Citizen Pariah (Unreal Universe Book 3)

by Lee

  Tomas cackled and ended the call.

  Vasily debated not accepting this new caller, and in the middle of the debate, it pushed through and he furiously wondered where in the hell everyone was suddenly getting their new amazing tech from. Garth Nickels couldn’t possibly be the source of it all. He stared at the slate-grey eyes looking at him. The image swam back until he was looking at a literal giant.

  “Fuck me.” He whispered, fingers itching to launch everything he had at his disposal in the desperate hopes that one of the missiles, rockets, bombs, lasers or OIPs would hit wherever the caller was hiding.

  The Sigma Fives. The Sigma Fives were calling.

  xxx

  The grey-eyed giant –easily twenty feet tall and half as wide- smiled. “You recognize me, then?” he asked in surprisingly soft tones.

  Vasily shook his head, slapping his hands across keys. He was shutting himself in the room –irrevocably, if need be- and ensuring that the Chairwoman found no access points to the data being recorded. A failsafe engineered thousands of years ago and upgraded by every OverCommander since, the system had been designed to protect this last, great threat from being exposed; they, unlike the people who sat on the Chair, did not consider a threat gone until you were standing overtop the charred, burned corpses.

  Thanks to his special … ‘relationship’ … with Alyssa, Vasily knew more about how the Prometheus Device worked than any other OverCommander in history, and had used the things she let slip to further improve the systems. Had he engineered that closeness in some way, specifically for this purpose? It was hard to know, but even as he’d pursued the high-strung woman into his bed, he’d always known that he’d use whatever came his way to protect the possibility that the Fives still lived, and, of course, the slumbering Sigma Soldiers.

  “Hardly.” Vasily answered once he was sure no one could get into the command station, not at all, not ever, not unless he permitted them. Now, now, he was trapped. The ‘LINK system he was using was also dedicated and hardwired, and should the Chairwoman or any other entity system-wide attempt entry, it would shut down, taking half of the Peak’s systems with it. After that, EMP bursts would fry everything that remained.

  As far as failsafes went, it was overkill, but their only other encounter with the Fives had proven that there was no such thing as overkill.

  “Ah, rumor and whispers, down through the centuries.” The Five nodded approvingly. “How ever did you keep us … the fear of our existence … secret from the Chair? With the Prometheus Device and the First Main theirs to control, there is nothing they cannot learn, given time.”

  Vasily tried to calm himself, but he was trembling like a leaf. From the moment they’d risen out of the chambers, the five volunteers had been … godlike. Unstoppable, indestructible. The soldiers the Latelian Army had eventually created were called ‘God soldiers’ for no other reason; civilizations across the Universe assumed it was because of their rabid dislike of religion, but it wasn’t so. Their soldiers were as gods before men.

  If a representative of the Fives was calling, it was for a reason. Vasily grimly assumed he knew why, but would hold out until it became necessary. Instead, he answered the polite question.

  “OverCommanders have always maintained a relationship with the Chair, sa. Chairmen and women may indeed hold ultimate authority and power by the tools they carry with them, but in the end, they are … mortal. A slip here, a fall there. The hubris of the Chair always convinces those who sit that the only way they can be ousted is through the efforts of the Noble Opposition. Anyone who even hears a slender whisper of the Fives dies. And, naturally, the further we get from the moment, the easier it is to hide the tracks. The Chair may hold power, but OverCommanders have always ruled, if in secret.”

  The Five nodded. Time hid all wounds. “And the Sigma Soldiers?”

  If the Five was hoping to elicit a natural response, he was going to be disappointed. Vasily had instantly determined that the Fives were responsible for the theoretical disappearance of the sleeping giants. “That … that remains more difficult, yes. But I think I do not need to worry about that any longer, do I, sa?”

  A faint flicker of a smile flitted across the Five’s wide mouth. “No, sa, you don’t.”

  The conversation faltered. Vasily … Vasily still wanted to launch everything he could muster. It was a reflexive desire. “How did you make this call?”

  “The equipment you Latelians came to this solar system was from Trinity, OverCommander. That, and we have … made our own modifications.” The Five nodded at the frisson of confusion on the other man’s face. “It is true. Though we Five were not scientists, technicians or engineers when we went into the conversion chambers, when we rose up, our minds were filled with the most amazing ideas. Machines and weapons and all manner of things that staggered our collective imaginations. All of it, invisible to your ‘LINK-controlled systems.”

  Vasily wanted to run down that avenue of questioning but went another way. “Why are you not dead?”

  The Five frowned. “Come, sa. If the echoes of our glorious selves can live for thousands of years, why not we? Stupid questions do not become you, though it is understandable. You are confronted with boogeymen from the dim past.”

  “Why did you take my soldiers?”

  “Yours?” The Five shook his head. “They are nobody’s. They were Sigma’d.”

  “I … we … we all cared for them!” Vasily bellowed, angrily slamming fists against the arms of the chair. “We did the best we could! Those fucking … the Chairs are responsible, not us. Sigma’d, they cannot be cared for! All but the most basic of machinery fails around them! The ubiquitous netLINK, driven by that damnable First Engine, ‘sees what cannot be’ and turns everything off! Protecting those men has cost more lives throughout the millennia than simply letting them die! How dare you even imply we did not care.”

  “Such a soldier.” The Five smiled. “Yes, of course you and all your brethren did the best you could, and for that, we thank you. You have provided.”

  That drew Vasily up short. It sounded ominous. Too ominous. It was a fact that God soldiers continued the slow crawl up whatever evolutionary ladder existed within the genetic structure imparted to them by the conversion chambers, even while asleep, even while in the best and most advanced cryogenic coffins. There were hundreds of thousands of Goddies asleep in OIPs around every planet, and they were all becoming more … more.

  The Sigma Soldiers had slept longer than any. Thousands of years, most of them. Unfettered and uncontrolled by the … ‘supplements’ that ‘treated’ the ‘rejection’ of cybernetic parts, there was no telling what kind of God soldiers the Fives had under their control. From history, Vasily knew that very few Goddies survived the transition from Two to Three and from Three to Four. Of those that did, a discouraging number went … insane.

  No, not insane. Different. They appeared loyal to the Regime. They did as commanded and followed orders –as they always had- without hesitation, without doubt, without fear. A few, though, seeded here and there, were different. Those differences grew more and more apparent over time until, one day, the Latelian God Army devoted massive amounts of resources to end that difference.

  Generally, it took about a thousand Onesies to put down a Foursie. And a ridiculous amount of orbitally deployed munitions. Then, to be safe, the various remaining pieces were scooped up and thrown into the sun. Everyone imagined the God Army had little to do in the system now that their ‘heathen smashing’ days were over. Not so. Most of their time was filled with hunting rogue soldiers. That, and coming up with creative ways to disguise the devastation.

  The Five broke the silence. “You are such a deep thinker, OverCommander. Moreso than many others in your line of work.”

  “I have a great deal to think upon.” Vasily replied automatically. It was a standard answer he gave Alyssa when his mind went elsewhere, but it fit here perfectly.

  “And what are you thinking?” The Five a
sked, bemused.

  “Why are you here?” Vasily asked with all the majesty and might he could muster. He was OverCommander. He commanded forty million God soldiers. If need be, he speculated, he had enough to destroy the Fives and whatever Sigmas were capable of fighting. The conflict would surely shatter planets and wreak havoc across the entire system and would –once the dust settled- leave them with perhaps three or four Onesies, but do it he would.

  “We are here to attend to Garth N’Chalez.” The Five returned Vasily’s gaze easily.

  Vasily slammed a hand against the control panel. There was nothing else he could do. Anything else he did would see missiles in the air. “Of course you are. You’re here to kill him as well, I take it. Or try to.”

  “We are here to attend to Garth N’Chalez.”

  “You said that already.” Vasily couldn’t resist the childish jab. He’d been out of his element for a long time, it seemed, and was sick to death of being OverCommander. He imagined the call he could make to Alyssa. ‘Hello, dear, an army of unstoppable Sigma Soldiers are on our doorstep and the legendary Sigma Fives are telling them what to do’.

  He wanted to throw up.

  “Indeed I did, OverCommander Vasily.” The Five continued when Vasily stopped looking around the room for things to break. “We have a request.”

  “You can take any fucking thing you want and you are asking me for a favor?” Vasily shouted the question so hard that his lungs and throat started aching immediately.

  “It would be … impolite … to take what we want when it can be given.”

  Vasily wanted to order The Five to stop being so reasonable and polite. It was unfair. It made him feel that his fear and overwhelming concern for the planet was misplaced and childish when every fiber of his being was continually reminding him that The Fives had shown no compunction in destroying everything in their wake five thousand years ago. Nothing about what he’d been told about The Fives hinted at politeness. They’d nearly ended the Latelian Regime before it’d even had a chance to grown beyond a hundred thousand colonists.

  “What do you want?” he asked, resigned to fate. Vasily was certain the request was going to be something insane like ‘we would like everyone in Northon to move out, the beachfront property there is quite nice’.

  “We require a thousand tickets to tomorrow’s Game.”

  Vasily lost it. He laughed his damnfool head off for a solid five minutes, pausing in between massive gales of gut-wrenching hilarity to make sure that The Five wasn’t playing some kind of practical joke. When you were a Five, he supposed you could afford to make all the jokes and be as nonsensical as you felt.

  “No, seriously,” Vasily wiped tears from his eyes, “What is it you really want?”

  “We require a thousand tickets to tomorrow’s Game. We are here to attend to Garth N’Chalez.” The Five repeated the question with the same level of calm he’d displayed throughout the conversation. “Please.”

  The Five wasn’t making a strange joke after all. Vasily eyed the grey-eyed giant speculatively. “Even assuming I can find a thousand tickets for you and nine hundred and ninety-nine of your closest friends, you and the other Four are entirely too big. You would stand out like sore thumbs and while I know who you are and am treading lightly, many of our citizens are … idiots. They’ll start poking you with sticks before you even sit down.”

  “Size,” The Five said portentously, “is relative. You can easily guarantee the acquisition of a thousand tickets, OverCommander. The Chairwoman’s Martial Law restrictions have no doubt filled many Gamegoers with an utter lack of interest in attending in person. Ensure that none of the seats are too close together. We prefer heights, as well.”

  “All the better to attend to Garth N’Ch … N’Chla … how do you pronounce his last name?”

  “Indeed.” The Five nodded brusquely. “To attend to N’Chalez. And it’s all in how you hear the words, sa. Not in how you say them.”

  “I … I don’t understand.”

  “You soon will.”

  The Screens went dark. Vasily rubbed his forehead gingerly, wincing at the knot forming right in the middle. He couldn’t believe he’d actually done that. Under the circumstances, anyone lesser probably would’ve preferred to just shoot themselves and be done with it, but he was OverCommander.

  Well, it was time to be about the business of filling the Game Stadium with nine hundred ninety-five Sigma Soldiers and the Sigma Fives.

  Vasily prayed –actually prayed, using prayers learned from an IndoRussian commander in Trinity’s Army- that he was doing the right thing. He called up the Promoter’s Guild avatars, grabbed the first name he found, and pushed the call through to the poor man.

  You Know What, Fuck It

  Samwell opened his eyes, morbidly embarrassed that the first thing out of his mouth had been a pretty vile curse word, hoping as he did so that the person on the Screen had decided to go away and not call back.

  He winced.

  OverCommander Vasily had not, in fact, ended the call. He was, in fact, staring icily through the Screen, demeanor chilly enough to freeze the sun.

  Samwell straightened his shoulders. He’d probably already done himself irreparable harm by swearing at the OverCommander. Little else could happen. Start as you mean to go on and all that. Strictly speaking, Samwell hadn’t necessarily chosen this route, but whatever. “OverCommander Vasily.”

  Bemused at having seen several hundred different emotions live and die in the three seconds it’d taken for Sa Samwell to open his eyes after slamming them shut, Vasily decided to let the man’s inopportune cursing slide. “Sa Samwell, I am told you are our … liaison … for this Game.”

  Samwell snorted. Maybe it was the drinking at work. It could be that. They all drank at work during Gametime. It was … it was chaos out there and the Chairwoman kept calling to make changes that she probably thought happened at the push of a button … but … but no, the Game was too complex for avatars. Gametime was probably the last nearly one hundred percent people run business in the solar system. “If by liaison you mean the man who keeps getting called by people like you for random and impossible changes to a four thousand plus year old tradition, yes.” He straightened his shoulders again.

  His body kept trying to shrink itself. Samwell poured himself another drink, raised the glass to the OverCommander and downed it in a single swallow.

  Vasily blinked. The man was clearly drunk. At work. What was the world coming to? He made to tear a strip off the fool but then paused, something he would’ve never done a year or less ago. Alyssa had made … had forced … drastic changes to the Game. The man was right. It was a four thousand year old tradition, full of historical wonders and had been a mainstay in all their lives and she’d not only truncated it, but also by putting Garth Nickels in the ring against eight God soldiers, she’d turned it into her own assassination machine.

  A little consideration might be in order. Vasily bit back the haranguing and did his best smile, then stopped; Samwell cringed, groaned, and grabbed hold of both sides of his desk at that, looking for the entire world like he was going to head-butt his Screen. “I … require a personal favor.”

  That grabbed Samwell’s attention. That was how you asked for things from the Promoter’s Guild. You offered things in return. Not like the Chairwoman, who suggested just by breathing that even if you did what she wanted, you’d likely end up with your head on a pole by dawn. “What … what do you, er, need?”

  A favor owed by the OverCommander? He’d be President of the Guild by morning. Not that it mattered. Chairwoman Doans had done some really effective and permanent damages to the Game with her stupid demands.

  “I need one thousand tickets randomly situated throughout the crowd for tomorrow’s Final Game.” Else nearly a hundred thousand uncontrolled and loyalty-free God soldiers level Three and above will descend upon Hospitalis, led by none other than the legendary Sigma Fives, who didn’t even really need an army. Vasily gr
inned against the madness even as he imagined what that would look like. What an army!

  What had the unnamed Five meant about ‘size is relative’? Vasily desperately wanted to know, but was drawn back to the conversation as Samwell grabbed something from his desk and broke it in half, then threw the pieces at the Screen. Dissatisfied with the carnage, he cast around for something else to break.

  When he couldn’t find anything else to destroy, Samwell swept everything off his desk and smiled. “Would you like me to have the fights in your back yard while we’re at it? A thousand tickets? People pay for these things! It’s not like they’re cheap, either! Citizens save up for five long years to afford seats in the various venues, and they can barely afford the cost of admission, and that’s only for when we’re hosting the Game on another planet! To get a seat, on Hospitalis, to a live Game, people have sold kidneys. Sometimes both. Parents have sacrificed their children’s education funds; banks have issued loans at triple the interest rates. Did you know that theft, specifically burglary, kidnapping and muggings increase ten to fifteen-fold in the year before a Game is held? Did you know that the Guild is responsible for handling those problems? Not the army, not the cops, not … no one! Us!

  Giving … giving away a thousand already paid for tickets … there will be riots in the streets! People will jump out of buildings. Some few mouth-breathing Gameheads who only ever see the light of day every five years may find themselves possessed of the urge to try and chew the ear off a God soldier! And random? You know what the odds are that doing so will break up couples? End marriages? Whoever the fuck you want in that stadium could find themselves sitting next to a thousand year old si instead of her equally decrepit … fine, you know what? Fuck it. Fuck. It. Might as well call the Game the ‘We’re Doing What We Want This Time Because We Don’t Like You People Very Much At All’ Game. Fuck.”

  Samwell shot pure, alcoholic venom at a suitably nonplussed OverCommander Vasily as he flew his hands across the keys of his proteus. A thousand tickets. It wasn’t that it was free seats he was giving away; every man in his position had between ten and fifteen tickets that they could do whatever they wanted with, it was the amount. A thousand. The moment the President of the Guild found out, he was done for. It was career suicide. Not that it mattered. The Game was done for, no matter what the other idiots in the office thought.