Game, Set, Deathmatch

by Edwin H Rydberg

  “We’ve got an unforgettable contest lined up for you this year!” the MC yelled, to an answer of deafening cheers.

  “The bug you love to hate, two-time returning champion, the Bruuz bruiser, Void is here to defend her title — can she do it again? It’s anybody’s guess. As always, the eternal Chasm, Phalanx extraordinaire stands ready to take up the gauntlet, but is he being sent out to pasture with the introduction of Genilon’s new Legion team?

  “And what’s that, you say? Is it really true? Yes indeed, fans everywhere rejoice, a rejuvenated Duncan has come out of retirement in a bid to reclaim the crown. As if that wasn’t enough, we also have the return of — drum roll please — The Helldivers! The home team is back at long last. Ch’Kandra is new and she’s got a lot of weight to carry on those two-inch plexisteel shoulders. Can she regain lost glory for the Halandri team? It’s anyone’s guess.

  “We’ve also got faster translocator times, more powerful weapons, and multimodal implant feeds that let you feel the heat of the battle from the safety of your own home. All this means you get more of what you love. More chills, more spills, and more kills!”

  At the announcement of each legend, their image and scenes of their past greatness played on giant tri-vid at the center of the stage. Most of the new captains couldn’t help but stare agape as classic moments in tournament history were revisited on the giant three-dimensional display. DaemonS had grown up watching the exploits of the greats and was more than a little awed to be standing in their presence. Chasm had always been her favorite; the big man had an economy of movement and a no-nonsense way of tearing up the field that she couldn’t help but admire. Even thirty-six years of tournaments hadn’t changed his style.

  If the crowd had been frenzied before, they were positively delirious with excitement and anticipation now. After more than ten minutes of unbridled enthusiasm, as the cheers quieted slightly, the MC finally continued.

  “There are four game ladders the teams will have to successfully navigate. Points are given for a team’s placement in each ladder. The top two teams overall will meet in the finals where the winner will be immortalized in the annals of Death Match history!”

  Thoughts of fame and glory swam through DaemonS’s head along with flashbacks from vicious, adrenaline-packed matches of the past. Her best showing was with last year’s team — they reached the forth qualifier, where they were torn apart in three quick matches. However, it had been a good enough showing for several of the team members to find their own sponsors, allowing them to captain their own teams.

  She still found it hard to believe Genilon had chosen her, over all the other newcomers. They had Phalanx and Legion teams, why would they sponsor an unknown? Life was full of unimportant mysteries, however, and there were enough hardships without looking for more. So DaemonS had learned never to turn her back on good fortune when it smiled at her.

  “Each of these hundred and twenty-eight teams,” the MC said, indicating the captains on stage, “has fought long and hard to be here for your action-packed entertainment. With thirty-seven species, eighteen combat zones, one hundred twenty-eight teams, and nine-hundred trillion viewers around the galaxy, this is the largest Death Match ever!

  “The starting match-ups are set, so let’s get the teams into the zones where we can see some mayhem!”

  With that, the stadium erupted in a deafening roar before the blackness of translocator haze swept it away, taking DaemonS back to her team’s base.

  * * *

  The first match was half finished and DaemonS sat, slouched over her desk, staring with disinterested eyes at page fifteen of the captain’s manual. It had passed her gaze three times and still she couldn’t remember a thing. As important as the guide undoubtedly was — covering Match rules, history and structure — it just wasn’t possible for a mere mortal to stay awake while reading it. Certainly, as captain it was her job to know the thing inside and out, to ensure the team didn’t fall into any regulatory loopholes, but who could have guessed so much of the book was fixated with the legal foundations of The Death Match? She should have started reading sooner — like shortly after birth.

  Sounds of Pincer and Defcon’s agitated cheering broke through her distracted thoughts, reaching her from the team lounge.

  “Get him!”

  “Flak cannon, Flak cannon. No, not sniper rifle!”

  “Jump! Not that way!”

  “Look out for the... rocket.”

  She should be watching it with them, but it was difficult to envisage any meaningful surprises in the opening rounds and none of the top teams would be showing any new tricks. Still, watching the tournament beat reading the manual. DaemonS stood and stretched. Abandoning the book, she left the captain’s office for the lounge, thoughts of their competition on her mind.

  The favored teams were so powerful that they would easily overwhelm the opposition in the early stages. So, to make the early rounds more interesting for the fans, the matches were more open, featuring 3v3 and 4v4 rounds before hitting stride with 5-aside. The Apocalypz Cowgirlz had qualified nineteenth and therefore drew low ranking matches for the first two rounds, almost guaranteeing their access to the next ladder.

  Her own roster choices for the early matches were quite easy. Bodybag, Geneslicer and Vorpal led off the opening round, followed by Bodybag, Vorpal, Pincer and Defcon for the second match. She would join Vorpal, Bodybag, Defcon and Geneslicer for the first 5-aside.

  There was every reason to expect the Cowgirlz would clear the first three rounds undefeated. Then, after those preliminaries, the team roster would very much depend on the opposition.

  DaemonS had almost reached the lounge when the drone of pump motors kicked in, drowning the faint buzz of the electrical systems. The soft flush of nutrient draining from one of the clone tanks met her ears. Mildly surprised, she saw Bodybag stomping down a corridor toward the game translocator pad.

  “I’m gonna frag ’im meself,” Bodybag said speaking loudly to the air while visibly shaking with rage.

  “That’s the latest in sentient tech? I’ll take ’im apart bolt by bolt, the big metal moron. And the next time I meet an Genilon rep I’m gonna stuff each piece of that overgrown light bulb up his...”

  “Bodybag, what seems to be the problem?” DaemonS asked, moving toward her teammate.

  The bundle of nervous energy looked up, clearly distracted from her thoughts.

  “Oh. Cap’n.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Dat rusted tin can.”

  “Geneslicer?”

  “Aye, dat glorified trash heap. Fraggin’ everythin’ dat moves... ”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Includin’ me!” Bodybag said, stepping on the circular platform.

  “I see. Well... try and stay out of his way for now. I’ll talk to him after the match.”

  “Talkin’ don’ work wit’ dat pile o’ spare parts. If ‘e does it again, ‘e’s gonna need an extra mouth to chew all the rockets I’ll be feedin’ ’im,” she said, fading from view.

  DaemonS entered the lounge, a worried frown creasing her brow. She would hate to see Geneslicer’s aggression become a liability. She’d make sure to have a word with him.

  * * *

  Figment activated his personal translocator and the small room faded to be replaced by the dumpsters of a distant alleyway. He collected the beacon he had hidden hours earlier, before stepping into a large, bustling plaza.

  Immense buildings surrounded three sides of the square. Towering high overhead, they formed the corner supports for layers of translucent aerial platforms, and buttressed a central spire that hung like a stalactite from beneath the next platform, suspended on gossamer strands of durasteel. Traffic could be seen criss-crossing in predesignated lanes above and below, moving through the sky in a complex, multi-tiered network of trains and hovercars. In the distance a waist-high railing marked the edge of the platform and Fi
gment watched for a moment as a train rose into view, ascending from the lower levels, before he returned his attention to the center of the plaza. Floating over the ground and rising five stories into the air was an enormous holographic display.

  Hundreds of thousands of beings filled the platform — similar to other such platforms in the city, he was certain — and more joined the crowd with every passing minute. In eager anticipation, they stared as one at the video towering over them. The tri-cast was usually of news, Global Earth propaganda, or advertising, but today one event overshadowed them all: the opening round of the Death Match.

  Figment hung back. Staying at the edge of the multitude he watched with a professional eye. His main interest in the Death Match was in tracking new technology and new talent, and in uncovering potential customers. The match was usually a showpiece for the big three to highlight their latest advancements.

  Okijuza principally concentrated on weapons and armor design and was thus the big financial winner in the match itself, although their teams rarely lived up to the quality of equipment they used.

  Genilon and Halandri fought for larger shares of the imperial sentient-weapons market. Genilon-developed bioengineered humanoids and had been dominant in the tournament since the entry of Chasm and the Phalanx. Halandri, the official host of the games, concentrated on the production of artificial, autonomous constructs.

  The immense tri-cast above was alive with speeding humanoids, lethal artillery, and exotic locales, and the din in the plaza instantly became deafening. The display simultaneously followed feeds from the eight favorite challengers, while sidebars updated the statistics of the other matches. Of course, private viewers could select special feeds from any team they wished, as all combatants were equipped with unobtrusive audio/visual implants and network relays that functioned only in the arenas.

  Figment noted the feeds for Halandri’s Helldivers as well as the two Genilon teams. The genetically enhanced bio-constructs always drew great excitement. This year, most people were interested to see how the ex-champion Chasm would do. How much longer could he play with the best?

  It was well known that, for the Phalanx models, the bio-engineers had only been able to enhance one of the four primary combat attributes: dexterity, accuracy, co-operation, and aggression. Any further attempts at enhancement had proven to destabilize the entire construct. This was precisely why there was so much interest surrounding the new Legion team. Had Genilon managed a significant improvement on the old series? If so, how had their eggheads stabilized the genetic matrix? Would the new Legion be as successful as the old Phalanx? These were questions that Death Match aficionados were interested in knowing the answers to — questions that certain parties would pay good money to have answered.

  Halandri’s Helldivers were the second of the big-interest stories this year. VinD had been underperforming for years and Char, his replacement, had been bad enough that the team had been pulled from the tournament altogether several years ago. If Halandri was willing to bring them back, the new captain, Ch’Kandra, had to be something special. That meant there were a lot of eyes watching The Helldivers.

  He glanced at the side-scroll, noting a few other matches. Several companies had multiple teams, but only Genilon had three. Although it was largely agreed that the third team, Apocalypz Cowgirlz, was there as a diversion and possible wildcard, it was his job to find out for sure.

  Apart from The Helldivers and the Genilon squads, the only other teams serious money was on were Rakurai, and the Bruuz Nihilators.

  Rakurai were ex-alpha-infiltrators turned merc. The younger members weren’t as skilled as the originals, but with the return of Duncan they could be contenders. Never underestimate the ability of a living idol to inspire a team to victory.

  The Bruuz squad was an even more interesting story. The insectoid Bruuz were not usually a threat in The Death Match, as their individual honor generally translated into a quest for glory that negated the necessary teamwork needed in more complex games.

  Not until two years ago, that is, when Void and The Nihilators ground all opposition beneath their many heels in a frenzied rush to the championship. Somehow Void had managed to hold The Nihilators together and keep them focused, and they were odds-on favorites to repeat as champions for the third straight tournament.

  Regardless of who ended up hoisting the trophy when the dust settled, one thing was certain, this was going to be the most interesting tournament in years.

  * * *

  Two perfect games, 3-0 each. The Apocalypz Cowgirlz were already guaranteed access to the Lockdown ladder and continuation into Capture the Flag, but another win would increase their rank, ensuring future match-ups continued to be with weaker opponents.

  DaemonS had given Geneslicer the ‘temper your aggression, don’t frag your teammates’ speech while the other four Cowgirlz had been owning the hundred-and-forth seed, Richter Ictus. As always when speaking with the synthoid, she had finished the conversation without the slightest idea of whether her message had been received. Despite his shortcomings, a kill rate second only to Bodybag meant he was hard to leave off the squad and so, once again he was with the team as they passed her station on the way to the game translocator pad.

  That was when full realization of the moment hit her. It was finally here! Her first Death Match game as captain was about to begin and she was nervous, more nervous than she had expected to be, but she had confidence in her team. Geneslicer, Bodybag, Defcon, and Vorpal would be with her in the Apocalypz Cowgirlz’ first full-team match of the tournament.

  They had drawn The Stellar Demons, a team of experimental human-alien chimeras. Apart from a psychotically high aggression factor, the Demons had no dangerous skills. Their accuracy and agility were both pitiful according to all reports, and their aggression nullified any meaningful attempt at teamwork.

  DaemonS glanced at the computer chronometer.

  Any moment now a warning signal would sound, initiating the countdown until the zone went live. She ran through the standard pre-match routine, checking the transponder links, game feeds, clone tank integrity, and personality matrix upload. All were good to go. Now she just had to settle the butterflies in her stomach.

  As DaemonS ran through a few deep breathing exercises in a failed attempt to calm herself, the signal came. Sirens blared and the red pre-game warning lights slowly flashed throughout the complex announcing two minutes until the translocator platforms and game beacons were activated. Both audio and visual signals were necessary since many of the combatants had shell shock of one form or another, neural conditions that occasionally became integrated into a clone and perpetuated as an addition to the personality matrix. Those rare few with multiple deficiencies or alternative sensory preferences would still require notification by their teammates.

  “Let’s go, ‘oman!” Bodybag yelled from the platform down the hall. The team was ready and eager to get the show started. It was a good sign.

  “Right behind you,” she answered, pausing at the notifying ping of an incoming message. It was on the secure captain’s line so it was better the team was gone, anyway.

  A quick read of the short message brought only confusion. Could it be a hack? Not likely. The captain’s channel was supposed to have the highest possible security for precisely that reason. Obviously, threats or other unwanted fan and enemy attention could affect a battle’s outcome, so the organizers took all possible precautions to prevent such influences.

  “We are watching you,” the message said. But who and why? There were more questions than answers and it was game time. It would have to wait until later.

  * * *

  “Incoming! One on the right.”

  “Two down the middle.”

  As the cavernous walls of their home zone came into existence around her, DaemonS was met with a cacophony of team chatter over her ear piece. A quick appraisal of the surroundings ensured no surprises awaited her. There were three avenues
that could be used to attack the flag room, where she found herself. To either side there were short tunnels leading to adjoining rooms and then out into the greater chamber of their home zone. Above each tunnel was a long, narrow platform; Geneslicer stood on the left platform, shouldering a rocket launcher. A long, wide passageway stretched before her, leading to a two-story ornately carved solid door she knew was deceptively easy to open. Behind her, on a stone platform accessible by stair from either side, rested their red flag. In front of it, pulse cannon at the ready, stood Defcon.

  “Fragg’ed him. One left in the middle.”

  She was glad to see her faith in the team was well founded. They had deployed in a standard formation, two back, two attacking with her as the utility-gunner in mid-field. Undoubtedly, Bodybag was forward, covered by Vorpal from snipe-range. It was a safe formation, almost a rehearsal for stronger opposition. It should be very effective against this weaker team.

  DaemonS hoisted her shield generator, projecting it forward as she ran for the right tunnel. In addition to a translocator, a limited-power shield generator was also standard starting gear. Other weapons were managed through a complex translocator system and chosen from a belt selector, once acquired in the arena. A necessity since no one, save perhaps VinD, could carry the full armament needed in a match.

  From studies of the pre-game maps, she remembered a rocket launcher was stored in the adjoining room to the right while a flak cannon was on the left. Both were excellent utility weapons; the rocket launcher had a faster kill rate at longer range although, for point-blank, the flak cannon was unparalleled and the grenades it was supplied with were useful too.

  Instinctively, she dodged left as a shadow flitted across the other end of the tunnel. Milli-seconds later a rocket sped past her, exploding on the wall across the passageway.