“Gremlin, knock over that bridge support,” Reggie radioed. According to the map, the concrete pillar was holding up a section of elevated train that ran directly over two of their remaining adversaries.
“Yessir!” Frank agreed. Always one for a little extracurricular destruction, this was official sanction for some over-the-top mayhem. Gremlin’s engines roared as the massive Tiger-class juggernaut put its electroactive polymer muscles into toppling the ramshackle structure.
“Found the last of them,” June called out. “Northeast, November-Five-One.”
Reggie glanced at the tactical map. There they were. Now a total of seven hostile blips remained.
“I’ll flush them out,” Chase radioed, sending Diablo on an intercept course to flank them from around the side of a burnt-out skyscraper that cut off abruptly after six stories. “Lin, pick them off when I—”
“Hold!” Reggie ordered. Gremlin was toppling a support pylon in Lin’s line of fire.
The concrete pillar’s crack was audible even without the external sound pickups relaying it. It leaned, slowly at first, then quicker as it overbalanced. Still pushing, Gremlin slipped and fell face first to the asphalt street, gouging up chunks.
Reggie watched the two Jackal-class juggernauts trying to avoid exposure as they took pot shots at Ghost Platoon. Neither reacted to their peril until the manmade avalanche of concrete was upon them.
[Primary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 47/52]
“All clear! Move out!” Reggie ordered.
“In position,” Lin reported. It sounded so odd yet so comfortingly familiar hearing her voice on the radio. Every time, though, Reggie half expected Roger to answer back instead of her. “Flush them into Lima-Five-Zero.”
Reggie smiled, remembering how long it had taken him to get them all using the NATO alphabet to report locations. Frank had kept making up his own names for the letters. Chase and Lin kept slipping back into plain old half-of-them-sound-the-same alphabet song pronunciations. June had served recently enough that the radio code had been second nature to her. Reggie didn’t know what he’d have done without her helping set an example.
Chase laid down a barrage. The three Gargoyles cowering back behind a gutted apartment building retreated from him as if Diablo were the actual devil come for their souls. They fired SRMs, but Diablo sliced them from the air with automated point-defense lasers.
Yulong’s Anti-Matter Projector blazed. Once. Twice. Three times.
[Primary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 48/52]
[Primary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 49/52]
The third shot wasn’t a kill. Reggie and the others hung back as Lin charged in, Yulong drawing its player-custom katana as long as a lamppost. Frank had forged that blade for her. He was the only one in the platoon who’d ever enjoyed the crafting system enough to get better-than-stock gear out of it. With a slight damage bonus—and slick, anime aesthetic—the juggernaut-scale katana descended on the critically damaged Gargoyle as it attempted to damage her with a Mini-Gun.
[Primary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 50/52]
“Time check,” Chase called out. “We’re under three minutes.”
“Shit,” Reggie said with his mic open. “Don’t worry about feeding Lin kills. Just finish off the last two and see if you can get to the broadcast towers in time.”
[Primary Objective: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 51/52]
“Not a problem,” June reported instantly after finishing off a Chi-Ha in her vicinity.
“I’ve got a bead on the last one,” Chase radioed. Diablo veered for the one hostile blip left on the tactical map.
“I can still get that one!” Lin objected. Yulong rushed off in the same direction.
“Let her,” Reggie ordered. “Chase, you get to Oscar-Five-Nine and take out that broadcast tower. Frank, same for you at Golf-Four-Seven. I’m calling the dropship to meet us at Lima-Five-Two in that spot that looks like it might have been a public park at one point.”
Lin giggled into her mic. “God, I missed those coordinates. Reggie, can you say ‘niner’ for me? Just for old times’ sake?”
Reggie gritted his teeth.
“Please?” Lin wheedled.
“Niner.”
Lin giggled anew.
“Just step up the pace,” Reggie warned them all. “We don’t get on that dropship by the lockout, this whole mission gets wiped.”
“Like this?” Chase asked. One of the broadcast towers marked on the tactical map went dark.
[Secondary Objective: Destroy Broadcast Towers 4/5]
“Bah,” Frank griped. “Beat me by mere seconds.”
[Secondary Objective Complete: Destroy Broadcast Towers 5/5]
“Down to you, Lin!” June warned.
The dropship was coming in for a landing. Vortex—who’d remained out of the action, coordinating XP farming activities—was waiting when the boarding ramp dropped.
“I’ve got this,” Lin assured them. Yulong and the last remaining Kintaro in the enemy contingent were squaring off in adjacent hexes.
“Take a hit or two, kid,” Frank advised. “Get ‘er done!”
On the tactical readout, Reggie watched the wireframe of the enemy juggernaut take a quick series of brutal hits—faster than the firing rate on the Anti-Matter Projector. Lin was taking the thing on in melee combat.
The others filed into the dropship. Reggie gave the order to relocate closer to Yulong’s position. The vessel lurched, and Reggie steadied Vortex while perched on the lowered boarding ramp, keeping a watch.
[Primary Objective Complete: Destroy Enemy Juggernauts 52/52]
“We’re inbound,” Reggie radioed to Lin. “Be ready on the Jump Boost.”
“Copy that,” Lin replied, her serious tone matching the severity of the moment.
“Twenty seconds,” Chase called out. “Nineteen… eighteen…”
The dropship swung around to bring the ramp into Yulong’s path as Lin piloted the Dragon-class juggernaut on an intercept course.
Chase continued counting the numbers, doing nothing to ease Reggie’s tense nerves. “Thirteen… twelve… eleven…”
“Shut up!” Lin shouted over the radio. “I’m going as fast as I can!”
“Five… four…”
Jets of flame poured from Yulong’s feet as the Jump Boost engaged. Ninety-five tons of advanced armament lifted from the ground in a perilous arc.
Vortex reached out and grabbed Yulong by the wrist.
“One… aaaaaand, lockout.”
Instantly, the dropship vanished. Vortex was no longer poised as the edge of a ramp looking down at the hellish remains of a dead city. They were all back in Jenova, parked in the hangar below the palace. Seconds later, the mission messages popped up.
[Mission Successful - 13,500 XP - 10,800Cr]
“Shit,” Lin swore.
“Don’t tell me…” Chase let the thought hang.
“No, I got credit,” Lin said with a huff. “It just wasn’t enough. I’m still level 49.”
“Well, we tried,” Reggie said, slumping in his seat.
June chimed in with a cheery fact. “There’s nothing in the rules about being level 50.”
“Wonder if we get XP from the tournament bouts,” Chase mused.
Reggie snorted. “Well, if not, we’ll be the only team with a sub-50 on the roster.”
“Sorry, guys,” Lin said.
“Nothing to be done,” Reggie replied. “I’ll take you at level 49 over anyone else at the level cap.”
“You guys up for some scouting sessions?” Chase asked. “I’ve put together rudimentary dossiers that we can—”
“NO!” a chorus answered him.
Reggie was glad it wasn’t just him. He was worn out from the power-leveling process. The last few days had become a blur of back-to-back-to-back missions with little rest. Lin had been a trooper about the whole thing. He knew she was giving up prime streaming hours to be there.
“Thanks, guys. I’ll be back in eight hours. I need some coffee, a couple hours at the gym, a shower, and then a nightcap with my favorite power tool. I’ll be ready to rock when the action starts.”
“Um. Thanks,” Chase said. “My own prep will involve going to work and talking trash instead of getting anything done. It’s like elementary school the day before Christmas break at Valhalla West.”
“Everyone do what you have to. Frank and I will browse Chase’s files while you take care of those meat sacks you call lives,” Reggie said, trying to avoid sounding jealous.
“We will?” Frank asked.
“Yup.”
“Shit.”
Chapter Sixteen
Reggie lay there with his eyes closed, listening to the sound of the digital Pacific Ocean wash the beach by his feet. This was the eve of battle. But Reggie worked in a different timeline from the other players—except Frank. Once the tournament kicked into gear, he might not get a chance to relax like this for a while. Waikiki Weekend was at the corner of the Valhalla West universe that he visited often. It was out of the way, not crowded in the least, and for the time being, all his.
It wasn’t that Reggie minded Frank as a constant companion. Frank was a good guy, the kind of salt-of-the-earth average Joe that made up the background cast in every Hollywood movie set in World War II. He didn’t get bogged down in interpersonal trauma, have crazy expectations about how Wounded Legion should run, or nag Reggie about how he should live his life. Once in a while, though, Reggie just needed to be… Reggie. Not General Reggie. Not boyfriend Reggie. Not the artificial intelligence experiment Reggie.
Just… Reggie.
Soon, the Valhalla West tournament would start. Teams would be vying for a chance to win one of those crazy Valkyrie juggernauts. There wouldn’t be time for “just Reggie” for a while.
Reggie had never been to Hawaii. He liked to believe that this was a faithful representation. Whether it was or not, it was going to have to do. It was the only Hawaii he could get in his current condition.
No amount of digital sunlight would tan his skin. His avatar would retain the same chalky pallor unless he programmed it otherwise. He could feel that sunlight, that warmth seeping in, relaxing him.
He drifted off to sleep…
An alarm pulsed. Reggie snapped awake.
Scrambling on his beach blanket, kicking up sand, Reggie rolled upright. “Shit, where’d those hours go?”
It wasn’t time for the tournament just yet, but he had prep work remaining. He had to get back.
[TravelWorld > Logout]
Reggie tapped the word.
[Really Logout? Y/N]
[Relog options: Apartment - Armored Souls - Silent Shuriken - More Options]
[Armored Souls]
Just like that, Reggie was back in his uniform. Gone was the Speedo he’d been wearing on the Hawaiian beach. Gone was the aluminum smell of sunscreen in his nostrils, the baking sun that felt so good seeping into him. The uniform was like a second skin to him, something he rarely bothered to think about. It was as much home to him as a hermit crab shell. He could take it off, exchange it for another, but it would always be home, and he carried it with him.
He strode for the elevator they were taking from his palace apartments down to the common areas where he would find his troops.
The whole ride down Reggie felt the sensation he hadn’t noticed in years: butterflies. The little nervous thrill of impending competition had gotten to him. He conquered planets, subjugated entire factions, stared down the barrel of Star League cruisers and ordered them off his borders. But none of that thrilled him. There was something personal and cozy about gathering up four friends and riding off to battle the world—or galaxy in this case.
The elevator doors opened, and a cheer went up from the crowd. Reggie’s arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed it seemed. Had they been waiting for him? It looked that way.
“Hey, General, welcome to the party.”
“Here comes the champion!”
“Ghost Platoon in the house! Woohoo!”
The fact that this was a bar probably contributed to the enthusiasm of the greeting. There was nothing like a little alcohol to lubricate a celebration and get it sliding downhill. Reggie accepted the well-wishes with smiles, banter, and small talk, working his way through the crowd toward the bar. Before he even reached the bartender, someone pressed a pint glass into his hand. He veered and made his way toward a private table in the back.
“Have a nice nap?” Chase asked with a mischievous grin. He sipped at his root beer.
June scooted over making room for Reggie. “We figured you’d earned a little rest. No harm enjoying a little Hawaiian vacation.”
Frank grunted into his mug. “Wouldn’t catch me alive in them rubber swim trunks. Undignified.”
Chase giggled. “Yeah, because when I think of dignity, I think ‘Frank.’”
One of Reggie’s underlings came by, offering the wave and a perfunctory, “see you out there.”
Reggie leaned across the table to Chase. “Which team is Parsons on?”
Scratching at the side of his head, Chase gave a lopsided grimace. “Pantry Boys. Maybe I should give you a rundown of Wounded Legion’s entries. We’ve got the Pantry Boys, Saddest Donkey, Marty’s Spark, Haystack Needles, and us.”
Reggie put a hand on the side of his mouth shielding his next words from the room at large. “How do they look? Any contenders?”
A twitch of his head was all the response Chase was willing to give in public. Reggie hadn’t thought so but never hurt to ask. That didn’t stop the trash talk as Reggie and the rest of Ghost Platoon sat drinking and waiting for the tournament to start.
Reggie hated this crap. In his mind, they should all have to board dropships and travel to a neutral site. It didn’t matter that there was a chance some might show up late or get lost. Hell, there wasn’t even the possibility of interstellar piracy along the way, what with the galactic map frozen for the duration of the Ragnarok Showdown. It broke the immersion of the game universe and hence all of Reggie’s existence. He shouldn’t have to suffer reminders of his disembodied existence every time Valhalla West wanted to save logistical trouble and teleport him somewhere. He wanted the little dribs and drabs of in-between living, the little annoyances that made life… life.
Clearing his throat, Reggie tried to ignore the strange looks his companions were giving him. His mind drifted off again like some old-timer sitting in a rocking chair, and everyone was humoring him. “Anyway, so who are the contenders?”
In lieu of answering, Chase pulled out a tablet computer and slapped it down on the table. “These guys.”
“These guys” were not, as Reggie first suspected, a single meatgrinder of a platoon, but rather a listing of over a dozen dangerous competitors along with team composition stats and estimates on making it to the final 16.
[Hard Target – 4H 1M – 88%]
[The Agency – 5H – 91%]
[Progressive Hooligans – 3H 2M – 73%]
[School of Pain – 1H 4M – 90%]
[Psychedelic Thugs – 4H 1M – 99.5%]
[Seadogs – 5M – 55%]
[Slapdash – 3H 2M – 92%]
[Lucky Outlaws – 5H – 95%]
[Angry Slayers – 3H 2M – 79%]
[Iron Pigs – 4H 1M – 67%]
[Dimwit Heroes – 5H – 88%]
[Heavenly Mafia – 5H – 91%]
[Toob Funk – 2H 3M – 58%]
[Slavic Noobs – 1H 4M – 74%]
[Rattatat Rats – 5H – 90%]
[Space Monkeys – 4H 1M – 83%]
Frank let out a whistle. “That there’s a lotta contenders.”
When no one appeared to be reading the list in detail, Chase pulled the computer back. “Well, there are 135 teams in this dog-and-pony show. I made my best guess as to who the real threats would be. I picked eight of the top contenders, plus the eight ringers I still suspect were hired by Valhalla West three
months ago.”
June rolled her eyes. “You’re still gnawing on that bone? Give it up. Valhalla West isn’t rigging their own tournament. In this day and age, they’d never get away with it.”
“Data says otherwise,” Chase said with a smug expression. “A true investigator collects the facts, then devises a theory to fit them. Presupposition and naïve optimism lead to faulty conclusions.”
There is no way he was going to be able to worry about sixteen teams at the same time. “Any word yet on our first-round opponent?”
Chase shook his head. “It’s not even a round yet. The basic tournament format is suited to sixty-four teams. It’s group play. Like the World Cup.”
Frank and Reggie exchanged a glance. Frank shrugged. Reggie looked to Chase and shook his head.
“Olympic volleyball?” Chase suggested.
Frank scratched his chin. “Juggernaut volleyball?”
“Ugh,” Lin said. “You two are hopeless. Group play, in a nutshell: eight-team round robin. Every team plays every other team. Top two advance.”
“Then we get into a single elimination tournament,” Chase continued. “You guys can wrap your head around a single elimination tournament, right?”
Reggie and Frank both nodded.
What crazy bullshit. Weren’t there simpler ways to narrow down the field? “Sounds like they’re adding a lot of extra matches just to pad out the numbers.”
He’d just been bitching, but Chase pointed two fingers at him like pistols. “Exactly! This whole business is a spectacle. You don’t want top contenders getting bumped off just because of an unlucky draw. The fans who want to watch tons of these matches can. The ones who want to just watch the best teams going head-to-head will have plenty of opportunities for that too. Why have the whole thing be single-elimination when you can use a format that guarantees all the top teams having multiple chances to show off?”
Ghost Platoon Page 7