by Jak Koke
His last words hung in the air as she disappeared. "I love you, Syn. Don’t ever forget."
54
Sweat poured down Jonathon’s face as he ran the curves and corridors of the maze. His home maze. He knew its pits and hollows, the sharpness of each turn, the steepness of each half-pipe. He passed across the far goal area and made for the skyway.
He’d expected to need several complete circuits of the maze before being able to achieve the level of focus he needed for the game. He’d expected to be distracted by his talk with Synthia and the terrible events of the past few days.
But he was wrong; his focus came almost immediately. The hurricane of static in his head helped him concentrate on the task at hand. It was like Tamara was running with him; her ghost trailing behind him in whispers on the wind.
Everything was set; the preparations made. There were no worries left, just execution.
When he returned to the locker room to begin the long process of dressing in his armor, Grids was waiting for him. "I’m a genius," he said.
"You got it to work?"
"Did you have any doubt?"
"No." Jonathon opened his locker and began to pull on his bodysuit. "Now I want you to leave," he said.
"Simsense is complex data," Grids said, "so I had to do more than just tap into Dougan’s frequency. I had to modify the datastream itself to make it look like a normal data-packet. But it should have the same effect as simsense. There’s no time to test it, of course."
Jonathon was putting on his Kevlar-3 jacket. "Did you hear what I said?"
"What?"
"I want you to leave now. Take the limo and drive to the airport. Go to the Bahamas or Fiji or wherever you’ve always wanted to go. There’s a half-million nuyen on certified credsticks in the limo. Don’t come back for at least six months."
Grids furrowed his brow and took a step back. "I’ve been good about not asking exactly what you’re going to do, but—"
"Don’t. It’s better if you don’t know."
"But—"
"Shh, just shut up and go before I have security throw you out."
Grids picked up his satchel and walked away. Jonathon ignored a tug of emotion in the pit of his gut and concentrated on getting the new polycarb slats into his armor. Soon the feeling gave way to the business at hand and the rising wind of Tamara’s whispers.
Sounds of the trideo drifted from the other room where Ion and Smitty were watching the pre-game hype. Jonathon caught the announcer’s words in snatches as he finished the meticulous job of assembling himself.
Millions worldwide watched. And the ratings had continued to rise since the news had leaked that both Jonathon and Dougan had showed at the stadium. Everyone anticipated the coming confrontation between the two best linebikers in the world.
Jonathon let the hype wash over him. Remained unaffected by it. Once upon a time he’d actively pursued fame, desired to be what he’d now become. Now, he just wanted out.
Scenes of Tamara’s death came on the trideo and Smitty punched it off. Then the dwarf turned and walked over to Jonathon. "We’re all primed that you showed today," he said. "We would’ve won anyhow, you know. But with you it’ll be easier."
Jonathon finished slotting the plates into the Kevlar pants, then sat down to stretch. He listened to the crowd outside grow louder and louder, until it was time to don his helmet, get on his bike, latch in, and rumble out into the maze.
The crowd screamed when they saw him. He made one complete circuit through the maze of concrete barriers. Assuming the role of superhero for the moment because soon it would all be over. As he rode around the twists and turns, he checked his retinal display. He noted the ghost shadow of the five-second timer for the detonator under his seat. And he saw the tiny gray chip-shaped icon in the lower-left corner of his vision. Grids’s little addition to the occasion. Jonathon would activate it when the time came.
Suddenly the crowd started hissing, and a wave of jeers and boos traveled around the stadium. Jonathon saw a small yellow dot on his display that indicated Dougan Rose had entered the maze.
Thank you, Grids.
"Dougan, this is Jonathon, can you hear me?"
"I copy, Jonathon. What’s the deal? We shouldn’t be able to communicate."
Jonathon accelerated toward the ramp of the skyway on his side of the maze. "Just a little patchwork by a chummer of mine, designed to speed up our inevitable confrontation."
Dougan laughed. "I see," he said. "What’s on your mind?"
"Head to head on the skyway, chummer," Jonathon said. "Just you and me."
"Before play begins? I like it, I like it."
Jonathon knew that the referees and the comtechs were probably following their communications at this very moment and trying to shut them down. "Let’s go now," he told Dougan. "I’m prepped."
"What weapons, chummer?" Dougan said.
"All out," Jonathon said. "Anything you got."
"To the death?"
"That’s what the fans are here for, neh!"
"Frag the fans," Dougan said. "What do you want?"
"To the death," Jonathon said.
"It’s your funeral," Dougan said, laughing long and low. Then, "Okay, I’m in position and prepped."
Jonathon took one breath.
Hearing the charging crackle of Tamara, setting his hair on end.
Another breath.
Then . . .
"Go!" Jonathon said, then he cranked the accelerator on his Suzuki full out into the red. His wheels screeched beneath him, rocketing him up the narrow ramp toward Dougan. The crowd screamed around them as everything closed on the moment.
He saw Dougan’s Yamaha cresting the downward curve of the skyway ramp. Dougan riding in full combat armor, his Roomsweeper in one hand, his whip in the other.
Jonathon raised his empty fists toward the sky as the crackle of static rose to a deafening scream in his head. He needed no weapons. The crowd was a blur around him, the skyway’s pavement ripping by underneath his wheels.
He focused on the closing distance, mentally calculating the narrowing gap of time to the clash. Who would dodge? Who would flinch at the last second?
Jonathon held his course, aiming himself straight into the heart of the inevitable. He rocketed up the ramp, an angel of vengeance. The moment of finality rushing toward him like Hell’s minions reaching up from the deep to take him. Taking him to see Tamara once again.
Tamara’s face fluttered in the windy spaces of his mind. It’s time, he thought, then mentally engaged Grids’s rigged simsense pulse. The chip-shaped icon on his retina changed from gray to red as the data went to Dougan Rose.
Payback time.
Dougan’s bike swerved slightly as the simsense engaged. He would be experiencing the wet-feed recording of Tamara’s death. As his bike hurtled toward Jonathon, Dougan would see himself through Tamara’s eyes. Right now, he was feeling his cyberspurs slicing up into her neck. Smelling the iron tang of her blood filling her helmet.
Jonathon engaged the five-second detonator at the same time he unclamped his legs from his machine and disconnected from it cybernetically. This was his one shot, his only chance.
Dougan unjacked himself from his bike to cut off the simsense feed. "That was unfair—"
Jonathon stood on his seat and jumped at the last second, flying through the air at nearly a hundred klicks per hour. He sailed up and over as the bikes met in the sharp crashing of metal and plastic.
The explosion hit him like a concussion of fire, a tsunami of searing heat and a spray of sharp shrapnel that blew through his armor like rice paper. He flew up, flailing and twisting in the afterimage of the blast.
Jonathon soared, a limp ragdoll in the air. Tumbling. And as he flew, he saw the huge fireball lifting up from the wreckage behind him, and he remembered his house in Redding. He saw the grandfather clock and the bassinet in the billowing flame. He heard the sobbing cry of his mother and the wail of his sister in the flame.
>
And for just a second, he imagined the hiss was gone from his head. The dead air silenced.
The pain began when he came back down. Agony like nothing he’d ever known bathed him, and it seemed his skin had melted from his body. He hit the concrete and bounced, hearing his bones snap and pop before feeling the split second of pain.
When he finally scraped to rest, up against the far wall, he knew he was dead; he wished for it to come quickly and take him away from the pain. Take him over the edge of fadeout.
And as the blackhole edge dopplered toward him, he reached for it. Throwing himself into the abyss. Plummeting into absolute silence.
To be with Tamara again.
55
A thunderous boom echoed around her, shaking the world.
Maria faded into an awareness of her surroundings. Inside the passenger compartment of a rented Toyota Elite limousine. Black synthleather upholstery, trideo, small refreshment case.
She looked out into darkness. Ah, nighttime had finally come. But something was wrong and it took her groggy, drug-affected mind a few seconds to realize she was underground. In a parking garage.
At the stadium, if the sounds of the crowd were any indication. But what was that loud boom? Maria punched on the trideo to see a male-biff newscaster with a plastic face and spray-blond hair talking about an explosion , at the combat biker match.
"A bomb implanted into one of the bikes has exploded," the man said. Behind him, Maria could see the accident. The two bikers slamming into each other at phenomenal speed, the slow-motion of the trideo showing a close-up of Dougan as he tried to serve away at the last second. Showing Winger jumping up and over, the explosion blowing from his bike in frame-by-frame clarity to engulf Dougan and send him hurtling off the skyway in pieces.
"Preliminary evidence indicates that Jonathon Winger planted a small explosive device into his motorcycle. It is believed Winger’s motive was revenge for the death of Tamara Ny in last week’s New Orleans match.
"The two players have been rushed by DocWagon helicopter to UCLA Medical Center. However, both are presumed."
Maria sank into the comfort of the limo’s plush seat and opened up one of bottles of chilled spring water. You got what you deserved, Dougan, she thought. The cool. clean liquid soothed the back of her throat and cleared her head a little.
She decided she would stay right here for a few minutes, letting her senses sharpen inside the car as the drug wore off. She wanted to make sure Dougan was dead. Because if he wasn’t, she would find him at the medical center and kill him herself. And after that, she would go back to her house in San Bernardino and see her kids. Frag, it would feel great to go home.
56
Hendrix stood in the stands of the LA Coliseum and looked at his hands. Dark brown skin with augmented muscle underneath. He turned them over to see his palms, white and callused. How many people had he killed with those hands? Too fragging many. He’d spent his entire life in the death business.
Time to get out. That was his inner voice talking to him. The same inner voice that had told him to leave the merc unit during the El Infierno invasion. That time it had saved him from being skinned alive and hung from a lamp pole.
He missed Layla, and he wasn’t sad to see Jonathon Winger blown to shreds in the blast. But he was glad he hadn’t needed to kill Winger himself. He was tired of killing.
The announcement had just come over the loudspeaker that Winger was confirmed dead on arrival at UCLA Medical Center. Dougan Rose had somehow survived, but was in critical condition.
Hendrix glanced up through the macroglass in front of him to look at the woman he’d been watching for the past few minutes. Synthia Stone, Jonathon Winger’s love. The woman Hendrix had originally planned to kill in revenge for Layla’s death.
Her short-cropped red hair caught the light like a shimmering fire. Her delicate features belied a hidden power. Hendrix had seen some of that power, but it wouldn’t deter him from shooting her if he so desired. But he’d hesitated; he didn’t want to kill anymore. And now that Jonathon Winger was dead, it didn’t matter.
Synthia Stone sat hunched over in obvious shock from seeing the explosion. Tears streamed down her lovely cheeks as she stared into space. She blinked in slow motion and turned her head to look at Hendrix.
Her eyes were the color of a washed-out sky. Her features much like Layla’s, petite and delicate—a deceptive mask for her hard core. A fraction of a second passed before Hendrix saw a spark of recognition. She remembered him.
He moved fast, his old instincts kicking in. Any hesitation might give her the chance to fry him right now. At jacked-up speed, he stepped past the opening to her private-seating box and brought his silenced Predator II to bear. It was his discreet weapon, better for crowds. But it would kill just as effectively.
She saw the gun and just sat there for a second as Hendrix crossed the small space between them. Then, as the pistol snapped into perfect aim, she broke into laughter. And her laughter grew into a hysterical cackle that made Hendrix hesitate, and for the briefest of moments, she reminded him again of Layla.
"I’m already dead," she said, then doubled over with laughter. In seconds her body shook uncontrollably. Her arms and legs shivered as she tried to stand and take a palsied step toward him. "Already dead," she said, then fell to the concrete steps.
"What’s wrong?" Hendrix asked, holding his gun at ready just in case this was some elaborate deception.
Synthia shook violently. "A toxin in my blood," she said. "Nanites and symbiotes, you wouldn’t understand."
But he did understand. He understood all too well. And as Synthia curled into a fetal ball, Hendrix decided that his inner voice was right once again. Trust it, he thought. Then he hefted her over his shoulder and started to run.
He passed through the dazed and confused crowd. The combat biker match was finally beginning. Hendrix contacted Mole on his headphone as he ran, ordering the decker to get in touch with Sergio, the street doc who’d cleaned the symbiotes from Hendrix’s blood so many years ago.
Hendrix carried Synthia out of the stadium, running as though the salvation of his soul was at stake. He wanted to save a life, just once, instead of taking one. Sergio was the best. He’d have no problem with Synthia’s nanites. No problem at all.
57
Sounds came to him in his sleep. Voices. Whispers.
He lay on his back, as he had for countless days. Motionless and hazy with neuroblockers. The feeling in his skin was not crisp. Instead he felt a dull pressure around him. A gentle weight over him.
How much time had passed? He didn’t know, could be weeks or months.
The sound of a door opening made him open his eyes to a room bathed in dim yellow light. A face came into view, an old friend looking down at him. A dwarf with black curls and a beard. A very old friend from his Fort Lewis days. From prison. Theodore Rica.
"Jonathon," Theo said. "It is you inside, isn't it? How do you feel?"
Jonathon opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was parched and he only managed a weak croak. "Theo," he said. "I'm alive?"
Theo brought water to his lips and let him drink. "Yes, my friend. Welcome to Mitsuhama Computer Technologies. You're no longer you. but you're alive. I know this isn’t the most luxurious room, but it's a long way up from Hell."
Jonathon closed his eyes. The plan must've worked then, he thought. That meant . . .
"We nearly lost you,’’ Theo said. ’’But you must’ve decided lo live after all. After the surgery, you went into a torpor of some sort. Like a waking haze the doctors couldn’t explain.
"How long?"
"Ten days. Ever since they brought you from the Coliseum. And from what the docs say. most of what you missed was depression and pain. They only cut away the bandages around your face yesterday." Theo produced a small mirror and held it so Jonathon could see his face.
But it wasn’t his face that looked back at him from the mirror. The cheekbones were a
fraction too high, the eyes too green and overly slanted. He sucked in breath and stared at the face of his enemy. The plan had worked in the most frighteningly possible way.
Jonathon had sold his soul. He had become Dougan Rose.
"The docs say it will be a few more months before you’ll be ready to compete again, but MCT is counting on you to fill Rose’s position. The Buzzsaws have to regain the championship after losing." Theo smiled. "Very few know about what we did," he said. "Most of the DocWagon techs were our people so it was easy to switch Dougan’s body with yours. You killed him dead, chummer. He was blown to bits and burned beyond recognition, just a lifeless lump of flesh.
"We had to get a couple of our deckers to tweak the genetic databanks so any undamaged cellular residue would scan as yours, not his. All in all, the whole operation didn’t cost that much and only a few non-dedicated personnel know about it. And most of those will experience ‘memory loss’ after you’re gone.
"MCT was extremely grateful for the data you provided. You’ve actually strengthened my position here."
Theo was silent for a moment and when Jonathon didn’t answer, he pulled the mirror away. "I know it must be hard, chummer," he said. "But you’ll pull through. At least you’re alive."
Jonathon didn’t answer. He simply stared at the white ceiling tiles and thought of death. Tamara was still gone; killing Dougan hadn’t changed that. In fact he hadn’t killed Dougan at all; he had become Dougan. Dougan lived on, while Jonathon Winger had died in a ball of flame.