regrets. Morgan had promised him a job which would pay much better than fast-food, though she hadn't specified what it would be. Right then, it didn't matter.
Morgan had made a point of stopping by the sporting goods store, which Dobie found puzzling at first. She assured him he would want to wear shorts and sneakers to Lazerwarz, and he shrugged and agreed, not fully understanding. It took some searching to find spandex running shorts in a size 28 men's, but they did, along with a $200 pair of futuristic Nikes that looked liked they were designed for zero G.
Finally, they stopped in at a hair salon. By now the day had developed a momentum of its own, and he didn't question the haircut, or the instructions Morgan gave the girl with the scissors. "Long in the back, short on top, leave the wave." Afterwards, seeing his new image in the mirror, he felt transformed. He caught himself wondering how he was going to fit his new hair into a hair net, then he remembered there would be no more hair nets.
Back in the Corvette, Morgan told him to open the glove compartment. Inside was a folded black Lazerwarz T-shirt and a member's game key on a ball chain. With the key was a silver medallion with the Lazerwarz logo.
"With that member's key you can play as many games as you want, for free," Morgan said cheerfully as she pulled out of the parking lot. "No questions asked."
All the kindness of the day, the clothes, the attention, and of course the sex, was all just too much . . . he didn't know what to say. No one had ever done so many nice things for him before, and he felt unworthy of it all. Somewhere amid the confusing emotions tears began to well in his eyes, and he looked away.
"Thanks, Morgan," he said, after a long struggle with his feelings. He wasn't about to start blubbering right there in the seat . . . she might misunderstand. "I mean, thanks a lot." He managed to look at her, but her eyes were on the road. "You didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to," she replied, glancing his way with a bright smile. "You're special. You deserve it."
He wanted to know what made him, a geeky, hamburger flipping, deformed teenager without even a car, so special, but thought that asking would be a mistake. He didn't.
"I'm not sure about that, but thanks anyway," he said, turning the member's key over in his hands.
When he looked up again, they had stopped in front of the Lazerwarz arena.
"I have some business to tend to," Morgan said, and Dobie's door popped open, again, by itself. "Go in and have some fun. I should be back by closing."
Slightly mystified, Dobie got out, and with a start realized she was leaving. He didn't like that at all, because he would be alone, and would have to fend for himself in what promised to be a terrifying social situation. Then he remembered what he looked like, rather buff in his sexy Spandex and new haircut, and she said he was cute, which he was beginning to believe; and in spite of his hands, he would survive.
The Corvette sped off, and Dobie felt an all new longing. Will my heart grow fonder? You bet it will.
His bike was where he'd left it, locked to the gas meter. When he had stood here the night before, an outsider looking in, his only ambition had been to get through the day without burning himself with grease. Now the bike represented everything he didn't have before, a sense of self, and a hint that maybe he might worth something after all.
He went into the Lazerwarz arena a new man.
The lobby was as he remembered, except now it was a human beehive boiling with activity, and despite the brisk ride in the Corvette he welcomed the cold, comfortable air. Dobie assumed a place at the end of a sort line that snaked up to "Stage One," while casually scouting out the scene. It felt like high school all over again, in line in the cafeteria or a pep rally, only the kids seemed more enthusiastic about being here. He also noted the dark colors everyone was wearing, black being the favorite, and realizing he was dressed like everyone else his anxiety levels dropped. One or two others had noticed his black Lazerwarz shirt, but habits die hard, and he found himself balling his fists to hide his fingers. In the past this had gotten him into trouble, as many saw this as a challenge to fight. But they just looked away, evidently thinking he was an employee or something. If they just don't look too closely at my hands . . .
No one else seemed to have a special silver Lazerwarz key and logo, something that also attracted a few glances. A moment later he considered a humiliating scenario: what if the tag was no good? He had no money, and no ID, and no key to the bike lock. He'd be stuck here until Morgan showed up. Which brought to mind the question of his status: if he were dating the manager, would he get preferential treatment? The advantages to being Morgan's new boyfriend seemed endless.
Now it was his turn, and he stepped up to the counter and cautiously offered the silver key to the guy behind the computer, whose name tag said Pyro.
"A member," commented Pyro, with vague overtones of awe. "With a silver membership. Look, you don't have to wait in this line. Next time just go to Stage Two," Pyro said, holding the key to an electronic thingie on the counter. "Code name?"
"Pardon?" Dobie said.
"Code name, you know, your handle. This key doesn't have one yet."
Under most circumstances this would have been an awkward moment for him as he stumbled over a half dozen unintelligible words by way of explanation. This was no ordinary circumstance, and his mouth worked admirably, as if by itself.
"The Hound," Dobie heard himself say.
"The Hound it is," Pyro replied. "Get ready, the beta game is about to start. That door, over there," he said, pointing to the station entrance. "Get a jump on everyone. Get in line now," he added with a wink.
Dobie smiled and pretended to know what he was talking about, and got in the new line as Pyro announced over the PA that the beta game was about to begin. A mass of black clad youth swarmed towards the sta
tion door.
The judge was a loud mouthed kid named Space Demon who demonstrated the vest and gun with practiced ease, then led the thirty or so players into the main room with the vests. Dobie held his breath as he put his vest on and activated the rig. There's still time for this key to not work! But no, the vest bleeped to life. In the little computer screen appeared the words, "The Hound."
The Hound . . .
Again, Dobie found himself standing straight up, giving him a better view of his opponents. Space Demon had explained this was a solo game, no teams, but already Dobie saw a team in the making. A huddled conference among four or five, there in the corner. Their worried glances in his direction suggested he might be a . . . threat? Having spent his life on the bottom of the social food chain, the notion was alien to him. He had played this game only once before, and it looked like these punks had been here all day.
The judge activated the game. On the gun screen a thirty-second countdown began, and the arena door rolled up. Players scattered quickly into the mist with whoops and hollers. This time the place reminded him of a large boiler room, like the one in the basement of his high school, with passages and tunnels leading into even darker places. Instinct told him to avoid the center this time; he kept to the right, hugging the main wall, finding a mostly direct route along the edge of the maze to a ramp. From beyond the walls came a thumpety thump of running feet. Didn't the judge say no running? Dobie suspected he would soon find out just how well the rules were enforced.
The countdown on his gun ended with a long bleeep, and the game erupted all around him. Up the ramp . . . up the . . .
His vest uttered a mournful wail and died; someone had tagged him. Lights blinked at him from the second level; he'd had a perfect shot of anyone coming up the ramp. Better keep going.
Bathed in black light, the second level was its own miniature maze. Sniper holes lined the wall facing out, towards the rest of the arena, where a cluster of players were showing their back targets to him. They were taking potshots at the players below in what was obviously a group effort, and they hadn't yet noticed him.
Dobie ducked back to the rear, where the maze became much tighter, but had interesting shoulder-height sniper holes giving a clear shot at the team. He let loose into the island of flickering lights, and one by one the packs went down.
He pulled back, out of sight, and listened to anguished groans.
"Hey, you tagged me!"
"No I didn't, that was . . ."
"Who's The Hound?"
"Dunno . . ."
They resumed shooting below, and Dobie took great pleasure in nailing them again, this time all four of them. Then another player came up the ramp, oblivious to the carnage in progress, followed by another, shooting everywhere and nowhere as if the sheer quantity of shots would win them the game. From his niche in the maze Dobie picked them off, then repeated the process. In the confusion no one noticed him lurking in the rear, as he raked his ruby-red beam across the battle. The gun screen said RANK(4). 734 points.
"I'm fourth?" he muttered aloud. "Guess so." The exhilaration of not coming in last gave him new fuel to burn. From his spot he continued to score, and the once-tight huddle had begun to scatter throughout the maze. They must have realized they were not getting tagged from below.
"Hey Hound, come here doggie doggie . . ." one of the twits shouted. "I know you're back here . . ."
The taunting was like lighting gasoline with a match; perhaps it was the doggie part that did it. A wave of adrenaline flashed through his system, and he stepped out from his hiding spot. The periphery of his vision was blurring to red.
"I'm not a doggie . . ." Dobie said, tagging the other's chest target. The scene felt childish, infantile even, like bickering kids in a playground. But beyond that he felt a lust rise up within him. It wasn't the lust for sex; after a night with Morgan, he was completely depleted of that, at least for now. No, it was the lust for battle, for inflicting injury, for scoring the highest score, for winning.
Is this what testosterone feels like? he wondered, amazed at the concept.
They sparred back and forth. The player was Gelcap, his gun screen told him. This one had an aura of confidence about him, as if he'd lived in this maze all his life. Dobie blasted away at him, but hit him relatively few times; Gelcap had an infuriating technique of approaching sideways, gun pointed up, which presented no targets to shoot at. Yet it was a legit move, he wasn't covering anything, and The Hound wasted no time copying it. The stances reminded him of fencing. Touché.
"You're good," Gelcap muttered while his pack was down.
Then why doesn't he go somewhere else? The Hound wondered, but he was having too much fun racking up points. Perhaps Gelcap needed a challenge. If so, he'd found one.
The others joined in, shooting from a distance, sending four separate beams his way, blasting his targets, killing his vest. The Hound was instantly outnumbered. The red at his periphery deepened to a darker color, the color of blood.
He pulled back, just to give his pack time to come back up. He glanced at the gun screen: RANK(3). 923 points.
Five, four, three, two . . .
And came out shooting, pegging two right off. During their five second downtime The Hound advanced on the others, surprising them with his beam. More were stampeding up the ramp, a tight little grouping of targets which he promptly extinguished. He didn't look at his score, he didn't have time. . . . From behind him came the bleep of Gelcap's pack coming back up, and The Hound took a chance and fired blindly, backwards over his shoulder. The chance paid off; Gelcap went back down.
"How the hell did you do that?" Gelcap wailed, but by then The Hound's attention was elsewhere. Targets were everywhere, some more competent than others, and The Hound resumed his concealed position in the rear. Here he scooped up more points, tagging, ducking, tagging again; they had no idea where it was coming from.
* * *
"I'm not impressed," Mort commented, whirling around on the control center's chair to confront Morrigan, who stood sneering at him, with her hands on her hips. He was not going to let her intimidate him, not now, not ever—and if his horns grew into foot-long spirals, as they were on their way to doing already, then so be it. The young human in question was a shadow on the monitor, highlighted by his targets. His performance during this game had been above average but not spectacular. "Why do you think there's something unique about him?"
"You don't see it? Of course you don't, not on these terminals," Morrigan screeched. "The aura. A god's aura."
Mort glanced at the wimpy, skinny human on the monitor, and fiddled with the controls. When he picked up the snooping elves earlier, their bright, shiny auras were obvious, but this kid . . . there was nothing there.
"I suppose we're just not seeing the same thing," Morrigan spat. "In time, you will see who we have with us." She spun on her heels and stalked out, leaving an acrid scent in the control center. Mort rolled his eyes.
She must have seen something. It's not like her to be enamored with anything, much less a human!
He was considering going down there in some passable disguise to investigate this lad directly when he remembered the key word: god.
"Well, hell's bells, of course I can't see a god on these screens!" The video went through an image processor, for which he had made, at no small expense and trouble, a special set of programs to fine-tune the reception of underworld beings. The ability to ken solid gold in any quantity had enabled him to buy not just the best technology humans had to offer, but the best humans to set it up. Mort didn't really think he would see a god in his arena, but just in case one came calling he had had a god program created.
On the server he clicked on the image processor icon, dragged down the screen and clicked the "god" icon.
Do you wish to terminate the sidhe task? it asked.
Yes, Mort entered impatiently.
Terminating the sidhe task will erase any unsaved data.
"I don't give a
shit!" Mort shouted at the screen.
Do you wish to continue?
Yes.
Are you REALLY sure you wish to continue?
"No, I wish to sit here with my thumb up my butt. Yes, I wish to continue!" Mort clicked yes.
As the hourglass appeared he contemplated the deals he'd made to set up this system, and wondered if the one with Gates was worth the trouble. Anyone, it seemed, could be bought if you had enough gold.
There were only a few minutes left in the game, and Mort considered switching to a lobby camera when the hourglass disappeared, and the god program popped up. By now the kid had moved, and he would have to go clicking through each of the hundred monitors to find him; to save time he clicked on the god scan option and let it go.
Five seconds later the monitor filled with a view of the kid in question. The banner Godlike being found scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Sure enough, this was no mere pimply human adolescent. His aura blazed crimson. Mort had to dampen the brightness to keep the image from burning out the screen.
"She was right," Mort whispered in awe. "This is no elf. This is an older power, from beyond Underhill."
He looked up his code name. The Hound?
The Hound had won the game. He'd beaten Gelcap, a budding talent Mort had considering harvesting a bit early, but with all the publicity buzzing around in the parking lot (damn her!) he hadn't dared.
Mort sat back in the huge chair and steepled his fingers. If Morrigan had managed to snag a god for this endeavor, she would have more than compensated for the trouble she'd caused. The only problem now was determining which god this was, or at least figure out his lineage.
Take by force or by guile? His identity will have to determine the path.
Mort chuckled to himself, amused at how this was starting to play out.
* * *
Suddenly, it was all over. Overhead lights came on, turning darkness to a murky dusk. The gun screen read,
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