Solarversia: The Year Long Game (56 page)

She’d wanted to try on a bodysuit for ages, but now that she was actually wearing one, it felt restrictive and wrong. She ran a finger round the neck of her thermal undervest in a bid to get comfortable. They’d been driven to the stadium in a cavalcade of plush limousines, exhilaration and nerves fizzing off them, but since arriving in the changing room the mood had become more subdued.

This was the Olympic final of the everyman and the magnitude of the event seemed to have hit everyone hard. Even Ozwald the Destroyer and Darth Malaki seemed to be nervous, which was a far cry from the brash manner they adopted at meal times. As Nova urged herself to remain calm, a member of the Spiralwerks’ event team climbed onto a bench at the end of the room and called for their attention.

“I know it’s hot in those suits. Don’t worry, you’ll be out in the fresh air shortly. As well as providing haptic feedback, your suit will monitor your heart rate. You’ll see the rate in your display, the audience will see it on their screens and most important of all, the medics in the stadium will see it. Unless there are any questions, it’s show time. We’re going to line you up in order of age, eldest at the front, lead you to your gaming rigs in the centre of the stadium and help you into them. They’re the same rigs you’ve been training in all week, so you should feel at home in them by now.”

Nova walked to the back of the line and got into position, behind Pedey Gonzalez and ahead of Matas, the Lithuanian boy. She watched Pedey limber up with a series of stretches. Burner was right, she really did resemble her Super Avatar for real. No wonder they called her The American Dream. Her strong, supple body was something to behold. Trying hard not to feel demoralised, Nova glanced back at Matas. As intimidated as she felt, it was reassuring to know she wouldn’t be the youngest person out there.

On command, the finalists started to file out of the room. The second she set foot in the corridor, Nova felt an almighty rush. Already the music and the cheering sounded louder. With every step towards the stadium the corridor became more hectic and intense. Photographers crowded in on either side, incessantly calling for attention, while security guards linked arms and used their sheer physical mass to ensure the procession didn’t get out of hand.

When she finally entered the stadium, Nova’s jaw dropped. The screams of the crowd, the throbbing music and the pulsing lasers invaded her senses. She was in the middle of it all, the one being looked at, studied and talked about. The atmosphere was electric. Dozens of drones hovered overhead, broadcasting the procession to a global audience. Her parents were sitting in the VIP area reserved for families of the finalists, while Burner and Charlie were God knows where, human needles in the Olympic haystack.

She held her head high and smiled, knowing they might be zooming in on her right now from one of the thousand or so cams Spiralwerks was said to have installed for the occasion. The memory of the stupid argument she’d had with her dad was still fresh in her mind. And it
was
stupid, the disparaging attitude he had toward Computer Sushi and technology in general. It was something she vowed to help him with, once all this was over. She’d use some of her prize money to help him retrain and get a job in the modern economy. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind as they approached the gaming rigs in the centre of the stadium, she tried hard to remember her Combat training.

The rigs were arranged in a circle facing a pole covered in yet more cams, a structure that reminded Nova of a teleport machine. Each rig consisted of an omnidirectional treadmill, three rings — one for each axis within three-dimensional space — and a harness, which secured the player in place. The rigs looked like an attempt to convert Leonardo da Vinci’s drawing of Vitruvian Man into a fairground ride. When combined with the haptic bodysuits, the setup had been touted as the penultimate mediated experience, one step away from neural implants.

A couple of Spiralheads secured Nova’s harness and ran through a series of safety checks. She ummed and ahhed at their questions, captivated by the events going on around her: the drones, the lasers and Mandelbrot’s entourage, there in person, as it were. This is what it had been about all along. This final round, the last ten battling until one remained. Pulling down her visor, she grabbed her shoulder, pictured the tattoo, closed her eyes and thought of her friend.
This one’s for you, sister
.

She dialled the Solarversia Constellation on the ceiling of her Corona Cube for the last time. The cube evaporated and she found herself in a stadium of a different kind: the Colosseum in Rome. It had been restored to its former glory, centuries of destruction and neglect repaired at the touch of a button. It may have been a cold, dark February night at the Olympic Stadium, but it was the middle of summer at the Colosseum, and its white marble seating glinted in the midday sun.

Around its circumference, ten national flags fluttered in the wind, one for each gladiator. Nova glanced around, eager to spot anything that might give her an advantage. Nothing stood out, and that bothered her. The one thing she found to console herself with was that all ten of them had been positioned against the perimeter of the arena, their backs to the wall. At least nobody could attack her from behind.

She looked down at her attire. Gone was the black bodysuit, in its place a full gladiatorial ensemble. An ocrea was fastened around each of her shins: a metal guard bound in boiled leather that led from her knees to her ankles. Each arm was clad in a manica. The overlapping metal segments that flowed down from her shoulders to her wrists made her arms resemble a pair of frozen waterfalls. A flimsy red skirt held in place by a sword belt, and some shiny golden body armour completed the look. As she looked around, getting a feel for where each of her opponents was located, and wondering where her weapons were, a flourish of trumpets blared.

People in the crowd pointed at Castalia, a glowing blimp high in the sky, and then at the Colosseum’s Royal Box, which was empty save for a couple of arkwinis standing to attention. They were waiting for the entourage to teleport from the floating palace. Arkwal was the first to appear. Looking majestic in long flowing robes, a laurel wreath upon his head, he took a couple of paces forward, cleared his throat and then, in a most serious tone, said, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. I have the honour of presenting His Royal Highness, Emperor Commissaire de Spielen, von Unglai D'Acheera Nakk-oo, Mandelbrot.”

The Emperor appeared in the centre of the box, his central column as high as the Colosseum itself. He waited for the rest of his entourage to appear in the box, and for the crowd to quieten. One of the arms protruding from his base made a subtle waving movement, a signal for Gorigaroo to strike his gong.

And with that, the final round of the Year-Long Game began.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Despite the crowd yelling for blood, guts and gore, players barely moved at first. Nova glanced around, unsure what to expect. She was weaponless — they all were — and yet they were expected to fight to the death. Rather than making any rash move, the players inched their way toward the centre of the arena, eyes darting either side of them.

They came to rest a minute later, still arranged in a circle, five or so metres from the gladiators either side of them. Nova’s pulse raced at the speed of light. There was a pause as the players weighed each other up, working out their options. And then they all seemed to move at once.

The crowd erupted, freshly energised by the promise of carnage. The Dump Truck, who had been standing directly opposite Nova, charged straight for her, screaming a war cry, cartwheeling her arms madly around her head. Nova steadied herself, held her arms up and blocked one, then both of her opponent’s fists. Sparks flew off their manicas as they connected time after time, the wrists of her real-world bodysuit pulsing in time with every blow.

The Dump Truck came at her again, mashing her arms together in a pincer movement as if Nova’s head was a nut to be cracked open. Nova waited, unsure how to deal with the unorthodox move, and at the last second, dove to the side, rolling clear of the danger. In the next few minutes they exchanged a series of uncoordinated punches, stray elbows and speculative kicks, shaving points here and there from each other’s health scores. Around them, the other eight had paired off and had settled into similar rhythms.

Fighting ceased the instant Gorigaroo next sounded his gong. The finalists eyed each other uneasily and then surveyed their own bodies, the ground and the wider arena as they tried to discern what had changed. Matas the Mole was the first to move. He broke into a sudden sprint away from the centre, taking them all by surprise. Nova followed his trajectory to the perimeter wall. Fastened to it was a set of gladiator weaponry: a small circular shield and matching spear. There looked to be one for each player, so she ran to the closest set, desperate to tool up before she was attacked.

She skidded to a halt by the weapons, her heart pounding. The first time her hand passed through the spear she thought she was seeing things. She
was
overexcited after all. Perhaps she had misjudged the distance? When it happened a second time she wondered whether she’d missed a Puzzle that needed solving first.

She literally couldn’t grab it, touch it or in any way interfere with it. Her hand wafted straight through it, as if she, or it, were a ghost. To her relief, the other players looked to be just as frustrated. It was only then that she noticed the name on the plaque next to the items: Captain Moreno. She was standing where the old Mexican guy had started. These were
his
items — and he was running straight at her.

She darted to her left and tried to remember where she’d been standing at the start of the round. Everywhere looked the same. They were trapped in a giant sandpit, flanked by a nondescript ten-foot wall. The crowd was no use either; it was a frothing sea of screaming, bobbing heads. On her way to the centre a thought occurred to her — each national flag was different, they were like landmarks. Her own flag had been hoisted directly above her initial position. She slowed to a canter and frantically looked around, searching for the Union Jack.
Bingo
. She locked on to the weapons underneath and ran like hell.

With ten metres to go she spied Darth Malaki, the Israeli player, charging for her, his spear aimed at her head. She stopped dead and flailed her arm in his general direction, managing to bat the pointed tip clear from her face with inches to spare. She reached her items and muttered some words of relief as they came away from the wall in her hands, then shrieked as Malaki lunged at her again.

He was too quick; she barely had hold of her shield. His spear smashed into it, knocking it to the ground. She fell to one knee and swiped her own spear at him. It caught him just above his knee, clear of his protective ocrea. A horizontal red line appeared, thin at first, then thickening. He watched as the blood dripped onto his sandal.

He sneered at her like a cobra guarding its kill. She cowered, spear in hand, desperately feeling behind her for the lost shield, willing it to fly through the air into her possession. Malaki noticed her shield too, and though they lunged for it at the same time, he made it there first and kicked it away, out of her reach. She pounced after it anyway, and he reacted by thrusting his spear at her body. It connected with her armour, not hard enough to pierce it, but hard enough to knock her onto her back.

Clambering away from him on her bum and her elbows, she was in a state of sheer panic. He caught up with her, brought a foot down on her chest and pinned her to the ground. While she struggled to get free, he carefully positioned the tip of his spear in the pit of her neck. His biceps bulged as he grabbed tight, preparing to ram the spear home. Feeling the bodysuit contract against her chest, she wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground.

Fearing the worst, she caught her breath and then held it as a trumpet blared in the background. The Israeli paused and stared at her with a puzzled expression. Far behind him, on the other side of the arena, she could see the Norwegian flag being lowered. So the trumpet must have heralded Astrid the Unbeatable’s death.

Suddenly, Malaki spasmed in pain and his chest arched forward. Fingers weakened, his spear dropped limply to the ground before he slumped in a heap next to it. Behind him, Captain Moreno was grinning at her, his spear protruding from Malaki’s back. Another trumpet sounded. Nova looked up to the see the Israeli flag being lowered. She leapt to her feet, scrambled to retrieve her shield and spear, and ran to the centre of the arena, desperate to regain her composure and forge some basic semblance of a plan.

Moreno approached her, bearing the same mean expression he’d worn all week.

“First I kill Astrid the Unbeatable. Then the Israeli. Now I kill you.” But before he could raise his weapon, the gong sounded. Parts of the ground deformed in front of her eyes. To her left, a shallow snaking crevice appeared in the arena floor. Hundreds of red-hot coals materialised, filling it to the brim. To her right, a large swathe of ground was now dotted with upturned metal spikes of differing length. Similar patches of ground transformed into potential death traps around the arena.

She ought to have run from Moreno, but instead the pair of them watched transfixed as Jools van der Star picked up Vera888, the Chinese woman, by her hand and foot. Leaning back slightly, he swung her round in a circle, and then released her at a forty-five degree angle like he was throwing the discus. She sailed through the air and landed in a patch of hot coals.

Although she got to her feet within seconds, she ran without thinking back toward van der Star, who stood at the side of the pit, his spear at the ready. His first jab was hard enough to knock her to the ground. Again she lunged for him, rather than try to escape the pit from a different direction. This time he landed a hard blow in her ribs through a narrow gap in her armour, sending her to the ground for good.