by Guy Morpuss
In twenty-five years our body had only got better, thanks mostly to me. It was the product of at least two hours of gym per cycle. Sometimes Ben complained that I left us exhausted, but that was a small price to pay for what he got in return. And it wasn’t as though he ever did anything other than sit around and play games. The height of activity for Ben was to venture outside and go to a public game booth.
Our stats were impressive. 6 foot 2 of lean muscle, with a resting heart rate of 41. A 10 kilometre pb of 30:32. We could swim 100 metres in 51.2 seconds.
Those were world-class times, and no thanks to the others. If Sierra hadn’t spent her time poisoning us with alcohol, and Ben had occasionally got up out of his seat, we would have been even better.
True, it was getting old, but I was still going to be sorry to say goodbye. Although the prospect of a blank canvas to start all over again thrilled me. It was the reason why, at seventeen, I’d chosen to be a schizo. I’d be the one athlete who never slowed down with age.
As I drank I sent a message.
All. We need to get on and make a decision about our next body. I have produced a shortlist of four for you to vote on [file attached]. This is important. We don’t want to leave it to the last minute. Two male, two female. I don’t mind which. Let’s get it down to two by next cycle. I am also going to put together a list of suggested enhancements, and cost them. Mike.
I checked my messages. There was one from Alex saying that he had almost drowned but won two-and-a-half years. Impressive. He also wanted us to punish Sierra. I replied.
Alex, I’m voting in favour but we can’t just keep taking Sierra’s time whenever she screws up. We know she’s not like us, and she needs our help. She’s been going through a rough patch and being here with so many bars and clubs probably isn’t helping. Try to have a bit of compassion. Mike.
Then one from Kate.
Hi chaps, weird cycle. If you check our credit you will see that I acquired 20.5 years! That’s not a joke. Some mad andi offered me that to play a game against her, which she said I couldn’t lose. And I couldn’t. She helped me win. It didn’t make much sense. Who comes to a death park with twenty years? And gives it all away? Anyway, now it belongs to us. Let’s not waste it. Mike has some race that he says he can’t lose, but after that I suggest we cash out. Vote on that by next cycle. K.
I found that hard to believe. How had Kate won more than twenty years? But our credit showed 24.2 years. So it was true. This changed everything.
All. Scrub my earlier message. Just seen Kate’s. Way to go Kate!! With that sort of time we can be looking at something pre-treated from EliteCorps. I will take a look and circulate a shortlist later. Good one, Kate.
I logged on quickly, excited.
Welcome to EliteCorps, the place to come if you want to have the best body your time can buy. We deal in trade-in, rebirth or new purchases. We offer full genetic mapping and guaranteed disease-free for twenty-five years. If you are not happy, we are not happy.
Choose from one of our three base models, and then select your desired enhancements: THE ATHLETE, THE GENIUS or THE ALL-ROUNDER.
There were bound to be arguments as to which one we chose. But I knew what I wanted. With an EliteCorps Athlete base model, improved by me, we could come to the death parks whenever we liked, and win. By the start of our third life we would have more time than we could possibly spend.
THE ATHLETE
Get a seventeen-year-old body that has been carefully nurtured from birth, with a scientifically proven diet and years of careful coaching. We guarantee at least five years of dedicated coaching to the sport of your choice. Order in advance and we will train the body to your requirements (non-refundable deposit required).
We also provide a ten-year post-purchase coaching service to maintain you in optimum shape, which can be extended on an annual basis at low cost.
And don’t think that because you have chosen the Athlete that you are compromising on brain power. You may not be getting the extreme levels of the Genius, but we guarantee a base IQ of at least 120. (Actual levels will depend upon the implanted mind(s).)
That is just the start. Choose the enhancements you want to add, mental or physical, HERE. We are currently offering two-for-one on retractable webbing – buy the hands and get the feet for free.
Base body cost is 18.5 years. Enhancements priced individually. Contact us now to discuss the package you want and multi-deals.
Fun as this was, I realised I did not have time for it. I was going to have to wait. Last cycle I had signed up to a 10k knockout race that started at 11:30. I needed to eat, warm up, get to the arena and win it.
I finished up my drinks, got dressed, and headed out.
•
‘Welcome to the Safari Elimination 10k.’ The announcer is a tall man dressed all in black, with an old-fashioned jacket with long tails. He wears a top hat. ‘This is winner takes all. Ten will die. One will live.’
He looks at the athletes in front of him. We are an odd-looking group. Seven men and four women. Many look as though they can barely run a hundred metres, let alone ten thousand. One of the men is twice my size, grossly overweight, and wearing a vest saying ‘Mr Flabby’. My guess is that he will be one of the fastest – the disadvantage of simulated runs is that you can choose whatever appearance you want and it becomes a game of bluff and double bluff before the start.
I see no point in playing those games. I don’t need to. I have stuck with my normal appearance. I prefer to intimidate rather than bluff.
We are gathered in a grassy clearing in the middle of a forest. It is enclosed by a fence. In front of us is a metal gate, and behind us another one. Both are presently locked.
‘This is a race with a difference,’ says the announcer. ‘You will leave through that gate.’ He points to the one in front of us. ‘You will complete a circuit through the park of precisely one kilometre, and will return through that gate.’ He indicates the one behind us. ‘At the end of each circuit, after the last runner has re-entered, there will be a two-minute break before the next lap begins. So the quicker you get here the longer you can rest.’ He pauses.
‘There is one other thing. Although we’re in the middle of a safari park with wild animals, you will be safe for the first 900 metres of each loop. The last hundred metres is along a wooden bridge that brings you back to the gate. The bridge carries you across a river swarming with crocodiles. As the last runner crosses, the treads of the bridge will collapse behind him, or her. On the first loop, ten of you will be allowed back through the gate before it seals shut. The last runner will fall into the river below and meet the crocodiles.’
He smiles to us. ‘And so on. Until only one of you is left. You have between you brought to the race a total of 32.2 years. That is unusually high,’ he says, glancing over at me. ‘Deducting our small fee for organising this event, that leaves a winner’s prize of twenty-eight years.’ He pauses, and looks around the group. ‘Run like your life depends upon it. Because it does.’
I have done these events before. Sometimes in real life, sometimes simulated. The theatrics of this one are a bit unnecessary, but I can see that it makes for a good race. Run to the death. Win or get eaten. The basics are the same: tactics and pacing. It holds no fears for me.
‘The race will begin in one minute. Make your preparations. Make your peace.’
There is a tension in the air. Jackets are discarded, laces tightened, muscles flexed. One of the female runners jumps up and down on the spot – wasted energy.
I find a place near the back of the pack, and wait.
A klaxon sounds, the gate swings open, and we are off.
A group of three leaps out ahead, quickly opening up a lead of ten metres or more. We let them go. There are no prizes for winning the first circuit; or any of the others until the last one. It is all about not coming last. There is no point in wasting energy trying to come first in a race that you don’t need to win.
Behind the
three leaders there is then a group of five, and just behind them Mr Flabby and me. The pace is very easy. I glance across at him, and he is moving smoothly. I was right.
We pass along a dusty track through the forest, the only sounds the distant roar of animals, the light pounding of shoes on dirt, and heavy breathing.
After little more than a minute we burst out of the forest on to open grassland, and the path turns to the left. A few hundred metres ahead I can see a wooden tower, no doubt the start of the bridge. I edge closer behind the group of five ahead. Mr Flabby follows me.
The entrance to the bridge looks narrow, no more than three people across. I don’t want to be stuck at the back at that point. I accelerate slightly, overtaking a dark-haired man who is breathing heavily.
Then we are on the bridge. It is narrow and noisy, our feet echoing off the wooden slats. I can hear a crashing behind me as slats swing down. There is water below us, but no sign of the crocodiles. There are seven ahead of me. Eighth is comfortable enough. I don’t want to show my hand yet. Then the gate is ahead. I plunge through it, with another at my heels.
I hear a scream behind me, and turn to see the dark-haired man crash into the gate and then fall away. The floor of the bridge has entirely disappeared. There is splashing and screaming for a moment, and then silence.
That was perhaps a little closer than I would have liked.
I look around the clearing. There are ten of us gasping for breath, looking slightly shocked.
‘Two minutes,’ says the man in the top hat.
I feel fine. That was easy. My heart rate has dropped and my breathing is almost normal. I grab my bottle and take in a quick burst of electrolytes.
‘One minute.’
We all edge closer to the gate. Ready to go again.
The klaxon sounds, the gate opens, and we are off.
Again the same three head out first. Stupid tactics. I stick in the middle of the main group and finish up sixth. Feeling good. We lose one of the women on the bridge this time round.
And so on, another five times. Two out of the three leaders have gone by then, tired from their early efforts at pointless victories. One remains, plus a blonde woman in black leggings and a vest, Mr Flabby, and me. I have the measure of them. The one-time leader is puffing hard. He finished second to last on the previous circuit. He looks across at me and I catch fear in his eyes. The woman won, but is trying to hide the fact that she is limping slightly. Mr Flabby still looks comfortable, but I am confident I can take him.
We go again, the one-time leader slipping as we enter the bridge, and falling victim to the crocodiles. The blonde woman wins again, and I finish just behind her. But I can tell she is hurting more now.
‘So,’ says the announcer in the top hat, ‘we are down to the final three. Well done to you. Who will it be? Two minutes and we start again.’
I am puzzled as he walks over to me and puts a hand on my arm. The scene freezes. The forest falls quiet. Everyone stops moving. Apart from him.
‘Mr Ganzorig.’ He pauses, struck by a thought. ‘That’s a fine Mongol name you have there. Your parents stayed with the traditions even as the blood of the Khan thinned. But I’ll stick with Mike, if I may. It’s easier.’
‘What …’ I’m surprised at the extent of his knowledge. Most people just assume I’m Chinese. But what’s going on? ‘What is this?’ I ask. ‘This is quite irregular.’
‘Indeed it is, Mike. This is all rather irregular.’ He smiles. ‘But entertaining.’ He turns away from the others, as though he has a secret to tell me. ‘Perhaps you should call me Amy.’
I am confused. ‘What are you?’ I ask. ‘You’re meant to just be some AI routine. You’re not even real.’
‘Things are, as you say, irregular. Let me just say that I am a friend – no, an acquaintance – of Kate’s. We did a deal, she and I, and she gave me access to places where she shouldn’t really have allowed anyone. Especially me. It was silly of her, but greed overcame fear. So I have changed the rules a little for this game. I am sure you think of yourself as pretty much unbeatable, and rightly so in normal circumstances. But there are two things you should know about this race. First, as I am sure you have guessed, he is not all that he appears.’ He gestures to Mr Flabby. ‘He is certainly as good as you, probably better. We shall find out shortly.
‘Second, and as important, the consequences of losing this race are rather more severe than you might realise. If you lose, you will be wiped. Your commune won’t just lose its time and be reborn in a week or so. That may still happen to the others, but it will be without you. Lose this race, Mike, and it is all over for you. Mindwiped.’
What? This can’t be right. Mindwiped? My mind erased. Not saved in stasis. Not transferred to another body. Deliberately destroyed. When a mind is wiped it’s lost for ever.
I’d be dead.
‘But there are rules,’ I say. ‘The worst that can happen to a schizo here is that we lose this life. No one can die.’
‘What can I say, Mike? The rules have changed.’ He shrugs. ‘Oh, look, we’re about to start. No time to chat. Perhaps the threat of death, real death, will sharpen your mind and speed your legs.’
He walks back to the gate and everything returns to normal. The noises of the forest, the sounds of breathing.
‘One minute left,’ he announces.
My thoughts are racing. This can’t be right. If a schizo dies in a game then all five minds are preserved, ready to be implanted into a new body. Yes, you lose all the time you’ve won already, and what little time you have left – in our case just ten days. But your mind doesn’t die. That’s impossible. A schizo still has other lives left to live.
If I am being told the truth then somehow, in a way I don’t understand, Kate’s deal with this Amy person has enabled him – her – to change the rules. What was Kate thinking, letting this happen? Or is this just some ploy to make me panic and lose the challenge? Is this someone’s way of unsettling me and winning all our time?
I don’t believe that there is anyone in the park who can beat me in a fair race. I am fitter, stronger and faster than anyone here. Whoever Mr Flabby is must know that. This is their only way of beating me, to make me believe that I will die if I lose. Well I’m not going to lose.
Before I have a chance to worry more the klaxon goes, and we are off.
Whatever happens I am not troubled about this circuit. I know that the blonde woman is finished. There are really only two of us left. So even if what I have just been told is true – which seems bizarre – it won’t matter on this circuit. But it can’t be true. That is not how it works.
I am breathing hard by the time we reach the bridge, but ahead of the other two. For the first time in the race I win a circuit. The blonde woman disappears behind us.
‘Two minutes,’ says the man in the top hat.
Mr Flabby is standing next to him, bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. I walk over to them. He’s good, but I don’t believe he’s as good as me. I hold out my hand: ‘May the best man win.’
He straightens up, ignoring my outstretched arm.
I laugh. ‘Fine. Give my regards to the crocodiles.’
He looks at me with contempt. ‘Zalupa. Svoloch.’ He spits out the words with a heavy accent.
The announcer coughs. ‘My Russian is a little rusty, Mike. But I think that loosely translates as “bastard scumbag”.’
‘Dickhead,’ I say.
The announcer blinks. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Zalupa,’ I say. ‘Dickhead, not bastard. It’s one thing you learn from two weeks spent on a freighter with a crew from Kazahkstan.’
I turn back to Mr Flabby. ‘Mudak,’ I say, and spit on the ground in front of him.
He flinches, and I walk away smiling.
My breathing is almost normal, my heart rate below 100. But adrenaline is coursing through my body, and is hard to damp down. I can feel panic rising. I know that I am the best here, but still something isn
’t right about this. Even before I’m running my heart rate is starting to rise.
The klaxon sounds for the last time.
We are both being cagey. I let Mr Flabby take the lead, but then he drops the pace and I overtake him. I have no need to turn to look where he is as I can hear him on my shoulder, treading lightly but breathing hard.
We leave the forest and run out into the sunlight of the grassland for the last time. I cough in the dusty air and miss a stride. A toe clips my heel and I stumble. Does he believe that the only way to beat me is to trip me up? That’s not going to work. I cut right and let him take the lead. I’d rather have him where I can see him.
We hit the bridge shoulder to shoulder and it’s starting to hurt. But I’m still sure that I have him. We are halfway along the bridge as I take a small lead. I push on, gaining in confidence. I can see the gate ahead. I can hear the slats falling away behind me, heavy wooden boards slamming down. Closer this time. Each piece of wood is creeping up on me, chasing me down. This time I can feel every thump.
Then one foot slips on the damp wood, and I struggle to gain traction.
Suddenly he is level again. I am gasping. I can’t breathe and my heart feels as though it is jammed in my throat. There is no one faster than me, but he’s pulling ahead. He can’t be.
Then he turns towards me and smiles.
‘Now …’ he gasps. ‘Now … who eez sheet-head?’
And I know that I am dead.
BEN
DAY TWO
12:29–18:00
Everything was wrong. All the numbers were wrong.
Mike knows very well that I dislike change. He’s always careful where he leaves me. He looks after me.