Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators) (9 page)

“
Why do you make yourself so helpless?”

The voice, and the sharpness of it, give her pause
.

She stops, tilts her head
.
The question has startled her
.
“Maybe,” she says lightly, “It's a trick
.
”

The creatures approaches her
.
It is holding a needle filled with a honey-colored fluid
.
She knows what that fluid does
.
It is the drug that will turn her into a monster
.
She struggles — but nanobots pin down her arms
.
They move as she moves, fluid, but as tight and confining as steel
.

The visor catches the bright-burning light as the creature tilts its head to regard her
.
Her skin is glossy with a sheen of sweat
.
She begs — she pleads — she threatens — all the while knowing it will be of no use
.
This has happened before
.
She knows it
.
Her body knows it
.

But she cannot remember
.

And then all coherent thought dissolves as her mind is drowned out by a new voice
.
A voice that hints at impossible cruelty, at killing for the sheer pleasure of it, a voice that fills with glee even as it speaks of causing pain
.
She shrieks in horror and all around her the shadows seem to laugh
.

“
A trick so good you can fool yourself into believing it?”

She shrugs
.
Why not? Those are the only kinds she knows
.

Vol shoots up in bed, covered in sweat and tears and the crust of last night's makeup.

Her eyes roll around wildly, and she regards the room like an animal that has found itself trapped. The four walls puzzle her. For a moment, she expected — no, too late, the thought is already fading even as she reaches out for it. She lets the thought go. Whatever it was about, it is the type of thought that will reach back — with claws.

She freezes. Someone is outside her door, milling about. An early
riser, getting a drink from the cafe below perhaps. She buries her face in the sheets and sobs, though she can't remember why.

“
What's happening to me?” she whispers to the quilt. “I'm losing my mind.”

Though that implies that I had one to begin with
.

The quilt says nothing back. It is, after all, a quilt. But her clock chooses that moment to announce itself with a loud and piercing scream, startling her so badly that she tumbles right out of bed. It takes her a moment to remember what that sound represents. It seems part of a different world.

It is. Shit. She is late for her game.

“
No, no, no. Why? Why today?”

Her usual runs are bad enough. Jillain adheres firmly to that old adage “the customer is always right.” No excuse is tolerated for leaving a Mark waiting. Not even death. If one of the Players should happen to be inconsiderate enough to die, Jillain would probably ask why their ghost wasn't on time.

Today, though, is even worse. Games are always recorded on weekdays so Marks who are too stupid or lazy to participate in the VR services can participate in the fun vicariously. Vol hates the idea of people, especially men, watching her get her ass handed to her on a holladrama. But since they provide the bulk of the revenue that pays her salary, her opinions are never solicited.

Oh, gods. What if she has another run-in with that jerk? A hot flush creeps down her face and throat as she imagines thousands of viewers watching her, and him —

No.

Vol splashes her face with water. No, she's made that mistake once. It isn't going to happen again.

After washing under her arms she shuts off the tap and, with her damp hands, rakes her hair back into a tight, unforgiving braid that makes her cheekbones jut out like knives. Black leggings and a green tunic complete the ensemble. She slips in her contacts and applies enough gloss to her lips to keep them from looking like dry parchment — more for the sake of her own comfort than from any sense of aesthetic appeal. Vol regards herself in the mirror unsmilingly. A green-eyed creature stares back, all sinew and resentment, like a half-starved alley-cat. She feels like she's gearing up for battle. And in a way, she supposes she is.

Nobody is going to mess with her today.

Especially not him.

6.

“
Everyone wishes that they could reinvent themselves at least once. In Karagh, all that — and more— is possible.” Drove eyes his rapt audience. Though a Player through and through, he doubles as a Walker and gives the Marks tours of the Tower because he is both good-looking and has a penchant for theatrics. Several of the women are eying him with undisguised interest, and a few are even adjusting their clothing so that their features are displayed to their best advantage.

Breast advantage
, Vol thinks, and giggles.

The sound draws Drove's attention. He glances her way and then winks, displaying the camaraderie those permanent residents of the Tower feel when they find themselves facing the Marks. Vol smiles in sympathy and several women, misinterpreting the exchange, glare at her.

Drove clears his throat. “Originally invented in Bastan, VR technology changed hands during their civil revolution when they needed to sell in order to save their district from descending into bankruptcy. As you can see, the technology has blossomed in the capable hands of the Karaghassians.

He gestures broadly, encompassing the entire city.

So many games exist now that you can't possibly fathom them all. Games so real, players lose the ability to distinguish between
what is fact and what is fiction. Games so deadly the casinos have backed them, inviting their patrons to bet on who will live and who will die. Games so dangerous, that they inflict real wounds.”

The audience shuffles nervously, and the people mutter amongst themselves.

Drove bares his teeth in a nasty grin that has at least some of the women reconsidering their interest in him. “A joke, just a joke. You won't be playing any of those. Not here, at least.” And his face is friendly again, and Vol can almost hear the collective sigh of relief. “Now if you'll come this way—” His eyes flick towards Vol again.

She takes the hint.
Time to leave.

The door to her cubicle hisses open with a rasp of displaced air. She sinks into the chair, stiffening when she feels the cables shift to ensnare her limbs. This process has always given her the creeps, though it keeps the Players from receiving injury when the electric stimulation causes their limbs to spasm.

She affixes the electrodes to her skin. As she is finishing up, the door opens and a tall, muscular man walks through and begins to examine the equipment. One of the new MoGs, she supposes. She tries to remember the names Ariel recited but can't, because she didn't care. She still doesn't, but it's rude not to try.

Above, the lights change from green to yellow. The game is about to begin. Vol closes her eyes. Hopefully it's not another of the hunter and hunted variety.

The God Mod bustles around. Try as she might, she can only get a glimpse of black, shiny material. She hears his heavy footfalls cross the room as he checks to see that she has hooked herself in correctly. Which she has. Obviously. This is more protocol than anything else, a final line of defense. It has been a long time since Vol has fumbled the VR sensors.

So when she feels his warm hands in her hair, she comes close to jumping out of her skin. Only the cables hold her back, keeping her in her chair, and Vol grits her teeth. Though he makes no sound, the way his breath stirs against her skin suggests he is laughing at her.

“
What are you doing?”

“
You fastened your temporal electrodes incorrectly. I'm adjusting them.”

“
They seemed perfectly fine to me.”

“
Aren't you lucky I'm here, then.”

The lights blink several times in rapid succession and then begin a slow pulsing sequence that denotes the start of the thirty-second countdown. The man's voice, which started as a whisper, rises with his amusement, and her eyes shoot open in recognition at the familiar burr of accent.

“
Son of a bitch,” she hisses. “Don't you dare — ”

With a devastating smile, he pulls the switch that sends her plunging into darkness.

Her body jerks. For a moment, she is completely rigid, the pupils of her eyes wide and unseeing. Then, with a sharp inhalation of air, she goes limp, and the hand she had clenched around his wrist falls to her side.

“
I apologize for stabbing you.” He frees her braid from where it is trapped behind her back so that it flows neatly over one shoulder. Lightly, he drags the knuckles of his hands against her cheek. “It was rash. Foolish, even. But then, so are you, you infuriating girl.”

She doesn't answer, but he can imagine what she would say if she could.

His eyes drop, regarding for a moment the body he knows as well as his own, and sighs. He takes the hand she had poised to hit him, motionless now, and squeezes it gently. “Since you are so intent on not engaging me in our world, I'm going to pursue you in yours.”

Just as she pursued him so long ago, tearing out his heart and leaving it on the line to dry.

He brushes a light kiss over her unmoving lips, and while it is gentle and sweet, his jaw is taut, and his hand leaves her abruptly as if he no longer trusts himself enough to touch her. Pulling back a little, he pushes a few wisps of her hair out of the way and whispers in her ear, “Ready or not, here I come.”

A string of curses spills from Vol's lips, unheeded. How did he get in? How? And why is he a God Mod? She hopes the censors bleep out her curses before they are transmitted to the general public and end up getting her fired.

Sand crunches beneath her knees. Vol rises slowly, taking in the yellow sky and wind-whipped horizon. The landscape is utterly unfamiliar, flat and dusty with skeletal trees that twine closely together as if seeking comfort. Desert plants pepper the golden sand, all of them dead — cholla, creosote, cactus, sagebrush. Their desiccated corpses are bereft of water, their leaves a scorched white.

Everything here, even the ground, is dead. She sees no soil. Only rock.

Loose trousers hang from her hips and she is wearing a tunic shirt that doesn't fit right (
as if I stole it
). A kerchief is tied around her mouth, as much to disguise her identity, she guesses, as it is to keep out the dust and sun. She has a holstered pistol hanging from her belt and a knife rests in her boot.

I better not be a bandit again
, she thinks angrily.
I'm nobody's little bandit
.

The ground rumbles beneath her feet, sending her back to her knees. Her fingers sink into the sand as she grasps for purchase. Vol
looks up. A spurt of smoke is rising off in the distance treating a column of ash that swirls as prominently as a twister. This game can't possibly be Kira's and Jade's. Neither of them is fond of natural disasters or westerns.

Vol shoves herself upright and accesses the archives to figure out what the hell is going on.

Program: The_Dying_Moon_1.exe

Class: Bandit

Dolorian is the eighth moon of a planet in the Delassian galaxy. For years, miners have been harvesting Ephemerium, a rare metal, from the moon's crust. But this mining has caused the core to grow unstable dooming both the planet and its inhabitants.

Mission objectives: Steal a shuttle craft before the core ruptures. Try to remain unseen — points will be detracted for casualties. The more people you help escape, the more points you will collect. But be cautious. Time is running out, and the soldiers are ordered to halt all evacuees.

A time limit is not provided, but Vol guesses it isn't long.

And she is a bandit. Again. Of course.
Steal a shuttle craft
. The desert is the only thing around for miles. Where is she supposed to get one of those? The desert shuttle craft outpost?

Fuck this game
, she thinks, drawing in a deep breath. Another tremor causes the planet to shudder and quake, as if reflecting her
violent hostility. The sour tang of liquid metals stings Vol's nose and eyes. Pulling the kerchief tightly around her mouth, she heads in the direction of the dead trees. Something once kept them alive, and that was most likely water. And where best to build a city than a water source?

The heat is merciless, though. The moon doesn't have much of an atmosphere left, and the sun's days skewer it with hot golden beams. If water flowed here once, it has long since boiled away. Vol makes a face of disgust and pulls her shirt away from her sticky skin for the tenth time.