The Immortality Game

by Ted Cross

  Marcus looked up the stairs and saw Zoya. She had halted and was glaring at the injured man.

  “You’d be fine if you kept your hands to yourself,” she said. “Now go home. You’re not hurt that badly, and I don’t have time for any more of your crap.”

  The man gave Marcus a pleading look. “You see? Call the police. She’s crazy.”

  Marcus stepped over the man’s legs. “Let us pass and she won’t hurt you again.”

  “You’re with her? You—”

  “I’ve had enough of men today!” Zoya pulled the gun from her waistband and pointed it at the floor near the man. “All of you!”

  The man yanked his knees up to his chest and folded his arms around them. He looked away from the gun and mumbled something.

  Zoya stalked by the man and stuffed the gun behind her back. She walked past Marcus like he wasn’t even there.

  “Hey,” Marcus said. “Wait for me.” He scrambled down the steps after her.

  He caught her as she cautiously opened the exit door and peered out.

  “There’s a big black car right outside the door,” she said, hand reaching for the gun again.

  “That’s my car,” Marcus said.

  “Really? Then get in it and go.” She moved aside to let him pass by.

  Marcus checked to ensure it truly was his car, then looked back at Zoya. “Do you have your own car?”

  She tilted her head at him like he was being stupid.

  Marcus blew out his breath. “What is it with you? I can help you reach your uncle or your friends much faster in a car. No?”

  Her lips compressed into a thin line, and Marcus thought she wasn’t going to respond, but then she shook her head at him and said, “Oksana lives nearby. I don’t need a car to check on her.”

  “Did I do something to you?” Marcus said. “I’m sorry if I did, but I really don’t—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. If you insist on helping, then get on with it.”

  Marcus nodded and opened the back door of the car to let her in.

  “What’s the address?”

  “No need,” Zoya said, pointing out a side window. “It’s that building over there.”

  “She lives close.”

  “We met playing in the courtyard as children.”

  Marcus tapped the plastic separating them from the driver. The intercom crackled and the driver said, “Yes?”

  “Can you take us to that building right there, where she’s pointing?”

  “What’s the address?”

  Marcus coughed. “It’s right there.”

  “I need an address. I don’t drive this thing.”

  “Then what are you here for?”

  “To help you in any way necessary.”

  Marcus blew out his breath. “What, like a valet or something? A guide?”

  “If you wish,” said the driver.

  Marcus turned to Zoya. “Can you just please give him the address?”

  “I don’t know the address,” she said. “I’ve never needed to know it. Never gone there by car before.”

  “Look,” the driver said. “I think I can manage it.”

  “Brilliant,” Marcus said and slumped back into the deep leather seat with a sigh. “I’m beat.”

  Nothing happened for another minute, and Marcus was about to suggest that walking might get them there faster when the car at last began to lift off. It turned slowly in the direction of the indicated building and began to glide forward.

  Marcus looked over at Zoya through bleary eyes. It took all his concentration to keep them open. The look on Zoya’s face—fear? thoughtfulness?—made her seem more lovely than ever to Marcus. Had any woman ever before made him feel this way? Not that he could recall. Mother had been a beautiful person, but no one except Father would ever have called her pretty. Marcus had rarely had opportunity to interface with a young woman since schools had gone completely virtual in fourth grade. Robots or drones delivered most products to the apartment, and Marcus disliked taking walks in the brutal Phoenix heat. At least there had once been some pedestrian traffic to observe through the windows, until Meshing took its toll on even that.

  Marcus snapped his eyes open and saw Zoya staring at him.

  “You’re falling asleep,” she said.

  He thought about denying it but realized she was right. He’d been awake and under stress for far too long, and he couldn’t resist the cool comfort of the plush seat.

  “Go on,” she said. “I don’t need your help to check on Oksana. Get some rest and…”

  Whatever else she said blurred and vanished as sleep overtook Marcus.

  Moscow

  Sunday, June 8, 2138

  5:43 p.m. MSK

  Zoya had always envied Oksana her ground floor apartment. Working elevators were all but nonexistent in the poorer parts of the city. Climbing ten flights of stairs each day grew wearisome. Nothing looked out of the ordinary as the air car skimmed in low over the perimeter wall of Oksana’s apartment building.

  “Set it down here, please,” she told the driver, “but be prepared to leave in a hurry.”

  “Is Mr. Saenz sleeping?” The driver sounded annoyed at taking orders from her.

  Marcus snored heavily, and she had no intention of waking him. “Look, you don’t need to wait for me. I’ll manage on my own if you drop me here.”

  “Good,” the driver said. “I’ll bring Mr. Saenz to his apartment.”

  Zoya nodded at the face in the rearview mirror, opened the door, and stepped out onto the cracked pavement. She examined the area again, but still there was no sign of danger. Taking a deep breath, she jogged to the entrance door and punched the buzzer for Oksana’s apartment. Oksana had the place all to herself ever since her mother had passed away last year. Sad as it was to think it, Zoya’s ability to have Oksana’s mother cremated at no charge was probably the best gift she had ever been able to give her friend.

  Her mind wanted to hum something, as was her habit most times when she was alone, but as much as she loved music, it should be the last thing on her mind given the way the day had gone. Then the moment she decided to push it from her mind, she found herself humming an appropriate song, Trouble by Cat Stevens.

  She brushed away a poplar seed from her ear and continued to scan the parking lot. Why isn’t the car taking Marcus home? And why isn’t Oksana answering? Is she out? She pushed the buzzer again. After a few more seconds, she tapped in the security code and pushed through the wooden entrance door. Oksana’s apartment was the next to last one down the corridor to the right. Zoya ensured both corridors were empty before walking slowly down the hall to Oksana’s door. She jerked to a halt and grabbed the wall with one hand to steady herself when she saw that Oksana’s door was standing open a few centimeters.

  Oh, God, not Oksana, too!

  Zoya had to force herself to breathe, but she couldn’t make her body stop trembling. She felt frozen to the ratty carpet of the corridor, afraid to glance behind her, certain that her pursuers must even now be stalking up behind her. She heard nothing, either from the corridor or from the open apartment door.

  What do I do? I can’t just stand here. Slowly she turned her head until she could view the hallway behind her. Empty. Sweat trickled into her eyes, and she rubbed an arm across her forehead. She remembered the gun, jammed into the waistband of her trousers, and she reached back for it. Its pebbled grip was reassuringly cool as she pulled it forth and aimed loosely at the crack in the apartment door.

  “Oks—” She tried to call her friend’s name, but it came out as a wheezing croak, so she worked her mouth to generate some saliva. Licking her lips, she tried again in a loud whisper: “Oksana?”

  Silence. She considered approaching the door, but her feet wouldn’t obey her orders. A metallic clack made her cry out and whirl around to point the gun down the corridor. No one was there, but the apartment door of Oksana’s neighbor opened.
Zoya’s grip on the gun felt slick with sweat. Why didn’t you put the card in? You won’t hit anything this way.

  A small dog yapped from the neighbor’s apartment, and an elderly man in a brown bathrobe stepped through the doorway. Zoya was so frightened she nearly pulled the trigger. The man looked at her and his eyes widened. He put both hands up, mumbled something inaudible, and stepped back into his apartment. The door slammed shut.

  Zoya had stopped breathing and her lungs burned, but she couldn’t make her throat work. She opened and closed her mouth like a dying fish. Finally she gasped and sucked the stale corridor air into her burning lungs. Panting, she lowered the gun and turned back to Oksana’s door.

  She stood for a full minute, trying to work up her courage before she remembered the card. With her free hand she searched her pocket until she found the smaller card, then slid it home into her slot. The effect wasn’t quite the shock to her system it had been the first two times. A row of data above her line of sight reminded her that the gun she held was a Gsh-18 pistol. When she focused her attention on the data, more gushed forth: the pistol was manufactured in 2083 using a civilian design from 2012; weight 470 grams; eighteen round magazine…‌she ignored the rest of the data for now.

  Somehow the card had brought her galloping heart under control. She tried to step up to Oksana’s door, but instead she moved to the side closest to the knob. She didn’t enjoy the sensation of the card choosing her movements for her. For a moment she considered the idea that the card might cause her to shoot Oksana, but she recalled the yellow and red auras and decided that probably wouldn’t happen.

  Was that a sound from the apartment? She listened intently but heard nothing. When she tried to think what the sound had been, she couldn’t say or even know for certain that it wasn’t simply her overactive imagination. She scanned the column of tactical options until she found one for urban warfare. When she selected it, a new row of options appeared. She mentally selected the choice for ‘apartment building’, followed by ‘door—metallic’, and ‘unlocked’, and continued making choices that seemed to fit her situation until the card seemed satisfied. Yes, she had a small mirror in the pouch in her solar jacket. No, she didn’t have any grenades or flash bangs. She didn’t know whether there were enemies inside or not, and yes, it was possible there might be friendlies. Without making a conscious decision to do so, Zoya’s free hand lashed out and shoved the door open. She stood hidden behind the wall for a couple of seconds, then dropped low and glanced through the doorway.

  The entry hall looked normal—pegs on the wall holding coats, hats, and umbrellas; pictures of various family members on one wall; a stand-up mirror; open doorway into the empty kitchen; closed door on the left leading to the bedroom; and an open walkway to the right leading to the living room. The living room light was on.

  Almost as quickly as she had knelt, Zoya regained her feet and pressed her back to the wall to study her tactical options again. The card didn’t offer much this time. She could call out, make a quick entry through the door, or change her mind about entering altogether. The top choice was to use the mirror. At first she thought it meant the small mirror in her pouch, until she understood it meant the mirror in the entry hall. As soon as the thought occurred to her, she spun across the gap of the doorway to the other side. From this angle she could see into the mirror, which reflected a small part of the living room. Both the ceiling light and a lamp were turned on, and she saw part of the dining table and one of the couches. Nothing else.

  She wanted to cry out in frustration, but the card wouldn’t let her. What to do now? The living room was the obvious place to check, but it would mean leaving the bedroom door at her back. At least the door was closed; anyone in there would need to open it first to get at her. The living room it is, she decided, and as she took her first step and her heart began to pound, the world about her seemed to slow. She saw everything with the crystal clarity with which she had attacked the big thug in her own building. Gun held upright, she spun through the doorway. Using one wall of the entry hall to narrow the angles of sight any attacker might have, she leveled the gun into the living room and scanned every corner. No one…‌except…

  “God! Oksana!”

  Despite the ropes, the gag, the gaping, terrified eyes, it was clearly her friend bound to one of the wooden dining chairs. With recognition, the card placed a green aura about Oksana, and then flashed an insistent warning that she should check both the bathroom and the bedroom. Zoya ignored the warning and rushed toward her friend, only to find herself heading for the bathroom door instead. Goddamned chip! She halted and looked through the options the card gave her, and this time she noticed a little override option in the lower right corner of her vision. She chose it and cried out with relief when she could move freely again. Oksana made funny, muffled sounds through the gag, and her eyes were so large they sent a chill through Zoya.

  “I’m here, Oksana,” she cried, and tears coursed down her cheeks. “Everything will be okay now.”

  Oksana continued her hoarse cries and frantically shook her head. Zoya could only imagine the terror her friend had gone through. She wanted to remove the gag, but she felt compelled to look into Oksana’s eyes first and try to calm her somehow.

  “Shhhh,” she said, and brushed a hand across Oksana’s sweaty brow. “I’ll remove the gag and—” Her breath caught in her throat in horror, and she yanked herself upward and away as Oksana began to thrash uncontrollably within her bonds. An angry red welt rose at the spot where she had brushed Oksana’s forehead. Oksana screamed continuously through the gag and shook so hard that the chair tumbled backward to the floor. Zoya was desperate to help in some way, but she had no idea what to do and even the card gave her no good options.

  Oksana’s skin turned red all over and seemed to be moving in some way, crawling or sizzling, like the moment a frozen slice of bacon is first dropped onto a hot frying pan. Her eyes bulged crazily and turned crimson.

  Zoya stuffed her fist in her mouth to stifle a scream. Her only thought was Oh God! over and over and over again.

  A faint smell like rotten eggs filled the room. Over Oksana’s muffled screams Zoya heard something, the barest crackling sound, and this sound, too, seemed to be coming from Oksana. Then Oksana’s left eye burst from its socket and ran, like a soft-boiled egg, across her nose.

  Zoya threw herself backward and vomited on the carpet. She heard Oksana continue to thrash behind her, but there were no more muffled screams. She vomited again, and then retched and retched until her throat was raw with pain. There was only silence now from Oksana. Zoya rolled onto her side and pulled her knees to her chest, her body racked with sobs. She’d never for even one instant wanted to keep these blasted cards from Tavik, yet the bastards never gave her an honest chance to hand them over and instead continued to murder everyone she held dear. And what the hell had they done to Oksana?

  She rocked and rocked on the floor for what felt like hours before she became aware of a reddish glow through her tear-blurred eyes. She choked off another shuddering sob and gasped for air, knuckling the tears from her eyes with both hands…‌and before her, outlined in red, stood the short mobster with the long leather coat, a smirk plastered to his unshaven face.

  No! No more! she thought, and held her hands up toward the man in silent surrender. I can’t take any more of this.

  “Very artistic, yes?” the man said in a conversational tone, as if he were speaking about the weather. Zoya didn’t know what he meant until he nodded his head toward the place where Oksana lay. “You didn’t like it?”

  Zoya wiped mucus from her mouth with the back of one hand and shook her head at the incomprehensible horror of what was happening.

  The man sighed and held his hands up in a shrug. “I came up with it myself. You see, we use just a touch of it to, well, to extract information from reluctant, uh, customers. Never used a full syringe before.”

  He stared silently at Zoy
a for a minute, apparently expecting some reaction from her. Eventually he put on a perplexed expression and leaned toward her. “Aren’t you at all curious about it? It was the warmth of your touch that triggered it. Would you like to try it? I don’t have another full amount, but I have enough—”

  “Shut up, you…‌monster,” Zoya gasped. “She was…” Her eyes welled up again, but through her fresh sobs she found her voice. “Why do this? I never wanted your cards. I’d have handed them over any time if you’d only given me a chance. My mother. My brother. Why?”

  The man listened carefully and frowned in thought when Zoya finished. “We never meant to hurt your mother. I wasn’t there, but I’m told it was Bunny. Sorry.” He held a hand out as if to help her stand. “Anyway, if you’re so eager to give them up, please…‌it just might save the rest of your family and friends.”

  “What…” Zoya said, trying again to stifle her weeping. “What did you do to her?”

  The man looked at Oksana’s body, then back at Zoya and grinned. “Nanobots. Programmed them specially for the old man. He likes creativity in his subordinates. Inject these in the blood stream and an outside touch can set them off. A small number of them will hurt like nothing ever felt before. A whole injection…‌well, I think the bots boiled her blood. What do you think?”

  Zoya knew she should be horrified anew, but her mind was racing. She saw the Gsh-18 half a meter away hidden from the man’s view by the corner of the couch. She really had wanted to hand over the damned cards, all the way up till now. These bastards had gone too far, and the card in her slot was blinking a ninety percent chance that she could get the drop on her enemy. The thought was all she needed.

  Time slowed with the pounding of her heart as her hand went for the pistol. The man’s eyes widened, and ever so slowly his hand reached into the breast of his coat. He never had a chance. Zoya put a bullet directly through his forehead and watched his dark blood spatter the ceiling and the wall behind him. She was heading for the exit before the man’s body hit the floor.