Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators)

by Campbell, Nenia

  “Why?”

  “Didn't you read the archives? The Dolorian government ignored their scientists because they only sit around looking at things through microscopes and reading books. It's not as if they actually know shit. Except, apparently, they did.”

  “Men,” Cori says knowledgeably. “The lure of Ephemerium was just too strong, I guess.”

  “Losing all sense over shiny rocks? That sounds more like a chick, if you ask me,” says Bastien.

  Vol grabs Kavi's arm and tugs her towards the shuttle.

  “I didn't ask you, Bastien. And you stop right there, Vol. I wasn't finished.”

  “What, talking us to death?”

  Kavi giggles, nervously.

  Cori glances at Bastien. “Where was I?”

  “Clamoring for the rocks.”

  “Right. Most of the population was evacuated. At least, the parts that mattered — and only after their silence was guaranteed. I should say bought.”

  “But riffraff like you two need to be silenced. There are two options, though.”

  “Slow and fiery, or quick and painless,” Cori says, without missing a beat. “We're compassionate like that.”

  “So only the riffraff are being executed…”

  “That's right, very good, Vol. Gold star.”

  Vol ignores Cori. “How do you propose to manage that, exactly? Stand here and watch us die? You'll die, too — and we all lose.”

  Bastien's face goes blank. Cori immediately begins accessing the archives. Vol reaches for her gun but Kavi is faster. Vol realizes what she intends to do only when she's almost upon the other girl. “Kavi, no!”

  An electrifying zap lights the air as Bastien blasts her in the stomach.

  Kavi disappears, gone for the count.

  Vol shoots Cori in the face. She disappears, too.

  “Well, the bitch and the brat are gone,” says Bastien, cocking the gun in her direction.

  Vol does the same. “That's a terrible thing to say about your own girlfriend.”

  “She's not my girlfriend, sweet cheeks. Not for long. Maybe even less, if you're vying for the position.” He leers at her over the muzzle. “Look around you, Vol. Warm cozy fire, mood lighting, joint death — it's practically romantic.”

  Except she has no intention of dying this time. “You wish.”

  “Not really.”

  “I can't believe you. That little Mark? You killed her brother and then you killed her.”

  “Oh, her brother was the freak with the tattoo?”

  “Is that an example of the famous Selmairean diplomacy?”

  “You saw him, didn't you? You have to admit it's pretty damn gauche.”

  She has to admit nothing, least of all to him. “It symbolizes strength.”

  Bastien snorts. “It certainly doesn't provide any.”

  The building quakes again and the screech of tearing metal is louder this time. Vol feels the roof sink. Large, fiery tornadoes are moving closer. Both Vol and Bastien are knocked over, blasted by a tempestuous sand-filled wind. Bastien loses his grip on the gun and it falls to the ground ten stories below, quaffed by the lake of magma engulfing the building beneath them.

  “Shit—” he begins, and that's as far as Bastien gets before Vol shoots him.

  Points will be detracted for casualties.

  The rule pops into her head a second too late, and Vol winces. Oops. She's in the negatives, then, because she hasn't managed to save anyone. She's killed two, or three, depending on how you keep count, and if she doesn't get moving it's going to turn into four.

  Vol gets inside the shuttle craft, which is beginning to slide across the roof as the uneven ground causes the surface to slide and tilt, and buckles herself in. The craft has only two buttons — a stop button and a go button — and flies by joystick.

  She slams her palm down on the green button and hits the back of the seat as the shuttle craft surges forward. She fights for control as the craft begins a slow, downward nosedive. The plaza is no longer navigable by foot. The lava lakes have oozed forward and are consuming everything in their path. The lower levels of the tower are already submerged and sinking fast.

  Vol's stomach feels as though it is doing the same. The destruction of an entire city, even a fake one, is horrifying, and certainly nothing to sneeze at. Culture and technology are eradicated, in addition to human lives. It's the ultimate crime, and one Vol can relate to all too well: the murder of an entire civilization.

  She brings the craft skyward and the screen goes black the moment she breaks through the atmosphere. For a moment, Vol thinks she's in space — except it's too dark, and she sees no stars. When she opens her eyes, she half-expects to find herself in the cubicle room. But no.

  Instead, she's standing in a gray, metal room that reminds her of the Tower lobby. About twenty other players are already here, looking around in confusion or examining their limbs for nonexistent wounds. Vol feels ill. Is this the Afterlife? Has she died, even after going through all that?

  Kavi is standing in the corner, arguing with the boy with the tattoo. He seems to be losing. Vol can guess what they're talking about because the brother sullenly points to Bastien. Cori looks mad, too. She rakes her hair out of her eyes and scowls at the Selmairean boy, and Vol wonders if she heard his derisive remarks about their relationship status. Bastien has a lot of explaining to do, posturing or no. If Suryan were God Mod, she wouldn't stand for this behavior.

  But Suryan isn't the presiding Master of Games.

  Then who is?

  “Now that everyone has arrived, allow me to welcome you to Delos. The planet Delorian orbits, for those who didn't read the archives.” The voices is deep, sonorous, and harbors the faintest traces of the guttural Arbatian accent. Vol can only stare in shock, unable to believe he would dare approach her here, of all places.

  “Excuse me,” he says, pausing to brush imaginary specks of lint off his clothes. He looks absolutely terrifying — black leather, a cybernetic eye, and some kind of gas mask. “The planet Dolorian used to orbit. I'm afraid the moon imploded very shortly after your arrival. The core boiled out, and the crust fell inward. The moon essentially turned itself inside out before exploding.

  “Some of you made it.” His eyes — one gold and organic, the other silver with a blinking red light — scan the crowd. “And some of you did not. I'm your presiding Master of Games. If you saw me before the round began, it was because you were in danger of committing a safety or protocol infraction.” He's looking right at her. “For most of you, however, this is our first meeting. I'm Catan Vareth. At your service.”

  He actually bows.

  “Now for the part I'm sure you're all dying for — literally and figuratively, depending.” The mask gives his chuckles a raspy edge.

  A smattering of nervous laughter follows his remark.

  “The winner of this round was Serena Dai, Class: Civilian, who managed to rescue an astonishing seventeen people by impersonating a government official and commandeering her craft.” An olive-skinned girl with black hair flushes and walks up to Catan to receive her applause.

  “Second place winner is Bastien Thackeray, Class: Soldier, who managed to prevent six people from being rescued by killing them.” This time, there are boos. One girl gives him the finger and a dirty look. Vol supposes she is one of the unfortunate six.

  “The third place winner was Veera Nichols, Class: Bandit, who killed a soldier and stole his craft to save four people and,” he pauses. “A cat. To be honest, I wasn't quite sure how to count that, so I awarded her half a point. Most people don't pay much attention to the wildlife, anyway.”

  Veera blushes to the roots of her strawberry-blonde hair. One of her friends high-fives her. Marks, Vol thinks.

  “That's it for the high scorers. It's now safe to disengage from the program.”

  And at his words Vol's relief at surviving and disappointment at not placing merge seamlessly into fear.

  7.

  When
she opens her eyes, the God Mod — Catan Vareth — is disconnecting her from the sensory equipment. Vol knocks his hand away. “I can do it myself. Don't touch me.”

  He looks at her with feigned surprise. “I'm sorry. Is there a problem?”

  There is, she thinks. You. “What safety or protocol infraction was I in danger of committing?”

  Catan blinks. His surprise seems genuine enough now. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What you said. Earlier.”

  “I don't recall saying you had one.”

  Vol swings her legs out of the chair, measuring the distance. He is still standing close to her, but not so close that she won't be able to squeeze by. “You said that's why we saw you before the game.”

  “Ah, yes.” He walks past her and begins to tidy up the various cables and wires, restoring the machines to default settings. Vol wastes no time scrambling out of the chair, and he turns around, just in time to catch her in the middle of her graceless flight, and smiles. “But if you'll recall, I never said that was the only reason, did I?”

  “Then what was your reason? I doubt it was because of incorrectly fastened electrodes.” She spits the excuse he gave her earlier as if it tastes bad in her mouth.

  “My, but you're very defensive.”

  “You know nothing about me, or what I'm like, Catan Vareth.”

  “Perhaps I know more than you think.” His response is quiet and mocking. He bundles up the cords with a pointed fastidiousness that makes her even angrier than she already is.

  “I think you enjoy messing with people.”

  “That's a purely hypothetical supposition on your part,” the bastard says. “I'm very particular about who I mess with, why,” — a strange light passes through his dark eyes — “and where.”

  She sets her teeth. “You made me lose the game.”

  “Now that,” he says, “is a very serious allegation indeed.”

  Vol forces herself to hold her ground as he walks back in her direction. Her head is throbbing, blood pulsing behind her eyeballs and at her temples, and she feels as if she might faint. Behind the tinted lenses, her eyes are parched and sore. “I know.”

  “Then I'd like to know,” he says, walking closer still, “what makes you so certain? Do you have proof?”

  “I notice things.”

  “Oh?”

  He's so close now she can make out the scent of his aftershave. “You smell like sage,” she says, without thinking about how intimate this sounds. “I think you were watching me in the desert.” She looks at him, giving him time to respond, but he stays silent. “There was sage there, too,” she says lamely. “The smell of it. But I don't understand why.” Or how.

  Odors shouldn't carry over to the gamescape.

  “Even if that were the case, nobody would believe you. Not with such thin evidence.” His smile returns — the warm, engaging smile he used on the Marks — and if she weren't so frightened she could convince herself that she's imagining the ice in his gaze. “Fortunately for you, my darling, that isn't the case.”

  Vol stares at him. Her heart is a hummingbird in her ribs, fighting to break free from its cage. He doesn't know. He doesn't know about the algorithm Ariel added to the game.

  She has an ace up her sleeve — but it might not be enough.

  “Is it?”

  His face is inches away. She finds herself pressed against the wall like a flower, wishing she could melt right through it. Another inch and he will be close enough to kiss. The thought terrifies her, especially because a part of her seems to want him to. Slowly, she shakes her head.

  “Why do you fight me?” His voice is soft again, as textured as velvet. “Can't you see I'm doing everything I can to help you?”

  “Help yourself off the edge of a cliff,” she growls. “I don't need your brand of help.”

  “Yes, you do. You're in terrible danger.”

  His act might even convince her if not for the molten glow of his eyes. “Only from you.”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Not from me. I would never hurt you.”

  The way he says that, he seems to believe it.

  “From who, then?” I can't believe him. I can't take that risk.

  “From yourself.”

  Vol inhales sharply. “I don't need your psychoanalytic bull-crap.”

  They glare at each other. His mouth quirks. “Yes,” he muses. “I think I rather like you better this way, after all, with fire in your blood.” His fingers caress her cheek. “It's so much more entertaining.”

  “Don't condescend to me, you bastard.”

  She punches out. He catches her wrist.

  “Don't hit me.”

  His voice is calm, that's the scary part. Vol flinches, squeezing her eyes shut as she waits for a blow to her face that never comes. “Don't ever hit me.” He brings her hand gently, but firmly, to her side, and says, “Violence isn't the answer.”

  Then why do you keep killing me? What are you trying to prove?

  “I think perhaps it would be best if you run along,” Catan adds, and steps back, giving her just enough room to do so.

  And feeling as though she has just escaped from something terrible, Vol does. But not to her room.

  She goes to the reception area, searching for Ariel. Ariel isn't there. Suryan is, though, and she smiles tiredly at Vol. “Suryan?” Vol halts in surprise. She hasn't seen Suryan for several days. There are dark circles beneath the God Mod's eyes. “How are you? You look …” terrible “… exhausted.”

  “I am. I just started my shift.” She runs pale fingers through her fiery hair, which is hanging limp. “Didn't get much sleep.”

  “I heard you were in trouble with Jillain. How did that go?”

  Her smile grew still more tired and a touch resentful. “I'm in trouble. That boy is apparently a relative of the Regent. He didn't appreciate being banished from the premises and complained to you-know-who.”

  “Gods.”

  “It could have been worse.” She tries, and fails, to sound flippant. “So much worse.” Vol wonders what threats Jillain held over her.

  “Suryan, I'm so sorry.”

  “If that girl hadn't filed a complaint as well, I would have lost my job.”

  Vol's eyes narrow. “What the fuck? That's completely messed up.”

  “The argument was that since it's just a game, no actual harm was done. I overreacted and am not fit to perform my duties unsupervised, apparently. Now all my decisions must be ratified and signed off by both Catan and Ariel before I submit them to my superiors —and Jillain is docking the inconvenience of having Ariel and Catan work extra hours from my paycheck.”

  “Bullshit,” Vol says explosively, flinching inwardly at the mention of Catan's name.

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Vol. Really, I do. But I don't feel like talking about it. Or thinking about it. The whole situation just makes me so angry. I might say …” Suryan closes her eyes, draws in a deep breath. “Never mind. Now. Did you need something?”

  Vol looks away from the miserable attempt at a smile. “Do you know where I might find Ariel?”

  “Ariel? Why?”

  “It's kind of important.” And private. “Have you seen her?”

  “She just left. I think she's in the cafe, though she might be at the bazaar with Tash. Those two are getting on like a house on fire.”

  Ariel isn't in the cafe. Nor is she in her room or in any of the lounges. Finding somebody is surprisingly difficult, especially if they don't want to be found. She wonders how Catan manages it so frequently and efficiently. The bastard.

  Vol draws the line at prowling around the bazaar. If Ariel is there with Tash, it's almost certainly a date. If she's going to ask for the Meridian girl's help at all, Vol doesn't want her pissed.

  Meanwhile, her body buzzes with impatience. Every minute that passes is another minute that the archives could potentially become contaminated. Vol stalks the halls, too wired to eat or sit. She passes others, Tower reside
nts and Marks alike, both of whom give her a wide berth. Drove passes her, too, does a double take, and says, “Hey — did ya lose something?”

  “No.”

  He hesitates. “I heard they've got great footage of you kicking Bastien's ass on the holladrama.”

  “Yes.” Her head is still throbbing. She doesn't mind Drove but each word he speaks is an ice pick in her ear. The thought of Bastien isn't helping. Vol grits her teeth and walks faster.

  “Be careful,” Drove cautions, doing a little hop to keep up with her. “He's none too happy with you, and neither is Cori.”

  “I don't care,” says Vol. And in that moment, she doesn't. At all.

  Drove catches her shoulders, keeping her still for a moment. Sparks play on the back of her neck, aggravating her headache further. “You should. They're professionals. Bastien, especially. Selmaireans take honor seriously. You made him lose his.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “It isn't advice. It's a warning. Watch out for those two.”

  “Have you seen Ariel?” she asks abruptly.

  He stares at her, clearly startled by the non-sequitur. “The God Mod? No, not recently. Are you all right? Your eyes are a little wild. Maybe you should lie down, get some rest.”

  “I don't think so,” she says, stepping away. “Thank you for your concern.”

  “I know it's none of my business, but whatever you're on, you should stop. While you still can.”

  She wants to laugh. He thinks she's on drugs?

  (It is the drug that will turn her into a monster.)

  The skin on the back of her neck prickles in alarm. Where did that thought come from? She has never done drugs before. Has she? The smile on her lips disappears. The fugues. During the fugues, anything is possible. Vol does not believe in many things, but in this, she possesses utter faith.

  Drove is staring at her, awaiting her response. She looks at him, then away. “Later, Drove.”

  She half-expects him to stop her as she walks away. If they were closer, perhaps he would. But he doesn't know her, and they aren't close, and so he takes her curt dismissal at face value. He lets her go.

  (It is the drug that will turn her into a monster.)

  An image of a hypodermic needle filled with some kind of golden fluid pops into her head. Why does that thought keep coming back to her? She can't think of any drugs that are gold in color. Bliss Blossom is yellow, but it isn't used in needles. You stir it into a drink — preferably an alcoholic one — for an added buzz. Bliss can make you act a little crazy, and sometimes users do hurt themselves by attempting feats from the ensuing hallucinations, but it doesn't make you into a monster.