by Gard Skinner
“He didn’t log out of any game, Dakota,” taunted York. “He’s still right here.”
However, Dakota was right. Kode did begin blabbering. He started telling her everything he could get out so she wouldn’t go near him with the saw again. He was now a top programmer with a stump for one arm. Two would be a complete disaster.
He told her exactly where the lab was. He admitted to her they’d been developing a supercure, an ultrabiotic. Through his gasps, he gave detailed instructions on how to find the right room.
And Dakota, with that remote detonator in her hand, was giving the orders now. Because if there was some kind of miracle cure up there, well, she just had to have it.
Level 44
Dakota freed me first, pointing the remote at my head the whole time.
I went straight to Kode and used strapping tape to stop his bleeding. He looked so small and weak, and I just bet he wished desperately that he could have pressed to escape that five minutes.
Dakota cut the rest of the team’s bonds and began issuing orders for us to saddle up. She told York we were on our way back to BlackStar. To the same research center where we’d first emerged from the tank.
“No one knows if the biotic will work,” Kode moaned to me as I tried to make him more comfortable. Doc Winters appeared from behind an aisle and was already injecting morphine directly into the wound.
I found his detached hand. The old woman began lining up her surgical tools.
He was slurring his words as he kept trying to speak. “Really, it might just kill you outright,” he warned. “The core ingredient is radioactive RNA. It could change your whole physical structure. It might leave you insane, or a vegetable, we really don’t know. We were going to test it on other . . .”
But some dream cure was the least of my worries. We’d all die out here anyway.
“My deal was your best deal.” He was losing focus. “The last time we tried the serum there were . . . unfortunate . . . results . . .”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m going where Mi goes.”
Mi, York, and Reno were now collecting gear for the truck. I had only a minute or two before Dakota ordered us to start up the rig.
“You and me, we’re so alike.” Kode grabbed my arm with his remaining hand. “It’s amazing.”
“It’s immoral,” I replied.
“You don’t get to make that call. You’re just a product of a gaming environment where everything has to be either good or evil. Out here, nothing’s all good or all bad. Everything’s a shade of gray.”
“Everyone still has to play by certain rules, Max.”
“You haven’t got the street cred to make the rules. You don’t even have a street. I’m from Arizona, not you. None of you is from anywhere except my lab.”
“So you were brought in on a shipment?”
“And I rose to the top right through BlackStar. I force-retired the former president, and he didn’t like that one little bit. I won. And it was better for everyone. My innovations changed this whole city. Without my work, everyone would already be dead and eaten. Phoenix, you had no life. Other than what I gave you through the cable.”
He just looked pitiful to me. A mean, greedy bastard with no internal code. No loyalties. Sure, he had two kids—who, remember, he sent into game worlds rather than playing with them himself—but he was far more alone than I had ever been.
Maybe he knew that.
“We’re completely different,” I said, pulling his fingers off my arm.
“Huh-uh.” He shook his head. “You’re my clone on every level. After a series of unjust events I couldn’t control, I was given responsibility for an entire city. You, Phoenix, are the same as me. Simply because of events not of your making, you have to care for a group of men and women who look to you for everything.”
“There are differences.”
“It’s a heavy weight we carry, isn’t it? I can never make everyone happy. Sometimes we gotta sacrifice the weak so the strong get to keep playing.”
“You mean with the wall out there?” I replied. “You’re going to banish everyone who built it, aren’t you?”
“What purpose could those bums serve afterward? They don’t program. They can’t design. Without tech skills, they’re too expensive to keep alive. They are of no use to me other than labor. Our city will flourish once we have to stop subsidizing their food and shelter and clothing. It’ll be a utopia after they’re gone and they’ve stopped draining our supplies.”
“You’re just the typical boss, aren’t you? Sending your minions to their death by the busload.”
“Give me a break. We both make tough decisions about who lives and who dies. Who to send to their death. We’re practically identical.”
I didn’t say anything.
“We’re both at war, Phoenix. All true leaders are. Whether it’s corporate or with guns.”
“You’re wrong, Kode. We’re completely different. Want to know how? I care about my people. I care about them more than I ever cared about myself.”
“Well”—Kode shrugged—“I’ll just have to make sure we fix that flaw when we build the next one of you.”
Then he passed out.
At the very least, now we had a clear objective. Out here, few people did.
And ours led back to the beginning.
The truck was huge, plenty of space for gear, and York and Mi were making the most of it. I helped, grabbing things off the shelves left and right. This assault was not going to be easy, so it was worth taking a few minutes to prepare.
We had to get to the bottom floor, the lowest basement. Down there, in their most secure area, BlackStar housed the keys to their success: the clones, their tanks, and a risky cure.
Needless to say, we took every gun and bullet we could lay our hands on. And a lot of other things too. This wasn’t our first rodeo. I had an idea what kinds of state-of-the-art defensive technology we might face.
Finally, twin motors roared. Turbines spun, superchargers pumped, and long streams of black smoke bellowed out chrome pipes.
Giant moon-tires bounced as we loaded the last of our heavy ammo. Outside, along the perimeter, as troopers watched, the building started to rumble.
Explosive locks detonated and the bay doors slid up. Rubber began to roll. Through a mist of dark smoke, Reno gunned the gas and dropped the clutch, and we lurched into open air.
From the front cannon turret, Mi reported that the troops were taking aim.
These rigs were made to haul multiple trailers at high speed across hostile desert. They were the only things that could still cross a thousand miles of barren landscape, following old highway or railroad grades, fording rivers that had swallowed the bridges, navigating rocky outcroppings and fallen trees. These rigs gulped fuel. They could take a hit. And they were heavily armed.
We tore a straight line across the lot, shopping carts and barrier fence bouncing in all directions.
The enemy vehicles stayed in place, a tiny ring of men and metal trying to keep us contained.
So be it. Turbochargers roared as all-wheel-drive trannies clanked into gear.
We crushed a half dozen of their security patrollers on the way out of the lot while men dove and shot wildly at our gun placements. Mi began unleashing short bursts, but not at the troops. She was aiming for gas tanks or engine blocks. The more of them she could disable now, the fewer we’d have on our tail once we hit open streets.
Then we were past the barricade. Just like that. For the first time since we’d launched out of the store, I noticed the steady rain. A faint mist swirled around hot gun barrels. Wet streets caused twin roosters to spray off the back tires.
Additional vehicles rode up on our tail. A few more stretched out in front. A motorcycle appeared. Then five more. But they were all outsized and outgunned.
“So this is your plan?” I leveled the question at Dakota through the mic. “A bum rush on a highly fortified industrial complex just so you can pump your
veins full of a toxic supercure?”
She grinned at me across the top of the truck. Blood was on her teeth. “And I’m going to free all the other clones and pump them full of the stuff!”
“You better ask them first if they really want out.”
“It’s not like I’ll be giving them a choice.”
That gory smile again. I’d never realized she was both devious and crazy. Dangerous mix, huh?
Level 45
We were making good time, and even with the rain it was easy to pick out the destination. Just keep going uphill. Reno raced toward the huge complex of BlackStar buildings. Every passing block, the city got nicer and nicer. From ghetto to suburb to estates.
And still security rigs chased on. The motorcycles thought they were nimble, right up until they got within range and Mi showed what she did best.
One, two, three, four. The bikes exploded as bullets ripped open their gas tanks. I wondered what was more valuable to BlackStar, the hurtling riders or the three gallons of low octane that exploded between their legs?
The closest patrol car was a hundred feet back. The roof unfolded, bouncing along, one mile down. Two to go. Then a missile launcher poked up.
“They’ve got bottle rockets!” York announced.
“Take out the front tires first,” I suggested. If we disabled that rig, it’d block the rest of them from overtaking us before we reached BlackStar.
KABOOOOM! York was a good shot too, but the explosion was unexpected. Must have hit batteries. The front half of BlackStar’s armored peacekeeper became a fireball, tires popping, whole thing grinding and rolling to rest across the road.
Good idea, but it didn’t work. The three others jumped right through the burning metal, bursting out of flame and smoke, not losing more than a few seconds in the pursuit.
Reno hit his nitrous boosters, shooting us ahead. Under the next overpass we began blasting round after round of explosive armor-tipped shells into the roof cement. We made a pair of dotted lines in the top of the tunnel.
The ceiling began to buckle and quiver. Their three vans had to line up single file to enter. And just as we cleared the far end, the whole thing gave way, falling in a SPLAT of dusty debris. Two more of the enemy vehicles were gone, squashed flat.
One was left, but it wasn’t a major concern. For the next mile or so we were pelted with lead. Mi was now loading rocket shells and firing as fast, if not faster, than she ever had in a game environment.
Up ahead, BlackStar’s massive towers, walkways, and smoked-glass windows loomed dark and cold. All that stood between us and the front doors were the wall, a stadium-sized stretch of open grass, guard dogs, sentries, and three rows of cyclone fencing topped with razor wire.
Electric fencing, to be sure. Thousands of volts. That stuff doesn’t just shock you, it welds you to the ground.
Reno’s foot clanked the pedal to the cab floor.
And then we hit. Doing a hundred, probably a bit more. Concrete debris exploded into the air, everything turned gray, but the outer wall crumbled. We raced through the gap, the drenching rain washing pale streaks of dust off the crumpled nose of the truck.
Grass zoomed underneath, squishing, the tires’ weight making a sucking noise.
“If we hit that electrical field . . . !” Dakota was warning, her voice up an octave, the adrenaline really flowing. She fired off a hundred quick rounds, trying to slow our pursuer, but the shells bounced harmlessly off thick hood plate.
“I know, I know,” I answered. “Reno, stomp on the brakes, let the last police truck get in front of us.”
“What?”
“Do it, quick!”
He did. We were all thrown around, but it caught the enemy driver unaware. Suddenly, he was in our path . . .
“T-bone him and continue on!” I ordered.
Reno grinned. He understood my solution to the power-fence.
Our front bumper caught the BlackStar vehicle dead center. Reno punched the nitrous and it almost lifted their whole truck off the ground.
Strike that. Across our bow like that, it was no longer a truck. Now it and the men inside were just a big steel bulldozer. We’d become a nine-thousand-horsepower plow, aimed straight for high-voltage wire.
Impact. The crackle of grounded electricity sounded like dropping frozen fries in a tub of boiling fat. Their troopers up front, completely exposed, screamed as the surge danced through their bones, but still we pressed on. Reno had the gas to the floor, metal grinding, sparks everywhere. Up the steps we went, dogs and sentries diving, until we collided abruptly with the BlackStar entrance.
Then, after the chaos and gunfire, in an instant, it all stopped. It was dead quiet. Dust began to settle. A Doberman whimpered. My eyes cleared. Up ahead, I could see the shattered windows of BlackStar’s second floor. Down below, I knew, the fried jeep had been shoved through the first-floor lobby like cheese through a grater.
“Hello, Dad, I’m home!” Dakota yelled to no one.
The place looked deserted. It probably was. From here, it was likely we’d be up against their automated defense system. Human guards would be few and far between.
Dakota still held her little detonator, and as long as she could push Mi toward her magic cure, I’d be along for the ride.
All five of us piled out and jumped the gap over to the second floor, heavily armed, very determined, and playing for keeps.
And, OK, I have to admit . . . after all that time out there, unsure of my purpose, I finally felt like I was back on top of my game again.
York and Mi unloaded the truck. We each had a pack with the gear we’d brought. Dakota quickly found a map, and when Max Kode had said “lowest level,” well, he meant it.
We were going all the way to the bottom.
What I’d have given for a functioning elevator right then, but all the shafts had been shut off when the front alarms sounded. York pried open a door to one, and I leaned over to look down. Security barriers had slid across it. We couldn’t drop that way. Not without cutting torches and ten hours to slowly descend floor by floor.
“The stairs.” Mi pointed. Fire doors still open. We’d be on foot. Floor after floor, level after level, through everything they could dream up.
In the first sub-basement, we ran into mechanized kill-bots armed with laser-sighted machine pistols. Mi blinded them with a chaff grenade (shredded aluminum foil wrapped around a thermite charge) and the rest of us ran through the sector, kicking the bots harshly off their wheeled bottoms, leaving them helpless, unable to get back upright.
The next two floors were filled with unguarded office cubicles, each section marked off by game title. We knew most of the titles very well. So this was where they designed and programmed HIGH PLAINS KILLER and SLAUGHTER RACE EXTREME! and the rest.
Below that was a floor with pressure plates everywhere we could step. Along the walls, shutters hid heavy weaponry. From the propane smell, I guessed flamethrowers.
“Let’s rope,” I decided. Reno was carrying a modified spear gun we’d taken from a scuba mannequin back in the XMart, you know, just in case. He zipped a line to the far wall. Mi crawled across first, since she was the lightest, then secured the cable when she made it past the sensors. It only took a minute for the rest of us to pulley over.
As we entered the next stairwell, out of curiosity, York tossed the expended weapon backward onto the floor. Shutters dropped. The room behind us was immediately toasted to a crisp.
We found a level that had infrared body sensors. It looked like the test floor for the console head straps everyone used. Mi had rolls of chemical ice packets. We gave them quick snaps of their internal bladders, shook them up, and wrapped them around our arms and legs. Walked right through.
The following sub-basement had a spider-web laser security system. It also had gas canisters placed in each corner. If we broke a single red laser beam, the entire floor would flood with toxic gas.
It’s funny. In a game or movie, there’s always
a way through. Why is that? Players can contort and jump and wiggle their way to a solution. Not out here. Expert security leaves no safe path.
Did we use mirrors to reroute the web? That too would have taken hours. Fool the receptors by shining our own lasers into them? That might have worked for one receptor, but good security has hundreds of strands.
Everyone looked at me. I took great pleasure in pulling a big roll from my pack. I plugged in a pump. Air began to fill a giant plastic globe.
“What’s that?” Mi begged to know.
“Reno isn’t the only one who brought the right tool for the job.” I smiled at them.
“Frosty the Snowman” music filled the room. Thank you, Christmas department.
My solution: a giant snow globe. So common for the rich. Too expensive for the poor. But if it held air, well, that meant it was airtight.
We crowded into the orb, sealed it up, then rolled all the way to the next stairwell, tripping the alarms one after another. Outside our globe, the room was doused with heavy green gas.
Inside, we had fake flakes, a snowman mascot, and happy theme music.
When we got to the stairs, we climbed out of the orb and continued down. And then, just like that, the stairwell came to an end.
This was it. The very bottom level. As deep as they had dug. The end of the line, and if you looked at our situation, it was the beginning of the line too.
I put a rifle barrel up against the door. Slowly, pushing it open just an inch, I waited for bullets or flames or . . . something.
But the vault was so quiet. Sterile. And exactly as it had been when we were here before.
The tanks were just as blue. The umbilicals were just as active. Information surged into and out of the bodies. Deke, Rio, Syd, Dub—they were all in there somewhere, with no clue we were staring through glass at their liquid tomb.
I saw one girl twitch slightly, roll, turn, and mime the motions she was going through in some game world.
“It’s hideous,” Dakota spat, still holding the detonator.