Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators)

by Campbell, Nenia

  Endgame by Nenia Campbell

  ENDGAME

  by NENIA CAMPBELL

  Copyright © 2012 Nenia Campbell

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  To Kendal Morris, mispelled wurd finder.

  To Quizzy McQuinn, uther mispeled werd findur.

  To Louisa, pretty-making cover person and plot-bunny collector.

  And all the other whoars at PH

  for nagging and supporting as necessary.

  Thank you.

  1.

  It is night in the city that never sleeps and Volera Magray cannot sleep. Or she is unwilling to try. If you are unwilling enough, the two situations are essentially the same.

  She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror she keeps in the foyer. Since the apartment contains only one bedroom, this is directly across from her bed. Vol shivers, and her eyes gleam silver bright in the darkness.

  She slides out of bed. Her feet move soundlessly across the floor as she goes to her closet, yanks off her dampened nightdress, and pulls on a new one. She wads the soiled nightgown into a ball and kicks it towards the bathroom where a pile of equally soiled clothes await laundering. The pile has been growing steadily larger. Meanwhile, the supply in her closet has been dwindling. Soon, she will have to do laundry: something she hates. It is too domestic.

  There was something else I was supposed to do.

  Her eyes flick towards the bed.

  Something….

  (Someone)

  Vol shrugs and puts in her contacts. The clock at her bedside reads 2:01 am. Her first shift of the day is starting soon so she may as well give up on sleep for the night. She knows she should change into her work clothes but her nightgown is too soft, too warm.

  She sits on the upturned crates which serve as her makeshift window seat and tugs the dark curtains aside. Light floods through the apartment windows and her mind is fooled into thinking that daylight is what she is seeing for several disorienting seconds. Once her eyes adjust she catches glimpses of the black velvet sky peeking through the blinding glare — starless, of course, and singed with browns and oranges. It gets her every single time.

  Enclosed by strong stone walls designed as much to keep people in as out, and sealed off from neighboring districts by the hot arid desert known locally as “the shifting sand lands,” the city that never sleeps is as isolate as an island. It is labeled on maps as Karagh, but the only people who actually call it that are the people who live there. The sleepless city is the mildest and least offensive of its many monikers.

  Across from the Tower is the Karaghassian bazaar. A sprawling labyrinth of casinos and betting parlors and open air markets, the venders there hawk everything there is to be found under the sun — and if you're willing to pay a bit extra, a few things that aren't, as well.

  Someone knocks sharply on the door. For a moment Vol thinks she has drifted off, or worse—blacked out—and done the unthinkable: missing work. But her clock, to her relief, reads 2:08.

  The knocking sounds again.

  Vol glances down at her bare legs. “Just a minute!”

  Cursing under her breath, she prowls around her bedroom looking for something she can pull on quickly. She spies a pair of rumpled leggings slithering out of the floor of her closet like one of the desert asps. “I'm coming,” she adds, tugging them on beneath the nightshirt.

  The rapping continues, paying her no mind.

  For Regent's sake. She would have liked to have been able to put on a bra but it looks like she is going to have to settle for keeping her arms crossed instead. Vol yanks open the door. “I said I was coming…Kira?” she trails off in surprise, wondering what a game-designer is doing at her door at two in the morning.

  Probably selling something, is her uncharitable thought. It's what everyone else here does.

  The brown-haired girl flicks hazel eyes over Vol's rumpled clothing. She is wearing a drab green sweater that, at this moment, matches her eyes perfectly. Her hand is still poised for another knock but she seems to realize how hostile this looks because she lowers it.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No. I was up.” Feeling this sounds too accommodating, Vol adds, “I just woke up.”

  Kira smiles, satisfied. “What a relief. I wanted to catch people before they left for first shift.”

  “Well, you caught me.” Vol holds the door open a little wider. “So are you coming in or not?”

  “Thank you,” Kira says, stepping over the threshold and into the darkened room as regally as a queen. Turning her back so Kira won't see her roll her eyes, Vol flicks on the light and suffuses the room with a wavering greenish fluorescence.

  The other girl whirls around as Vol closes the door. For a moment, she looks trapped. “Your room is so…” she quickly finishes her cursory inspection. “So spacious.”

  “I don't have much.” It comes out sounding defensive. “Go ahead and sit down — but can we make this quick? I have a game starting in forty-five minutes.”

  Kira does not appear to hear. She is staring at the window seat, her lips quirked. “Oh, you are precious, Vol. Are those fruit crates? How very creative.”

  Annoyance pulses through Vol, as hot and unwanted as a blush. “Kira — ”

  “I heard you. Game. Forty-five minutes. Sit down, don't get your panties in a twist.” She dusts off the crates although Val knows perfectly well that they are clean, and seats herself gingerly on the edge. “The game is one of mine, anyway, so don't worry about me keeping you.”

  She gives a little laugh.

  Vol doesn't laugh with her. She grabs one of the hair ties she keeps in a ceramic dish by the door. “What do you want?” she demands through the yellow screen of her hair, separating the strands into three sections for a braid.

  “Well, you're very forward, aren't you, Vol?”

  “I am when I'm in a hurry,” she says bitingly, hoping Kira will take the hint.

  She does. “The Tower is hosting a promotional ball tonight to launch one of my new games.”

  “Uh-huh.” Vol concentrates on the braid and staying noncommittal. I still don't see how this concerns me. If Kira wants to brag, she has a whole bunch of cohorts to giggle with. Why come to me? She wonders, as the other girl prattles on about balls and how fun they are and gosh, aren't you excited, Vol? This is really weird. We aren't girlfriends.

  She doubts that Kira is extending the olive branch. The cutting remarks about her room and appearance are evidence enough of that.

  “…live band…” Kira is waning on the subject of balls, segueing back into entertainment, which means games, and Vol decides it is probably a good idea to start paying attention. “…in addition to that, Marks will be given temporarily free access to the VR lounges in GP1 and GP2.”

  Vol is beginning to have a good idea now of how this concerns her. She hopes she's wrong, though. “With an event that big, aren't more staff going to be required to facilitate it?”

  Kira blinks. “Oh. I suppose some Players will be needed to work overtime. I guess you're right. I didn't even think about that.”

  Liar. Vol can feel a headache coming on. At least tell me the truth instead of lying to my face. 'Vol, I want you to work on your evening off.' Simple, right?

  Kira is saying now, “I'm not asking you to come — ”

  “Thanks.” Vol studies herself in the cracked mirror and secures the braid with the tie.

  “I'm telling you to come.” Kira's mouth hardens. “This is not optional.”

  Vol turns. “I've got news for you, Kira. You're not my boss. She storms to her closet and shoves the hangers aside, looking for the dress she's pretty sure she hasn't worn this week. Wh
en she finds it — a washed-out buttercup that, with her yellow hair and rangy build, makes her look like a weedy flower — she folds the garment over her arm and puts her hands on her hips. “I hate events like this. So you tell me, why would it possibly be in my interests to go?”

  “Because Jillain, who is your boss, specifically requested that you attend. All Players with available blocks during that time have to go — so don't go thinking you're a special case or anything.”

  Vol flushes. Kira smirks and rises from the crates.

  “And because you'll lose a week's worth of tokens if you don't go.”

  “They're giving me a week's pay to go to a stupid ball?”

  “No, Vol. They're taking away a week's pay if you don't go. Normal overtime rates apply.”

  Vol lets out a curse. She remembers an old joke about blackmail and Karaghassian diplomacy — it doesn't seem so funny now. “And where am I supposed to find the time to get ready for this?”

  “I'm sure you'll manage.” Kira pauses in the center of the room, putting a finger to her lip. She glances at Vol's stash of instant noodles. “If it's any consolation, the food is supposed to be free.”

  Vol sighs. “Then I guess I have no choice — since the food is free.” She gives Kira a dirty look.

  Kira laughs and allows herself to be shepherded towards the door. “It's semi-formal.”

  “I'll be sure to wear a dress then,” Vol says, unfastening the bolt on the door.

  “One that isn't made of cotton, I hope.” Kira eyes the dress hanging over Vol's arm. “If you don't have one, which I suspect you don't, come see me. It might be a tight fit, but I'm sure I can find you something suitable.”

  “Do you ever get tired of being such a witch?” Vol asks, holding open the door.

  “Oh, no. Never.” She smiles. “You have to admit, it's so much more interesting than being nice.”

  “No, I don't. Goodbye, Kira.” Vol begins to push the door shut.

  But Kira holds onto the door to keep it from closing all the way. Briefly, Vol entertains the thought of slamming Kira's fingers in the jamb. It is tempting, but not worth the trouble.

  “It's also a masquerade,” Kira adds. “So bring a mask. Anything goes as long as it covers at least half your face.”

  “That's unfortunate,” Vol murmurs. “I guess that means you don't get to go as yourself.”

  Instead of being offended, Kira cackles. “See? Doesn't that feel satisfying? You should try being wicked more often, Vol. You're such a button-up.”

  “Goodbye, Kira. I mean it.”

  “Well. I guess I know when I'm not wanted.” She turns and walks away, humming like a girl who thinks everything is going swimmingly. Vol feels that hot flush of annoyance returning, washing over her in a red tide. She is inches away from when Kira adds, “Oh, and Vol?”

  “What?”

  “Good luck with my game today.” She flips her long dark hair over one shoulder and says, “You're going to need it.”

  Vol slams the door closed and leans against it, one ear pressed against the wooden surface to assure herself that the other girl really is gone. Her eye snags on the clock, which reads 2:30 now, and she thinks, Well that was a complete waste of time.

  For the second time this morning she pulls off her nightshirt. This time, she replaces it with the buttercup dress. She leaves the leggings. Despite being near the desert, the coastal breeze makes mornings bitterly cold. It isn't until she's lacing up her boots that Kira's final words really hit her. Kira has never wished her luck on a game before.

  You're going to need it?

  She isn't sure what this is supposed to mean, but whatever it is, it probably isn't good.

  Here are the things Vol refuses to think about as she rides the elevator to the third floor:

  She is not going to think about what Kira meant by that last, cryptic statement.

  She is not going to think about where she will find a dress at such late notice.

  She is not going to think about laundry, or anything else pertaining to housework and upkeep.

  She is not going to let herself think about the dreams.

  It occurs to Vol that she has just forbidden herself to think about the things that normally occupy her mind during any given hour of the day. Besides, for this to work, she is going to have to add a new item to that list — I am not going to think about the things I am not going to think about.

  There is no escape, she thinks. If I get any more burdened, I am going to explode and then Jillain Towers will dock me my pay for exploding when I should have been working.

  Vol laughs, and then looks around guiltily as if afraid someone might have overheard, even though she is the only one in the elevator. The smile fades from her face. Her expression is sober as she walks into the cafe. Aron, another Player, has apparently been roped into manning the register. He gives her a blank look that may or may not show recognition.

  She hazards a look at the display. The food is ridiculously overpriced — only a step below highway robbery. She ends up settling on an agrarian wrap and a bottle of caffeine concentrate. The wrap is okay and she can forgive the concentrate for tasting like shit as long as it wakes her up.

  Chewing, she presses the button for the elevator and the doors slide open. She walks in and as she does hears the sound of footsteps walking — not running — and a male voice saying imperiously, “Hold the doors — please,” with the 'please' thrown in as only the merest of afterthoughts.

  Vol is inclined to pretend she didn't hear, but then again he did say 'please.' She palms the override button.

  A man slides in through the doors, ducking so he won't hit his head on the ceiling. His features are distinctly Arbatian — a resinous gold complexion, hair the silvery black of a raven's wing feathers, and an aquiline nose that gives his handsome face a fierce, almost hawkish quality. Instead of the more usual brown, though, his eyes are a shock of gold and amber, and add to his feral appearance.

  He glances at her, with that striking chilly gaze. Cold amusement plays there, though what he finds amusing she can only guess. Then he turns away. “Thank you.” And it is like he thinks he is tossing her a treat by saying it.

  Distaste fills her. She wishes she let the doors close after all.

  “First floor, if you don't mind,” he drawls, folding his arms over a chest she is finding it hard not to look at.

  She has had enough. Even though she is nearest to the panel, she snaps, “Do it yourself!” She cannot stand the sight of him slouching against the elevator wall, like he thinks he owns the world. She is nobody's servant.

  That makes him smile — a cruel, icy smile. The smile of a man far too used to getting his own way. He saunters over in her direction and she finds herself taking a step back, hating herself for it even as she does so. His hand hits the wall, temporarily caging her in, and he presses the button for F1.

  “Have it your way,” he says softly.

  Vol notices, distantly, that he has an accent. Slight, but guttural — his syllables are clipped and he rolls his R's so that they are almost a growl. But mostly, she is aware of his hand, which is fairly close to her shoulder, and the heat that radiates from his body.

  Vol glances at his hand and then at his face. Her stomach performs an alarming somersault. “A little space, please.”

  His smile sharpens. “You have quite the attitude.” He lowers his hand but does not step back. “In my country, there are ways of dealing with women like you. Women who need to be tamed.”

  Vol chooses not to grace this with a response.

  He is looking at her closely now, inquisitively. “In fact, you remind me of someone.”

  “Who?” she asks warily, curious in spite of herself. Of course he ignores her question.

  “Attitude aside, the eyes are all wrong. But still, the superficial resemblance is quite striking.”

  The reference to her eyes makes her bristle. She is aware of how dry they feel behind her contacts, and she is awar
e that he still has not answered her question. “Stop talking about me as if I'm not here — I'm not in an art exhibit.”

  He laughs and like his speaking voice, it is low and deep. “Well, well, well. It has claws.” He leans closer and she catches a whiff of something herbal. “I wonder what else it has…” His eyes flick over her, taking inventory. “What's your name?”

  “Kira.” It is the first name that comes to mind. Besides her own, of course.

  “Well, Kira…you have a nice face.” She jolts when she feels his hand tilting her face upwards. “Interesting. Not quite pretty — but all cats are gray in the dark. And I like a woman who can hold her own.” If he moves any closer they will be kissing. “If you ever want to make a little extra on top of whatever it is that you do, come find me, and we'll see if the rest of you is as wild as your tongue.”

  She can barely breathe. This cannot be happening, she thinks. He can't mean what I think he means. Nobody says things like that.

  “I have a job,” she says coldly, but her voice trembles. She is not certain where to look. He has the sinful mouth and deadly eyes of a cobra, magnetic, repellant, and beautiful. When his teeth close down lightly on his full lower lip, Vol flushes as if she has just caught him pleasuring himself. “I — I work in the entertainment industry.”

  “And I'm offering to pay you to entertain me.” Another smile. “Should be right up your alley.”

  “I — ” She can't tell if he's teasing her, or if he's genuinely soliciting her for sex. Both bother her, but the second bothers her more — because she feels that it speaks more about her than him. Vol refuses to let her eyes drop to her dress. “I think you're making a mistake,” she says at last, quietly.

  “Oh?”

  Vol jerks her chin out of his loose hold and feels the burn of his fingers on her skin like a brand. “Yes. We don't provide that kind of entertainment here.”

  “I don't recall specifying a time or a place for our arrangement,” he says, “let alone the cost. How much do you want? Six tokens for an evening — seven if you spend the night?”