Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators)

by Campbell, Nenia

  What a strange girl.

  Vol likes her — she thinks. Tash has all the sweetness of Suryan paired with Kira's scathing wit. And even if she didn't like Tash, Vol would still have to admit that the dark-haired Arbatian with the flashing eyes is the most interesting person to set foot in the Tower for a long time. Vol finds herself looking forward to the ball now, if only to see what kinds of hell Tash is going to raise.

  The stranger in the elevator was interesting, too.

  Vol blinks.

  Interesting and menacing, and definitely not for her. Is he one of the new residents on the fifth floor? The ones Tash mentioned earlier? It explains why she hasn't seen him before, but not how he knows her — or why he thinks he does.

  Briefly, she wonders if he'll be at the ball. Probably not. He's probably out frequenting one of the brothels by now. And good riddance. His behavior had been more than a little off balance. The way he looked at her — as if he were on the verge of doing something — something unimaginable. And wild.

  Stop that. She scolds herself; she feels like a fool. Shaking her head, she rises from the table and walks out of the cafe. Karagh is a place for people who wish to meet their personal demons up close and laugh right in their faces. Vol thinks she has picked her poison well. Too well, maybe. Hers tend to laugh right on back.

  The numbers projected by the atomic clock slowly blur into focus as Vol opens her eyes. They read 6:30pm. Her eyes widen. That can't possibly be right. She's just checked the time, and she has two hours. Vol blinks, and the unchanging numbers seem to mock her. As she watches, the zero turns into a one.

  Shit, she thinks. Shit. She has less than thirty minutes to get ready.

  Not again. Gods damn. I thought we were over this.

  Chunks of missing time. Sometimes mere blips, sometimes gaping tears that rip entire pages from her life. She is never aware of it happening, though occasionally the fugues are preceded a strange, tickling sensation at the nape of her neck. She scratches the skin absently, feeling her pulse rise. Has she been fugueing all day?

  Maybe coffee aggravates whatever it is that's wrong with her.

  Vol slips in her green contacts, carefully adjusting them to cover her irises' natural hue. Then she washes her face, brushes her hair, and attempts to apply her cosmetics. The result does not scream court jester, so she considers the endeavor a success. Slipping on her shoes, Vol opens the door and prays Kira is still in her room.

  She steps out and her foot hits something stuff.

  Vol looks down.

  A package is in front of her door.

  Vol can't keep herself from scanning both sides of the hall before bending to pick it up. She glances at the projecting clock, then at the package. Curiosity wins.

  She plops back down on her bed, holding the box on her lap like a pet cat. The card fixed to the package explains nothing. It just says “Vol.” As if it weren't obvious enough that the gift is for her. The writing isn't helpful, either. Smooth and flowing, it looks like carefully practiced calligraphy and probably isn't the writer's normal hand.

  She tears open the wrapping, revealing a bank of ice-blue fabric. When she holds it up, the hem cascades to the floor in a waterfall of silk. It's a dress. Someone has sent her a dress. Kira? No. She knows instinctively that it wasn't Kira. Kira wouldn't want to run even the slightest risk of being upstaged at her big event. She wouldn't send something so nice.

  Because the dress is beautiful. The strapless bodice is beaded with clear studs of glass in whorled patterns resembling the flowers of frost that blossom on the windows in winter. The beads trail like icicles in spiraling patterns to the skirt, which is a shade darker.

  Vol checks the tag sewn inside the bodice. It is exactly her size.

  She frowns, setting the gown aside. Her fingers touch upon something solid and hard hidden within the folds. It nearly falls to the ground — she catches it just in time, and gasps. In her hand is a silver latticed mask, so delicate and brittle that a single touch seems like it will cause the entire structure to crumble and melt just like ice.

  She cradles the mask in both hands, cursing her clumsiness, grateful that her ungainly haste did not cause the destruction of something so beautiful. The metal gleams with a rainbow of color. The mask, and the dress, are both undoubtedly expensive. Far more than she can afford.

  Gifts like these aren't given lightly, and certainly not without an ulterior motive.

  Vol glances at the clock. Ten minutes now. She doesn't have time to be particular. She unzips the dress and carries it with her to the bathroom. Showtime. She hopes she has some makeup that will match.

  4.

  One of the rooms in the bazaar generally reserved for private auctions has been cordoned off for the night's event, spangled with strands of LED lights, which hang suspended from the ceiling like the stars that Karaghassian residents can no longer see in their sky.

  As Vol steps out of the Tower, a cold win nips at her skin. It smells vaguely of the sea.

  A north wind, she thinks. Bad luck.

  Snippets of music float through the air as she hurries down the hallways, ignoring the odd looks she receives from the passing Marks. She can make out the staccato bursts of a snare, entwined with a baseline that, when paired together, remind her of the rain— dark, unrelenting, and inexplicably sad. As Vol nears the ballroom, she hears the high, sweet cry of an Arbatian violin, and the haunting chords of a ballad being played on an electronic keyboard.

  “Oh, the magic in this world has gone, but I've still got our favorite song,” a female voice sings. “So come away with me, darling, please — I'll bring the stars, you'll bring the cold, and together we'll paint the world in gold.” The singer is standing on a podium, her musical accompaniment surrounding her, swaying in time to the rhythm as masked dancers twirl on the floor.

  It really is incredible. Karagh — and the Regent — are going to rake in a fortune.

  So many people are crammed into the hallway that she can scarcely see the floor. Which is a good thing, she thinks, as her foot slides against something sticky. She weaves her way through the crowd. Each time she passes beneath one of the lights, dimmed by cerulean filters, the air seems to grow denser, heavier. Where she passes through the ethereal glow, she has the disconcerting feeling that she is moving through water.

  Magic: bottled and synthesized like so much else in this sciolistic world of theirs.

  Vol drifts, caught in the current of dancers, searching for a familiar face beneath the alien masks. She thinks she sees Kira, resplendent in a pastry-shaped gown that makes her look like a Selmairean cream-puff, but the girl whirls out of sight before Vol can be sure. She is relieved she didn't need to borrow a dress from Kira, after all. She might have ended up looking like lemon meringue. But she would choose the company of a cream puff over solitude. Even an ill-tempered one.

  And how pleasant that would be, she thinks. Hi, let's hang out because I don't want to feel pathetic.

  Anyway, it isn't working. She feels ridiculous now. Frilly, matronly. Most of the women, and girls, have taken advantage of Karagh's nonexistent dress code. Fabrics ranging in texture from scales to satin to silk sparkle and flare beneath the lights, providing more glimpses of skin than dress. Vol is beginning to feel like a character from a historical holladrama.

  I shouldn't have come.

  But then she would starve.

  She is starving, though, inside. Not just for food. Part of her is incomplete. Pieces of her history are missing. Parents, childhood, friends — these long swaths are all missing from the tapestry of her life. Ripped away by a cruel hand, leaving her empty, wondering, and helpless.

  She can't even remember how she got to Karagh.

  Oh, but her dreams, they hint. They hint at blood and fire, and the sound of breaking glass; they hint at screams that light up the night like fireworks; they hint at fear, which slices at her like the blades of a thousand knives, and at sorrow that threatens to scatter the pieces of her soul t
o a thousand winds. Her dreams hint at a darkness that swirls around her heart. A darkness she can feel all the way down to the very dregs of her being.

  It scares her, but it's a part of her, and she can't remember.

  Truly, that is the worst part.

  The music shifts, changing mood — darker, and less sweet. The singer stops her gentle sway and rises to her full height, wrapping her hands around the microphone in a chokehold. “Lost in the shadows, you once held my hand. Now all the shadows are yours to command. You're no longer the man who I used to know — and now I'm afraid that I might not say no.”

  The singer seems to meet her eyes, and for a moment it is Vol and Vol alone that she is singing to. Then someone taps her on the shoulder. She turns around obligingly, feeling more than ever as if she is in a dream, and finds herself staring up at a tall man. Unlike most of the other dances, he is wearing all black. If he held a scythe in his other hand, he would look just like a reaper. Beckoning her to her demise.

  And now I'm afraid that I might not say no.

  Ridiculous. It's just a stupid song.

  Isn't it? Things have been a little strange around here lately. Vol has the sinking feeling that this is just the beginning, that things are going to get a lot stranger. She has a feeling that this stranger is the catalyst.

  The exact shade of his hair is impossible to determine in the low lights, but it is dark and falls to the collar of his suit in unruly waves. He isn't wearing a tie or cravat, and the shirt is open to reveal his throat. He has opted to wear one of the glittering masks, which, instead of making him look foolish, makes him look enigmatic and a little dangerous.

  While the mask obscures the top half of his face, she suspects he's gorgeous anyway. His eyes are amazing, as golden and clear as a December sunrise, and his lips are surprisingly full in the harsh, angular frame of his face. He has the kind of bone structure that inspires poems in girls foolish enough to write them.

  Vol wonders what he wants, and why he has come to her, of all people, to get it.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” And she could kick herself — she even sounds matronly now.

  To her surprise, he holds out his hand, conjuring up an even stronger image of the Reaper she previously imagined. She nearly takes a step back, catches herself just in time. “You want to dance?” she mumbles, not quite sure why else he would be approaching her.

  In response, the stranger's fingers close lightly over hers, and he transfers her hands to his shoulders without waiting for her to say yes. This should disturb her, and it does a little, but she is also feeling reckless tonight. None of this seems quite real. Her head is buzzing with the same excitement she feels in the games and it silences the voice warning her to make him get lost.

  Tonight, there are no consequences.

  “Vol!” she thinks she hears Tash's voice spike through the noise, high with what could be either recognition or alarm. “Vol?”

  Vol stops dancing and cranes her neck, searching the crowd for her new friend. She feels her dance partner reach out and touch her face, and lurches violently. His fingers — tentatively at first, and then more boldly — stroke down her cheek before cupping her jaw and forcing her head up. He kisses her right there in the heart of the room, and there is something excruciatingly familiar about that kiss. Scorching and carnivorous, it leaves an herbal taste in her mouth that prickles and skins like rime.

  Quick as lightning, she tears off his mask, scratching his cheek in the process. He lowers his head, but not before she gets a good, long glimpse of his face. The mask falls from suddenly numb fingers where it clatters to the floor, forgotten.

  For one terrible moment, her heart stops beating.

  “You,” she whispers, and though she can barely hear herself, somehow he understands. “You were in the elevator this morning.”

  “I'm flattered you remember our encounter.” He keeps his head bowed like a courtier purposefully not looking at her, but his body is taut with anger. “Your memory seems rather select these days.”

  How could he know? “What the hell do you want?” Then, as her hands jump to her lips and a furious blush colors her face at the cruel smile her outcry results in, she hisses, “Are you stalking me? Following me?”

  “If you want answers, go to GP2 for the next run of Bounty Strike. I'll be there.”

  Before she can formulate a response, or even consider responding at all, he is walking, nearly running, to the exit of the bazaar. And Vol is about to chase him, because she still feels, for the moment, that she is in a dream.

  Then Tash is there, pushing through the crowd of gaping onlookers, and Tash grabs her by the shoulders. She is wearing a beautiful red gown that ties over one shoulder with a rose-shaped bow, and which makes her look like an ancient queen. The gown hurts her eyes, and Vol winces.

  There is no pain in dreams.

  “Are you okay? I was calling you. You look like you've seen a ghost.”

  No. That is not true. There is pain in dreams. It just hurts in different ways. This is the pain of reality — sharp and piercing, like a fresh, raw wound.

  Tash's dark eyes, lined with black kohl, flick to the doorway. “Or a demon,” she adds, and her voice is bitter. “Was that man bothering you?”

  “Worse than that.” Vol bites her lip. “He's been following me.”

  “And you're going after him?”

  “I'm not sure. Should I?”

  “No.” Tash's response is immediate, and firm. “You shouldn't.”

  Vol shakes her head, wishing she could shake off her own doubts so easily. “I feel like I should, but I don't know why.” She looks at Tash with an expression like a pair of begging hands, seeking permission, seeking solace. Finding nothing. “Does that make sense?”

  Tash sighs. Her silence is worse than condemnation.

  “I think he knows something about me. Something important. He told me to meet him in GP2.”

  “Did he?” Her expression reveals nothing. The Arbatians are a stoic race. They have to be. Their culture is one of immaculate facades, the slightest chip resulting in the destruction of the whole. “We better get out of here. I just saw Suryan getting reprimanded by a woman who looked like she had a run-in with a lightning bolt.”

  “Jillain.” Vol stares at her, jolted from her daze. “Wait, Suryan? You saw Suryan getting reprimanded?”

  “Her hair color is hard to mistake.”

  “That doesn't make sense. Suryan is a saint. She'd never get into trouble unless — ”

  But Vol can't complete the thought. Her mind just blinks out. A minor fugue.

  “Vol—” Tash breaks off, perhaps glimpsing something in the other girl's eyes. “Never mind. GP2, you said? Should be crowded. I doubt he'd try any real harm in a public venue.”

  Maybe. Maybe not, Vol thinks. There are different kinds of harm.

  His kiss still burns her lips, kindling like a promise.

  “But just in case, I'm coming too.” Tash links arms with Vol before she can protest, and laughs at her startled expression. “What? Surely you didn't think I'd let you go alone?”

  But her eyes, Vol can't help but notice, are worried.

  The Tower has been redecorated in both girls' absence. GP2's tube lights have been activated and for once their stingy supervisors have activated the jet function that causes pressurized water to spurt through the pipes. The bubbles catch the light, and gleam like precious stones.

  A few Players are already in the lounge, waiting for the next start-up. Vol spies Aron, a Meridian, his brown hair tamed for once. He looks unusually debonair in a white silk shirt and black slacks. He is chatting with Bastien, a Selmairean, who looks bored. Whether this is due to his conversation partner or the scene as a whole is anybody's guess. He's wearing a suit that glints with nanobots, which have been coaxed to emulate a thin, iridescent armor the Selmaireans often refer to, jokingly, as “mithril.” Though nobody can remember the exact origins of the nickname, it inspires a sense of mystery, of m
agic and faerie tales, and yet sounds at the same time rather imposing.

  Others are here, as well. Alisenne, a Selmairean Weaver. Kai, an Arbatian Spinner. The two of them are a team and specialize in military-type scenarios. Adam, Ginsen, and Cori — Meridian Players, all of them. Sayvra, Drove, and Kyar — Spinner, Player, and Weaver, respectively, all from Bastan. Western Bastan. Vol doesn't know anyone else who escaped from Eastern Bastan before the Regent destroyed it.

  Maybe they pushed eastward, to the Balustrade Range that bordered Arbat.

  She likes to think so, anyway.

  A few of the Tower residents glance in Vol's and Tash's direction before returning to their conversations. The Marks — their slack-jawed awe and ill-fitting garb purchased last-minute in the bazaar easily identifying them — stare longer, and a couple do more than that.

  Tash makes a face as one man, most likely drunk, tries to grab at her. “Which way is the fastest route to the elevators?

  “Cut past the reception desk. There's a second set behind them. Staff entrance only.”

  “What's wrong?” the Mark slurs with a leer, and a half-hearted grab at his crotch. “Not man enough for you?”

  “You're not woman enough,” Tash says coldly, over her shoulder. “Think about it.”

  Vol hits the panel. “Activate voice command. Second floor.”

  “This is becoming quite the adventure.” Tash smooths her dress out where the Mark grabbed her. “Now I guess I know why they call them Marks.” She rubs at a stain.

  Vol laughs. “I think it refers to the shooting term. They're targets. For sales.”

  “Targets for something.” Tash releases the fabric with a grimace. “This is why I don't wear dresses. Hopefully Suryan escaped.”

  The Master of Games is a girl Vol has never seen before today. Tash seems to recognize her, though. Her face lights up and she hugs the girl fiercely. “Ariel! You didn't tell me you were working tonight!”