Ghost Platoon

by Xavier P. Hunter

  Was Reggie even disgruntled?

  Dismayed, maybe.

  He didn’t even bother saying goodbye to Shirley. He wasn’t going to be getting any answers today, and maybe he didn’t need them. Carpe diem, right? Reggie was going to do what he always did when faced with a mind-twisting existential dilemma.

  [Apartment > Logout]

  Reggie tapped the word.

  [Really Logout? Y/N]

  He really hated the hassle of confirming every time.

  [Relog options: Apartment - Armored Souls - Silent Shuriken - More Options]

  Reggie tapped “Armored Souls.” He was going to shoot something.

  Chapter Eight

  The next time Chase logged in, he requested that Reggie meet him in the War Room. This room had undergone so many renovations over the years—one of the side effects of it being perhaps the most strategically useful room in the entire capital city. Reggie spent hours at a time here regularly. Sometimes alone, sometimes in the presence of his officers. Today, it was just him and Chase. Though there was no official position for it in Armored Souls, Chase had become the Wounded Legion spymaster.

  And not all his digging was done in-game.

  The lights were low. The corners of the War Room were bathed in darkness. A single LED glow lamp illuminated a circle just around the tactical table whose holographic display was, for the moment, inert. Chase and Reggie sat on opposite sides, elbows resting on the table like mobsters conspiring over a restaurant meal.

  “What can you tell me?” Reggie asked. There was an eagerness in Chase’s eyes that foretold some great revelation. Knowing Chase, it could be something technical, arcane, and utterly useless to the overall strategy of Wounded Legion, but today Reggie was willing to bet that it wasn’t.

  Chase’s grin widened. “You’re never gonna believe it.” That was a good sign. “I’ve been digging around in the Valhalla West servers, and I think I found something.” That was an ominous sign. Chase worked on Silent Shuriken as a junior developer. He had server access for his own game and limited access to the wider server system for Valhalla West. But he wasn’t supposed to be poking around anywhere but his own game. This was an inkling of trouble on the horizon.

  “Is this something going to get our accounts suspended?” Reggie asked, raising an eyebrow. It never hurt to keep Chase honest.

  “Nah,” Chase assured him. “No one’s gonna find out. I wasn’t actually breaking into game data files. I used the public API to do a little digging. Nothing shady. Anyone could’ve done it. But they didn’t. I did. And now I think I know what’s going on.”

  “Which is…?”

  Chase leaned closer. “About three months back there was an uptick in platoon sign-ups. Five-player clusters, all signing up on the same day, joining the same faction, and running together as a platoon.”

  Reggie stared stoically, waiting for Chase to explain this to the point where it made some sort of sense. Chase had a Sherlock Holmes streak in him, laying a pile of disparate clues on a table and acting as if any layman would be able to connect them. All the while, he withheld the key piece of information that tied them all together. Today, Reggie wasn’t playing guessing games.

  “Five-player platoons,” Chase reiterated, holding out his hands as if Reggie were supposed to have seen something in that. “Just like the tournament.” One of the few details from the leak thus far has been that the tournament would, in fact, consist of five-player groups. “These were tournament teams signing up en mass before the tourney was ever announced.”

  “Seems like a wild guess on their part,” Reggie said dubiously. “Unless you’re trying to say someone tipped off these particular guys.”

  “Not just tipped off,” Chase said with a gleam in his eye that suggested the big reveal was coming. “The tournament announcement came the day after the very last one of them dinged level 50.”

  Reggie rubbed his chin. “OK. That does sound suspicious.”

  “I’m guessing that these are ringers Valhalla West is trying to set up to win this thing.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Chase leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the advanced tactical display. “Just stands to reason. If Valhalla West didn’t want these guys to have a shot at winning, why would they wait for them all to hit max level?”

  The puzzle piece lay scattered in front of him, but Reggie didn’t see the full picture. Not yet, at least. Chase had connected a scattering of pieces—and possibly found a few that had been lying on the floor—but that didn’t solve the entire puzzle.

  “Why would they rig the tournament?” Reggie mused aloud.

  Still reclining, Chase shrugged. “Beats me. Then again, maybe it’s not rigged. I mean, if these turbo noobs have to play by the same rules as the rest of us, it’s just some new competition getting thrown our way. And can you really call it an advantage? Eight squads of power-leveled noobs facing off against galaxy-grade veterans like us?”

  “Could be alt accounts.”

  Chase sneered. “That would be shady. Terms of Service call that a bannable offense. One brain, one account. Besides, if these jokers wanted to platoon together so badly, they could have just formed their own private groups. Hell, it’s not like they wouldn’t have gotten booted from any respectable faction for being absentees the past three months. I can’t imagine having the time to grind XP to level 50 and keep up with day-to-day faction responsibilities.”

  “So, what’s to worry about, then?” Reggie asked. “Worst case, Valhalla West rounded up a bunch of disgruntled nobodies and started them over just for this tournament. There wasn’t a rash of top players disappearing three months ago, was there?”

  “Not that I could find. And I checked.”

  “That’s that, then. Nothing to worry about.” Reggie had plenty on his mind without Chase dumping tinfoil-hat conspiracies on top of the heap.

  “I’ve flagged the usernames, just in case,” Chase said. “Might not be something for you to worry about, but I get paid to worry about shit like this. Most of the garbage I sift through never sees the light of day, and most of the stuff that does gets handled below your pay grade. This one I only brought to your attention because it relates to the first things that’ve caught your interest in months.”

  “Have I been that bad?” Reggie asked, wondering just how many people had picked up on his growing boredom.

  “It’s not just you,” Chase replied, taking his feet down and standing. “Give everyone a giant galaxy with nearly unlimited options, and it was bound to get stale. That’s just human nature. I make my own fun playing data ninja. You get yours bringing a little Cathouse Playtime into Armored Souls.” Chase grinned and logged out, vanishing before Reggie’s eyes like a Cheshire cat that couldn’t leave a mocking smile behind.

  Chapter Nine

  Jenova City was home to one of the more expensive upgrades in the entire Star League. Across the street from Reggie’s palace was a smaller, more dignified building that he’d based on his memories of the Texas State Courthouse. Except that his version was clad in solid gold. While the in-game description of its function was as a holographic conference site, Reggie had named it the Ministry of Dealmaking.

  Nestled within the marble halls and vaulted ceilings was a chamber dedicated to advanced communications technology. A round table surrounded by sixteen chairs stood empty. As Reggie entered, flanked by June and Frank, holographic images flared to life, taking seats of their own.

  Today, it was CoChamp and Barfighters Inc. that wanted to negotiate. They’d brought teams of two and three, respectively, to the negotiating table.

  “Welcome, everyone,” Reggie said as he took his seat. There were days when he wondered whether spending 17,000,000Cr on this place had been worth the investment. While he’d recouped the cost, it was the activity itself he resented. Armored Souls was a galactic simulator, politics and all. Simpler games might have made for more rewarding gameplay at times, but Reggie wasn’t su
re he wanted to live in a universe where every problem was solved by armed conflict. That left no room for the little guy, no chance for a sprout to grow, no light for the trees that couldn’t reach the canopy. “How is everyone this fine day in the Star League?”

  “Fine,” General MoseyPants of CoChamp snapped. “Can we get on with this?” The glowering hologram sat with arms folded just to the right of Reggie’s coterie.

  “Honored to be here, General,” Commander Zaphodfan replied. His pale, translucent hologram bowed from his seat at Reggie’s left.

  “The heart of the matter today is a dispute over the Ranko system. You’ve both colonized it more or less simultaneously,” Reggie said, framing the squabble du jour.

  MoseyPants stood from his chair, hologram clipping through the edge of the table. “Check the system lots. We were there fifteen minutes before those pirates!”

  “Yeah, which means we launched our colony ship before yours ever landed,” Zaphodfan pointed out calmly. He knew that his whole argument hinged on whether he could get Reggie to take his side.

  Reggie brought up a list of CoChamp planetary holdings.

  [Dinus VII]

  [Ranko]

  [Ananni Prime]

  [Devlin]

  Both parties on the holo-call saw the same list scroll across their displays.

  [Bortus]

  [Vynnen II]

  [Ranko]

  “Show it with the timestamps!” MoseyPants insisted.

  I could be training, Reggie thought to himself. The payoff for settling this dispute would be a pittance. It was a prestige job, not a moneymaker. Right now, that payoff just wasn’t feeling worthwhile.

  “Go ahead,” Zaphodfan said. “I concur wholeheartedly.”

  June took care of it. “Show full data on Ranko acquisitions by CoChamp and Barfighters Inc.”

  [Ranko – Registration: CoChamp, 05042025:21:58]

  [Ranko – Registration: Barfighters Inc., 05042025:21:56]

  “Bullshit!” MoseyPants shouted. “No way! We got there first.”

  “But we filed first claim with the Star League Galactic Surveying Corp,” Zaphodfan replied mildly. “By the letter of the law, we have the first claim.”

  The Solomon in Reggie wanted to force them to split the planet, but that was the status quo. Neither of them could fully build out and defend the place the way they wanted, and if they’d been willing to peacefully coexist, they wouldn’t have dragged the matter in front of a neutral arbiter.

  “Which of you have the better pilots?” Reggie asked.

  Everyone looked at him funny, both hologram and digital flesh and blood. The argument was non-sequitur to the dispute at hand. If they’d wanted to settle this on the battlefield, that was yet another option they could have explored without Reggie’s involvement.

  “What’s it matter?” CoChamp snapped.

  Zaphodfan shrugged. “Us.”

  “Prove it,” Reggie stated firmly. “Everyone knows there’s a tournament coming up. Valhalla West promised details tomorrow. You’re each going to field a team, and the better finish claims Ranko.”

  “Come on!” CoChamp groused. “They’re twice our size.”

  “We were planning to field two teams, actually,” Zaphodfan said.

  “Exactly,” CoChamp said, aiming a finger at Zaphodfan. For once the two appeared to be in agreement. “It’s like getting two lottery tickets.”

  “Pick one ahead of time,” Reggie said.

  “Sounds fair,” Zaphodfan said amiably.

  “Not you,” Reggie warned with a sly grin. “CoChamp. If you’re only fielding a single team, you can take your pick of the teams Barfighters Inc. sends to the Ragnarok Showdown.”

  “But they’ll pick our weaker team,” Zaphodfan pointed out.

  Frank chuckled, the first sound he’d issued during the whole negotiation. “Can’t slip a wet pig past this one, can you?”

  “Don’t like it?” Reggie asked. “Then only send one.”

  Zaphodfan’s pleasant demeanor melted into a glowering scowl. “I don’t want to tell my players they can’t join in just so we have a better shot at keeping Ranko.”

  Reggie folded his arms. “Have it your way. But I’m adding a condition. Wounded Legion looks like we’re going to be fielding five teams of our own. If neither of you can come in ahead of one of our squads—lowest finisher—I’m taking Ranko and keeping it.”

  “That’s a violation of the arbitration rules!” CoChamp shouted.

  “Take it up with the Star League.”

  That quieted them down. The Star League wasn’t built on faction intervention, not since the Civil War expansion. People came to Reggie because of his reputation as a fair arbiter, not because the Star League judicial system hung over his head to keep him fair. These two minor faction leaders had placed their trust in his hands. Unlike so many before them, they already felt like they might have made a mistake in doing so.

  Reggie looked from one sulking petitioner to the other. “They say that no good negotiation ends leaving either side happy with the result. Looks like my work here is finished.”

  Tapping a control on the table, Reggie shut off the holographic conference call.

  “Well, that went well,” June said dryly.

  “Who cares? We’ve got a tournament to practice for.”

  Chapter Ten

  The dropship docked at Jenova City. Reggie and the rest of Alpha Platoon were coming back from a three-hour tactical training session. Five juggernauts lined the hold, dinged up and awaiting repair as soon as they got back to the hangar. It’d been a while since they all worked together regularly, and it showed. Little by little, this knocked the rust off their cooperative abilities. While they weren’t working together like a clockwork organism just yet, Reggie could see that that kind of synergy wasn’t far off.

  It was almost time.

  17:55 server time. The Valhalla West announcement was due at 18:00. It was time to find out just what they were getting themselves into.

  “Taking bets,” Chase said. “I’m guessing double elimination for the drama, combined with a preliminary round involving some sort of battle royale.”

  Reggie let out a long, weary breath. “I dunno. Not sure I even want to venture a guess. I kinda like the idea of being ready for anything.”

  [Primary Objective: Make Guess on Ragnarok Showdown 0/1]

  “Quit that,” June snapped. “That’s not even a legitimate mission. How did you even get the game to accept that?”

  Roger snickered. “It was a broadcast, not a real mission. Check out the font.”

  “Font schmont,” Frank grumbled. “I’m guessing this was all a put on. Wind up us cranky old-timers, then yank the rug out from under us. Bet ya them ringers of Chase’s are the only ones gonna compete. Think about it. Eight fellas. Good number for a tournament.”

  “They better not…” Chase muttered.

  “Why not?” Reggie asked. “They never said it would be open to everyone. Maybe it’s an invitational.”

  He could hear the roll in June’s eyes. “Because it would piss off the entire server base, have to players quit, and the bad press would drive Valhalla West out of business.”

  “There’s that,” Reggie said.

  The dropship came to a halt, and Alpha Platoon navigated their way from the landing pad to the juggernaut hangar a short distance away. Their comings and goings didn’t even draw a crowd anymore. Reggie was glad. He disliked the celebrity aspect of being a faction head. He was at his most comfortable as one of the guys. Coming back from a mission should be a time to relax, not be subject to public display.

  By the time 18:00 rolled around, Reggie had just plopped himself down in front of the television with a cold beer in his hand. Chase flipped the channels and brought up the Valhalla West presentation.

  Ken Bradley’s face appeared, with some crazy promotional backdrop behind him showing the Valkyries arrayed in a line at parade ready. His hair was combed and coiffed. He
was wearing a suit and tie. If Reggie hadn’t known Ken for so long, he wouldn’t have known it was the same guy who hung around the office in a polo shirt, looking like he hadn’t shaved or showered in a week.

  “Welcome, pilots!” Ken boomed. “I know we’ve kept you waiting on pins and needles for weeks now, but the time is finally arrived to announce the official rules for the Valhalla West First Annual Tournament of Champions. Just let me start off by telling you that this is going to be the greatest battle that Armored Souls has ever seen. We are seeking out the best, the greatest, and the most resourceful pilots from across the galaxy and from every faction. Is it you? I bet a lot of you think it is. That’s the fun part. Once this is all said and done, one group of five pilots will be able to say, definitively, YES!

  “Now before I get into the details, let me just say that this will be a brutal, grueling test of skill and willpower. It won’t be for everyone. Some of you won’t have the piloting skills, sure. But there will be plenty of others whose piloting skills might pass the test but whose drive and ambition fall short. During the tournament, you’ll practically be living in Armored Souls. Think you’re a big sleeper? You 10-hours-a-night hard-core players think you’re tough? I’m just guessing here, but I think the winner of this is going to be putting in 16-hour nights to stay ahead of the pack. Planning, preparation, and scouting will be essential to the victorious platoon.

  “Now, without further ado…”

  The rules scrolled by with Ken Bradley narrating. Reggie tried to both read and analyze at the same time but realized that this was too complex to sort out real-time. He settled for just skimming for now and knew that his platoon would dissect the rules in detail over the coming days.