Ross concentrated on keeping both his armour and his health topped up, and ceased seeking out the Reaper, instead waiting for his opponent to come into his line of fire. He also stopped trying to face off toe to toe: getting in his attacks then haring away again before he suffered too much damage in return.
He survived several minutes without taking that final tenth frag. He didn’t score any either, but that would come. He had to be patient, resisting the temptation to stay in the fight too long when it seemed that surely one more hit on the Reaper would earn him a kill. And then, finally, two things he’d been waiting for happened at once.
Ross had hit the Reaper with a proton blast and reckoned he could get off one more before the retaliatory hail of bullets did too much damage. He was pulling the trigger for this second shot when he unintentionally stepped into a newly spawned machine-gun, causing the weapon he’d been holding to transform. In his panicked desperation, some hard-wired part of his memory imagined pressing E on a keyboard: the letter he’d bound as a shortcut to switch to the proton cannon. In response to this thought, the machine-gun transformed back into the previous weapon and the resulting blast splattered the Reaper into chunks.
After that, things really turned around. Able to switch between all the guns in his arsenal, he could vary his attacks according to the circumstances, but most decisively, he remembered death-match rule number two: winning is about controlling the resources. Every time the Reaper died, he was back to square one, while Ross set about making sure that whenever his opponent went to pick up a weapon, he had already got there first.
Ross edged it ten-nine, his worst score against the old bot since about 1998.
The duel over, Ross went to the main courtyard to greet his opponent. He wasn’t sure of the etiquette of these things here, as back in the day such post-match discussion was carried out via in-game lobbies or IRC chatrooms. It seemed logical to head for the most central and open spot in the game. However, after standing there like a tool for a while with no sign of the Reaper, Ross sent him a message using the tablet, letting him know where he was waiting.
The Reaper did not respond.
Ross gave it another couple of messages and another couple of minutes, then went looking. He found him at the top of one of the towers, gazing reflectively upon the walkways, staircases and thoroughfares below. Up close Ross could see a look of studied sincerity upon his chiselled features.
‘Eh, good game,’ Ross suggested tentatively, the standard platitude.
The Reaper continued to stare at what lay beneath him, as though he hadn’t heard. Maybe he couldn’t. Bugger of a handicap if so, unable to pick up on the sounds that gave away his opponent’s position.
Ross raised his tablet and keyed in a message.
Bedlam: You said we could talk now.
Ross started a little as the Reaper turned his head sharply and shot him a look of stern disdain.
‘I said I would answer your questions if you defeated me,’ he said, his gravelly tones Shakespearian in their import. ‘You didn’t.’
‘Eh, I think if you check the scores, you’ll see that I just snuck it.’
‘It doesn’t count.’
‘It doesn’t … what? Why not?’
‘You were using cheats. Aim-bots and wall-hacks and I don’t know what else.’
‘I bloody well wasn’t. I wouldn’t know how.’
‘Yes you were. I was totally owning you and then all of a sudden I can’t buy a frag. You’re a cheat and I don’t honour deals with the likes of you.’
He looked back down over the edge, a kind of injured nobility about his rugged jaw line as he turned it to face away from Ross, which was when he sussed it.
‘Oh my God, you’re in the huff. You can’t take it so you’re in the huff.’
‘I can so take it,’ the Reaper insisted, his gruffly theatrical tones not adding quite the gravity he intended. ‘But it’s meaningless if you use cheats.’
Ross was flabbergasted but had to hide his growing amusement. He had never had reason to consider how an AI construct created for deathmatch might deal with defeat, but now that it was in front of him, it made sense. The Reaper hated losing, couldn’t handle it. And Ross deduced that there was only one thing that would make him feel better.
‘I didn’t bloody cheat. I was out of practice, and it took me some time to shake off the rust. I underestimated you too,’ he added, figuring some ego-balm wouldn’t hurt. ‘Once I appreciated what a formidable opponent you were, I learned from you, adapted my strategy to compensate for my weakness.’
The Reaper continued staring nobly into the middle distance.
‘Fancy a rematch?’ Ross asked.
‘Best of three?’ he answered eagerly.
‘Okay, but only if you answer my questions first.’
The Reaper agreed readily, as Ross had anticipated. It was like dangling a big bag of brown before a smack-head.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘I’m not sure. A long time before the marines ever came to this place, I know that. Can we fight again now?’
‘Not yet. Have you ever been anywhere else?’
‘Yes. There are many other arenas: Scorn, Death’s Dark Vale …’
‘No, I mean outside of the training arena.’
‘That’s just what the marines call it. Before they came here I didn’t know there was anywhere else. Can we fight again now?’
‘Not yet. Can you leave this place if you want to?’
‘I don’t want to. I might end up like the marines.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘There’s something wrong with their memories. They think they came here and set up their advance operations base a week ago.’
‘They’ve been here longer than that?’
‘Oh yes. Years. Decades.’
Ross felt a chill run through him. Decades.
‘It’s a strange duality: part of them knows they’ve been here all this time, and they’ll talk to me about great fights we had here, but when they talk about what’s going on outside the arena, it’s weird. Not only have they been here for decades yet think it only a week; they always believe that it’s the same day. Today is always the day of their disastrous invasion, the day their reinforcements arrive, only to be slaughtered. There was never a day when they were waiting for the invasion, a day after they set up the base, a day before the reinforcements are due. Can we fight again now?’
Ross was starting to understand how Carol must feel when she wanted to talk about things and he just wanted to have sex again.
God. Carol. He could still see her from Saturday night, tears seeping out over her mascara, tears that had leaked out despite herself. He could see her further back, in better times. Happier times. Naked times. Long lie-ins at the weekend, making plans. Making love.
He was missing her so much. He’d been missing her since the moment she left his flat the other night: he just hadn’t been prepared to admit it to himself. It was such a guy thing to convince himself he’d manage fine without her, a delusion that lasted precisely until the moment concept became reality.
Arsehole. Stereotype. Fool. And now he might never hold her again; didn’t even know where his real arms were, or, if Bostrom and his theory of ancestor simulations was right, whether he’d ever had real arms, or a real Carol either, for that matter. But simulation or not, he wanted her back, to lie together in her simulated bed, veg out on his simulated sofa, and even, if that was still what she wanted, raise their simulated baby.
‘This place was different once, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. It’s strange. Sometimes when I remember the arenas, I see them differently in my mind, but perhaps my memory is playing tricks or perhaps it is me that has changed. I recall a time when there was only fighting, though: a time when I don’t remember talking to anyone. Can we fight again now?’
‘What about the card collectors. How long have they been coming here?’
&nb
sp; ‘Much longer than the marines. In fact it was only when the marines started coming here that I heard them referred to as card collectors. I don’t understand what this name means, and nor do the marines. I believe it is what the Gralaks call them.
‘I haven’t seen one in a long time, though. They used to come here to fight each other. Sometimes they would summon me to join, and sometimes I would just watch. It was from them that I learned the terms I used to disparage you before, such as “aim-bot” and “wall-hack”. I apologise. I do not even know what they mean. It was what they used to say when they were angry in defeat, often moments before suddenly disappearing.’
Rage-quits, as they were known. The Reaper had been ringside for online deathmatch, which meant this place had been a server. Real players had logged on from somewhere, but this predated the arrival of the marines, and, according to the Reaper, that could have been decades ago.
‘An aim-bot is a piece of computer software that aims your weapon for you.’
‘I don’t see the point,’ said the Reaper.
Neither did Ross, but then he’d never been an obnoxious thirteen-year-old script-kiddy with serious peer-respect issues. In truth he remembered that accusations of using an aim-bot were far more prevalent than bot-use itself, to the extent that it became a kind of back-handed compliment.
‘And a wall-hack is a form of, er, vision enhancement that lets you see through walls.’
‘I already see through walls,’ the Reaper replied neutrally. ‘But I would never take advantage of that by, for instance, sending a rocket towards where I know you are about to emerge. That would be ungentlemanly.’
Ross remembered now: the Reaper’s AI was designed such that he knew where the player was at all times, but his protocol dictated that he wouldn’t fire until he had line of sight; albeit he only needed line of sight to one pixel.
The Reaper looked at him quizzically, as though just catching up.
‘Are you telling me you don’t see through walls? In that case I salute you, and I must pit myself against you with renewed respect. Can we fight again now?’
Friendly Fire
Ross re-emerged exactly where he’d stood in the briefing area, the tablet in his hand reading the final score in his second match. Had it not been for that memento, it might have been easy to imagine he’d never left the hidden base, and that his visit to the training arena had happened on another day completely. It was a bit like walking out from the dark of a cinema into broad daylight, the world of the film instantly banished to memory. In a way it was a mercy, as it meant he could also instantly stop feeling bad about the foul mood he’d inflicted upon the Reaper by mantelpiecing the poor guy ten-scud.
What could he do? He was in a hurry.
Time had evidently passed here though, as Sergeant Steel was no longer the only marine present. A small audience had been taking in the combat, one of whom caught his eye, immediately distinct not merely by standing separate from the others, slouched against the wall in a demonstrably unmilitary stance, but far more by being the only woman he had seen since before the scan.
He recalled that there was a female player model among the options for customising your in-game avatar, but there were no women in the single-player campaign, and this one clearly wasn’t just another interchangeable NPC. There was something punkish about her appearance, as though she’d taken the standard issue fatigues and armour and then dropped them off with Vivienne Westwood, but it was even more obvious from the way she carried herself that she was a breed apart.
Was she a player: a card collector? Or was she another like him and Bob? If it was the latter, then she was lacking the look of bafflement and fear, opting instead for disapproval and impatience. He had only clapped eyes on her and she was already turning dismissively to head out of the room. He was about to stop her by calling out to ask who she was, when he was interrupted by a volley of close-quarters small-arms fire to the chest and face.
Ross was thrown backwards as he heard two voices call out simultaneously: ‘Man down! Man down!’ from one of the marines and ‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’ from Sergeant Steel.
Ross had been so intently gazing upon the mystery soldier that he had been only peripherally aware of another marine entering the briefing room and reacting with startlement. As the apologetic young private later explained, word hadn’t made it all around the base that there was a Gralak friendly on board. When he saw Ross emerge out of thin air, he assumed it was some kind of teleportation-led attack and reacted accordingly.
Ross was in a world of pain, reminded instantly that, outside the training arena, getting shot was not merely a matter of losing health points. However, that very thought reflexively caused him to glance at his tablet, upon which a health read-out duly appeared, telling him he was down to nine per cent. As the marines fussed over him and called for a medic, he waved them aside and climbed to his feet, struggling his way outside towards a niche in the rock where he’d earlier seen a health rune float and revolve.
He staggered his way into it and was immediately healed, thanks to whatever the card collector had done to alter his protocols earlier on. Not only did the wounds close up and disappear, the pain with them, but his tablet confirmed he was back to full health.
The effect upon his audience of marines was even more pronounced. From the astonished delight of the sergeant to the incredulous, grateful relief of the private who’d shot him, they were in a state of jaw-gaping awe.
Apart from, that was, the punkish woman, who if anything now looked even more pissed off.
‘He has the same powers as the card-collectors,’ one of them gasped. ‘He can heal himself outside of the training arena!’
This remark prompted Ross to wonder what else it meant he could do: what about that arsenal he thought had gone, for instance. He did as he had learned against the Reaper, and in his mind he concentrated upon picturing those years-old shortcut binds. With each imagined key-press, the weapon in his hands transformed, toggling up through the range and ending with the GTF.
‘Outstanding,’ Sergeant Steel exclaimed. ‘Outstanding.’
‘I take it I nailed the audition?’ Ross enquired.
‘Damn straight. And I got just the part for you.’
A few minutes later, Ross stood inside the airlocked passage, Sergeant Steel having given him the brief he’d been waiting for: the solo mission that would otherwise have been assigned by the late Lieutenant Hawk to destroy the massive anti-aircraft cannon. The first door had slid shut behind him, sealing him inside the antechamber that led out towards the mountains of Graxis and the site of the giant artillery emplacement. Ordinarily, Ross wouldn’t be signing up to any kind of military undertaking, far less one to which someone thought it appropriate to append the word ‘suicide’, but in this instance it constituted his lucky golden ticket out of here. Besides, how can it be suicide when you can’t die?
‘Any questions?’ the sergeant had asked at the end of his mission briefing.
‘Just one. Who was the girl?’
Steel gave him a wary smile, full of ‘don’t go there’ warnings.
‘Name’s Iris,’ he said, and was clearly reluctant to divulge much more, probably because he didn’t know.
‘She’s not a marine,’ Ross suggested.
‘No, she’s not one of us. She’s not even from Earth, she says. She’s a merc: a gun for hire. But she’s got a beef with the Gralaks, so she’s helping out for free. Does her own thing, not a team player, but when you’re in the shit like this, you take any help you can get.’
Iris. Not a marine kind of a name, and definitely not a Starfire space marine kind of a name. More a great aunt or a retired professor kind of a name.
There was a window in the base-side door, the glass inches thick. Sergeant Steel had stood there moments before, giving him the salute that was intended to send him on his way. In the past, it had always been Lieutenant Hawk, but somehow the game had re-established its own equilibrium.
; Ross walked up to the second door, which remained fast. Normally just walking towards it triggered a loading plaque to connect you to the next map, but there had been no such trigger moment upon entering the base, so perhaps he just had to wait for someone to operate it.
He cast a glance back towards the window to see if the sergeant was still there, and instead saw Iris peering in through the glass. She pushed a button and spoke into an intercom, her voice echoing around the chamber.
‘You would be wise to draw less attention to yourself,’ she said. ‘These grunts don’t know what you are. They don’t know what they are themselves. But not everybody here is like them. I know what you are. I know how you got here, and I know the way out too.’
Ross dashed towards the base-side door, frantically searching below the window for an intercom, but he couldn’t find one. When he looked back at the glass, she was gone, and a moment later the exit slid open, wind and dust billowing into the chamber.
Five Thousand Ways to Die
It felt fleetingly like a misaddressed privilege. It was undeniably spectacular to see the landscape and architecture of Graxis – previously only existing in pixels and polygons – rendered in living rock and shining steel, but it was a privilege that ought to have been afforded to the level designer, and it should have been a visit, not a forced exile.
Ross glanced up at the cliff wall behind him, the cylindrical doorway inset into the rockface the only indication that this part of the landscape had been settled. He wasn’t sure whether the story dictated that the marines had improvised a base out of an existing underground facility, whether they supposedly had the technology to rapidly furnish a cave system for military purpose, or whether nobody at Digital Excess ever imagined anyone would care.
He knew there was no going back. Even if he turned around and began hammering on the door, they weren’t going to open it for him. He also knew he wouldn’t find the girl there anyway. God knows he recognised a parting shot from a woman when he saw one these days. She had only said as much as she did because she knew they were going their separate ways.
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