by A W Wang
And Syd. He stares hungrily as if needing another battle.
Nine of the seats have an occupant. Given the circumstances, the survival rate is amazing, but my eyes linger on the empty chair. Carol was the burn victim, and I liked her and her idiosyncrasies. She should be sitting with us, twirling her long blonde hair instead of being dead.
I should feel worse. Everyone should feel worse.
Simon stands, letting out a hoot, his fists shaking at the ceiling. “That was better than election night! I love winning!”
Although he’s probably happier at being alive than anything else, his bravado pulls everyone from their introspection. Except for Syd and myself, relieved snickers and sheepish looks spread across the group.
The former politician continues in a louder tone. “And I nailed one! Right between the eyes.”
“I don’t think I hit anything, but I didn’t get hit either,” Ally cheerfully says. “How many did everyone else get?”
Jock and Suri each hold up a finger. Rick pops up two. Walt shrugs his shoulders while Syd stays surprisingly quiet despite his obviously high score.
“I got one too,” Vela says. “Brin, how about you?”
Five people died by my hand. The remainder of the team got six. There were eighteen of the final attackers. That means Syd’s tally is seven if I give him credit for the violet-eyed girl I wounded. Regardless, the two of us did the lion’s share of the hard work.
Just like he said we would.
I shake my head, staring at Carol’s seat. My count isn’t right. Carol, whom I didn’t warn to stay frosty, got one too.
“Brin?” Vela repeats, pulling me from my remorse.
Before I reply, Rick stands, clapping. “Don’t be concerned with the number of kills. This is a team. The first time for combat is always rough, and we came through with flying colors.”
For emphasis, he sweeps around the semicircle, extending his hand and giving the appropriate handshake, fist bump, or high-five to each member of the team. My interaction is more of a light touch with his knuckles grazing my extended fingers, but he doesn’t notice my dour mood.
When Sergeant Rick returns to his chair, Syd laughs, switching to his gentleman persona. “The outcome was in doubt for several minutes.”
Rick points to me. “I want to commend you for your initiative. If you hadn’t saved the flank, we would have lost.”
I’m surprised. Although Simon scrunches his face in disapproval, Sergeant Rick isn’t going to put me in front of the firing squad like I half-expected. And I need to hand his real-world combat experience credit. He made the right call setting up the defense first and unlike myself or Carol, he would not have lowered his guard in the lull of a battle.
I reply, “Can we have a minute’s silence for Carol?”
Suri sends a nod. At least I’m not the only one noting the loss.
Rick rubs his chin. “Of course. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of that myself.”
Because you’re not fighting the optimizations of the overlords like me.
Before we give the poor woman her just due, a hum rises and Haiku floats in the middle of the group, her strawberry scent flooding into my nostrils and her silvery eyes twinkling with pride.
“An amazing performance by all,” she says with light claps. “That tactical situation would have destroyed most teams, yet you sustained only a single casualty.”
Suri interjects sarcasm into the cheery atmosphere. “If we had all perished, would you have been sad?”
Haiku doesn’t recognize the rhetorical nature of the question. “Absolutely I would. Until I took over my next team.”
I give props for the honesty of our software therapist, but I’m annoyed Carol has been forgotten.
Before I can point this out, Haiku speaks again. “Everyone has increased to a 2.6 sigma score. With those having a kill getting an extra hundredth. Brin, who performed exceptionally well, receives an extra nine-hundredths!”
Vela breaks her reserved character with a loud shout. “Superhero!”
I tighten my lips, not needing or feeling worthy of the accolade.
Haiku continues, “And for having the most kills, Syd gets an extra tenth.”
It’s left unsaid, but Syd was instrumental to the victory. Although he doesn’t believe in teamwork and I still don’t trust him, I raise my estimation of the plain-faced man. On a battlefield, he has value, and without him, there would be more empty seats gracing the semicircle.
However, when I look across the delighted group, his face has reverted to a mask of indifference.
Some people are born for combat.
Haiku turns serious. “This was the first of many scenarios and it’s imperative for you to do well in each of the coming ones.
“This has been a long day. Now is time for rest and relaxation. If anyone has any trouble, call my name.”
Although she’s speaking to the team, I sense her words are directed at me. Why? I have no idea and she doesn’t meet my inquisitive glance.
Instead, she raises her hand and the soft glows of the room disappear.
After the static fades, I’m lying in the spongy mattress of my bunk. Only faint rectangles of starlight leaking from the cuts along the top of the wall disturb the darkness, and except for soft rustles and faint snoring, the place is still.
Across the aisle, Carol’s bed is vacant. Although disappointed to discover I’m past her death, a sadness rises inside me when I glance at the other occupied bunks. Many, if not all will be empty in the near future.
With nothing else to do, I close my eyes.
Mixed images of violence, the bald giant, and the violet-eyed girl swirl in my mind. After a few minutes of frustration, I pull myself from the bleak thoughts and stare at the blank underside of the upper bunk.
My conscience won’t let me sleep, but I can’t force myself to suffer a shred of guilt over the dead. I’m losing the battle against the optimization the virtual overlords require in their servants.
What have I gotten myself into?
Mentally exhausted and bursting with exasperation, I think of my family.
Nick, Darla, and Emily.
As long as I can remember them and draw strength from their love, all will be okay.
I repeat the names as I search through my memories, trying to hold on to my past.
Later, as the gray of dawn crawls into the room, I fall asleep watching the last recollections of my wedding collapse into dust.
Eighteen
Surrounded on the battlement by four attackers, my threads coordinate perfectly as I lunge with my arm fully extended. My sword catches enough of the battle ax to deflect its arc past a terrified Walt’s helmet.
The reverberations of the block numb my forearm while the curved end of the ax carves a chunk of stone from the castle wall. As Walt scuttles to safety, the ax-head whirls around the soldier’s heavyset middle and comes at my face.
I twist, arching my body to let the sharp edge fly past, and then completing the turn, guide a spear thrust from my midsection with my free hand.
After a pirouette along the wooden shaft, I swipe my sword at my second opponent’s neck.
The tip meets his carotid artery. Blood splashes over my cheek and cascades down my leather shoulder protection.
A quick sidestep brings me past a downward cut from the ax, which cleaves the walkway with a resounding clang.
With a twitch of my wrist, I reverse my sword and launch it through the armpit gap under the man’s bulky armor. The blade sinks into his body and gets yanked from my hand when he crumples.
Before my dead enemy tumbles over the outer embrasure, I pull the long ax from his hands and whirl it against the slashes of my last two foes. The hefty weapon is difficult to use, and I give ground to a dizzying array of sword strokes.
A wild cut glances off my breastplate even as a more determined attack slices the thinner armor protecting my pelvis.
I leap past the fallen spearman and r
etreat over a slick puddle of blood. When my enemies follow and slip on the unsure footing, I spin, and twirling the long pole of the ax behind my back, take a giant swing that neatly sends their heads flying from the high wall.
After their bodies collapse, the battlement is full of blood but clear of threats.
Walt rises to stand on shaky legs. Amazingly, his lack of combat skills haven’t gotten him killed during the last four scenarios. Adjusting his helmet, he says, “Thanks.”
I run through a litany of things he needs to improve in order to survive, but given the dire situation, only say, “Be careful.”
My medieval armor and clothing are sodden with blood, the thick fluid slippery over my skin and the heavy metallic odor overpowering my sense of smell. Although silly, I take a moment to wipe my cheeks and shift my shoulders from discomfort before I scan the battlefield.
We are screwed.
Few defenders remain to guard the ramparts. Carol’s replacement’s replacement, a woman calling herself Joan, lies mangled near an angle in the walkway. Sadly, I feel no guilt over her death.
A battering ram crashes against the main gate while squares of enemies in glittering helmets and chain mail await their chance to charge into the castle. There are at least one hundred and fifty of them. To maybe thirty of us.
We are totally screwed.
A bloody gauntlet grasps the top of the embrasure past the southwest turret of the battlement. Walt follows behind me as I dash down the walkway.
When we arrive, Syd’s head rises over the revetment.
Although I still harbor a huge distrust of the man, I’m glad he’s returned because we need his skillset now more than ever.
Grabbing his arm and shoulder armor, we pull him into the castle. While he labors for breath and finds his footing, I peer over the thick stone to find empty ground. “You’re the only one left?”
He takes a moment, wiping the spittle from his chin with his wrist. Although the sole survivor of a fifty-person attack and covered in ash and blood, his plain face is remarkably composed. However, when he points to the burning siege engines at the far end of the battlefield, his eyes blaze with fury. “This was a stupid plan.”
“Why? It worked.”
“They have plenty of troops. The catapults and scorpions weren’t big enough to breach the wall. Just a damn decoy.”
“This scenario was three against one,” says Walt. “Haiku said the forces would always be equal.”
“The castle counts as the difference,” I reply.
Syd ignores our comments. “I told Rick this was a terrible idea. You knew it too. Why didn’t you speak up?”
“What for? He has the combat experience,” I say defensively. I’m upset too. While I need to voice my opinion more, I don’t need Syd lecturing me on my shortcomings. On the surface, the strategy was sound. A raiding force destroys the siege machines in a surprise attack. But now, the lack of defenders negates the advantages of being behind solid walls. And all wasted to eliminate a nonexistent threat.
“Rick is going to get us killed,” Syd says.
I glare because this is the third time we are having this debate. When he says “Us,” he means himself and myself. Not Walt, not Suri, not Vela or anyone else. Syd never raises his voice, relying on repetition to make his point, but in the midst of a battle and expanding his audience to include teenage Walt, he’s being insubordinate.
More than usual.
Walt’s eyes wander, pretending to study the battlefield.
Not wanting to escalate the heated conversation, I remember my own inexperience when Carol died and try appealing to reason. “Rick’s real-world battle experience counts for something. He wants to save the rest of the team. You keep telling me we’re special and we’re getting more sigmas than everyone else.”
His unblinking eyes bore into me. “The more risk, the more dumb luck comes into play. How many times will we survive facing five or ten-to-one? A random patrol. One lucky shot. Some slob taking a piss at the wrong time—”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing nobody ever needs to pee.”
“You know what I mean, and you know I’m right.”
Despite his mood swings and anger from this battle, Syd speaks in a level tone because he doesn’t need theatrics. Everything is true and although he refrains from saying it, I hear the words from his last argument. “If you get killed, what’s your altruism worth? They’re all going to die.”
I set my jaw. Although I’m bearing greater risks, I don’t begrudge saving the members of my team. I’d rather not have to witness another friend like Carol having a hole blown in her head.
“Um, guys,” says Walt.
The gates groan and the locking bar splinters. Shouts rise from the courtyard as the few defenders rally, trying to save the castle.
Our differences won’t be settled in a day or week. I might hit Syd if he utters another syllable, but he only shakes his head in disgust.
“What are we going to do?” Walt asks.
Before Syd can suggest a brute force plan like “Kill everyone,” which will wind up getting us killed too, I say, “I have an idea.”
It’s something I’ve considered since the scenario started but didn’t mention because no one asked me and I’m not in charge.
I motion to the highest part of the tall keep. “We get the royal family in there. There are narrow passages, and the flying bridge needs to be crossed to reach that point. This force is undisciplined and will pursue. I’ll take Walt and get Rick to move the family. Syd, you collect the surviving defenders and when they follow, hit them from behind. We’ll trap them between the two of us in a long confined space. The narrowness will negate their numbers and we’ll destroy them.”
There isn’t any disagreement regarding the risky plan because Syd and I will somehow make it work, and besides, what other options do we have? “The castle’s ready to fall. Let’s move,” I say.
Syd sends a final look of admonishment before dashing away.
After trading my ax for a sword, I lead Walt in the other direction.
The remains of the gate splinter, and clashes of metal ring across the courtyard as we reach the edge of the revetment. When Walt pauses, watching the action, I smack his helmet to keep him moving.
In his haste, he runs too high, his head bobbing above the teeth of the battlement. When he breaks cover without stopping, I leap, and grabbing his shoulder, yank him behind a waist-high parapet. Arrows whiz over our heads.
I explain to his gaping mouth and wide eyes, “They’ve had archers waiting since the battle began.”
He sighs. “I’ll never be able to do what you can. Thanks for watching out for me.”
I puff up, deciding to take my given talents less for granted. Despite all the imparted knowledge of the threads, the teen isn’t combat ready, but I can’t spend the entire scenario being a mother hen. However, I make a note that if we survive, I will spend more time teaching him the common-sense nuances of battle in a more sedate setting. “Keep moving, and be careful.”
By staying low, and with my hand guiding Walt from danger, we reach the stone building without further incident. The royal residence sits at the top of four flights of a winding staircase, and although weighed down by our armor, we sprint up every step. When we arrive at the thick wooden door protecting the royal chambers, Walt is winded but doesn’t complain.
I give a tired smile. Despite his many combat flaws, the teen has his good points too.
When we enter, Suri glances at our bloody armor and wrinkles her nose.
“That bad?” she asks.
Between gasps, I nod. “Dire. We’re breached and they’re coming through the last defenders. We have a few minutes while they search the lower areas.”
Although the chambers and medieval castle are classical designs of hewn stones and pointed arches, the mission for this scenario, a royal family, is an afterthought. The king, queen, and princely child sit on elegant thrones with blank expressions
stamped on their faces. Unlike the combatants, these caricatures resemble carved statues. Or the super cheap sexbots that proliferated society before I entered the virtual universe.
Suri tries to lighten the situation. “You should try talking to them.”
Walt says, “It’s hard to be believe they’re that important.”
I nod, understanding his meaning. As the mission objective, if the enemy touches them, we lose the scenario and have our sigma score reset to zero, possibly a fate worse than death.
No more time to waste.
I call Rick over and explain my plan. As always, he wastes precious seconds evaluating its subtleties, but luckily, he agrees before I scream at him. Although he generally makes rational decisions, his deliberate nature in the heat of battle is infuriating.
With Suri and Walt protecting them, Vela, Ally, and Simon grab the royals and run toward the flying bridge and the sanctuary of the keep while I yell to them to make sure they’re spotted.
Rick asks, “Brin, can you delay the attack?”
I would have volunteered to do this impossible assignment, but coming from Rick, it causes Syd’s words to echo in my head, “Rick is going to get us killed.”
Turning, I utter a curt “Yes,” and then march to meet our foes as the throne room empties.
After clumping down two flights of the narrow staircase, I choose a defensive position at a square corner landing and wait, growing more pensive as the rush of enemy boots echoes from the passageways below.
“This could be worse,” says General Optimism, who has been strangely quiet until now.
“How’s that?”
“I don’t actually know.”
Not helping…
Walt steps next to me.
“You shouldn’t be here. This is going to get dangerous,” I say.
Although fright pools in his eyes, he bravely replies, “It’s the royal family. They creep me out. I’m more comfortable with you.”
I don’t believe him, but there isn’t time to argue. His never-complain attitude apparently comes in second to his loyalty. I try not to grin. “Okay, stand behind me. When I get tired, or we get pushed into a wide front, help out.”
