Citizen Pariah (Unreal Universe Book 3)

by Lee

  Down below, the fight started. Oscar watched nervously, dancing from foot to foot as Garth and Chad traded blows. He hardly batted an eye at the flaming sword, though his eyebrows went up at the revelation of the darts. Those were vicious indeed.

  Oscar’s stomach rebelled as the two men drew closer to the end of the fight. It was obvious that Chad was the winner; while not a Gamehead, Oscar had nevertheless watched every Game with his family and friends. Any Latelian over the age of ten could tell you with a reasonable degree of accuracy who was going to win a fight, and when that fight was …

  Lights started flashing. Alarms Oscar didn’t remember building into the Device sounded. Holographic displays showed mathematical descriptions of energy peaks and consumption protocols.

  The Improbability Device shuddered as Garth punched a hole through Chadsik’s chest. The Device immediately swallowed an unfathomable amount of wasted energy and the whole darn thing started shaking.

  The Device announced it was tethering itself to Chadsik al-Taryin’s flight path and sure enough, they started moving across the sky, following an extremely irate super-cyborg across the sky, keeping a safe distance the whole way.

  The Device showed a different energy signature, one similar to the one just released by Garth but … well, different, building up around Chadsik. On-Screen, Chad reached some kind of agreement and the energy was released.

  Again, the dogged avatars running the Improbability Device announced its intentions and swallowed yet more vast wasted energy.

  “Reality Engines powered up. Prepare for cross-Reality Jump. Estimated time of arrival … not yet.”

  “Uhoh.” Oscar sat down where he was, wondering what it was he’d been volunteered for.

  Odds and Ends Before the End Begins

  As terrible as it sounded –and the man put great effort into ensuring that no one ever found out- OverCommander Vasily Tizhen hated flying. He hated everything about it. Increasingly loathe to make the journey from The Peak to Central City, a task he was called upon to do at least three or four times a day, the only thing he hated more than planetary flight was space travel.

  He didn’t know what it was. He’d checked discreetly through the historical journals kept by all the OverCommanders, which was why he knew about Trames’ crush and a million other pointless little asides, but none of them had hated flying. Oh, they’d hated the routine grind of it all, and had expressed their various doubts about this machine or that, but none of them –at least in their journals- had said ‘I hate flying’.

  It was embarrassing. U-Ito, Salms and Harredad hopped on planes and ships and rockets like it was nothing at all, and teased him gently about turbulence and strange noises, never once knowing they came close to being throttled in their seats.

  Tonight, though, Vasily was in a spaceship, on his own, staring moodily at a sight that had destroyed his poor testicles; they’d taken one look at the five asteroids floating in perfect circumference around Hospitalis and decided they’d have a better chance hiding inside.

  The craggy rocks were enormous. The scanners on his personal vessel –fueled by some of the more advanced avatars available to military personnel- weren’t picking anything up, so he screwed one eye shut and used his judgment. Each rock was between two and three miles across the widest part, and, if hollowed out –which these almost had to be- each moonlet could hold an army of thousands.

  It was … mind-numbing. Vasily’s poor senses, slammed and hammered at each and every turn for the last few months, could barely process what he was looking at right that very second, let alone the threat each asteroid ship represented on a long-term basis. Every time he tried to form a coherent solution, his brain balked, instead demanding that he focus more on the problems.

  There were, –excluding the Fives- a hundred thousand or more God soldiers in there that were invisible to scanners, immune to targeting equipment and attack avatars designed to rip through enemy cyborg defenses. A hundred thousand Threes and Fours who’d reached such a level of God army perfection without having fought in any significant wars, who’d not had thousands of years of militaristic loyalty hammered into their brains, who’d not been infused with the ‘supplements’ that were, in fact, a cocktail of debilitating and mind-warping drugs making the process of marshaling such giant men a fairly easy prospect.

  Then there were the Fives themselves.

  Vasily pursed his lips tightly, and then just … relaxed. There was nothing he could do. He’d acquired the thousand seats as directed by the Five. There was no reason for them to be unhappy. They were here to attend to Garth Nickels, whatever the hell that meant.

  Personally, Vasily hoped it meant they were here to take whatever they could scoop into a small bag and carry away with them, because once Gurant was through with the Offworlder, there was going to be astonishingly little in the way of recognizable body parts.

  Vasily liked Nickels, but was honestly and sincerely praying that the Foursie turned the man into a thin red soup on the dusty floor of the arena.

  Something shot by him at monstrous speed, flipping the smallish ship end over end. Avatars started screaming warnings, filling the tiny cabin with hellish sounds and blinking lights as every program onboard worked overtime to right the ship and to keep it from flying off into space.

  Vasily grit his teeth and focused on not throwing up.

  Even the great and mighty fail.

  xxx

  Griffin landed Bessie just outside Central City. There wasn’t anything in the world beyond his grasp, and once –after- he’d kidnapped Alyssa Doans and forced her into revealing the location of the HIM … once that happened, he’d be King of the Universe. Then everyone would lie on their backs and spread their legs, at which time he’d find the Heshii wherever they were and invite the alien bastards in.

  The Enforcer patted the interplanetary rocket ship lovingly on a landing strut before walking away. That old sa had surely been right, they really did build things to last in Latelyspace; the old girl, why, she’d flown straight as an arrow and as smooth as cruising down I-95 in an old ’56 Cadillac. A bit cranky on the turns, but that’d only added character. Griffin grinned at some of the foolish antics he’d gotten up to en route to Central City, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Buzzing some of the smaller towns en route from that tiny museum to Central had been a hoot, and since he was technically radar invisible, all he’d needed to do to avoid the eventual search ships that’d been dispatched was fly a bit out of the way and ‘lay low’.

  He’d done it to give the old sa a bit more of a story to tell the kiddies when he got Bessie back. Standing there saying ‘well, this here ship got stolen and did nothing more exciting than a very quiet and safe flight from here to Central City’ wouldn’t inspire the little ones to do anything at all, except maybe look for a place to hide until the tour ended. Being able to say ‘this here ship, well, she done terrorized the livin’ daylights outta every man, woman, child and small doggie ‘twixt here’n Central…’. That was an attention-grabber, sure enough.

  A huge thunderclap filled the sky. Griffin’s eyes immediately tracked to the spot where the noise had come from and he watched, irises blossoming to swallow the image whole, as a piercing white light so bright that it blotted out the storm clouds hovering over Port City filled the sky. A scant, jittery heartbeat later, a second, purple burst of incandescence stabbed through the bruised, lightning-heavy clouds.

  Griffin frowned and exhaled noisily through his nose. He’d been avoiding putting on his helmet for a number of reasons, the primary one being he didn’t want to get brain-fucked by any spastic AI programs left behind by Trinity, but if he wanted to find out what that dual burst of differently colored beams were all about, he was going to have to risk it.

  “Might as well.” Griffin stared cautiously at the helmet. “Can’t dance and Ah’m too fat t’ fly.” He slipped it on.

  After the Suit and helmet finished connecting and booting up, Griffin waited four mi
nutes for everything to decide it was safe to use; the first readout to become truly readable amidst a background of red and black error sigils was a repair update. His Enforcer Suit was at forty-six percent operational capacity, which was both good and bad.

  It was good on account of how he’d be able to defend himself against any God soldiers or other random fucktards he ran into, and in fairly short order. All the big weapons were still offline, but, and it was a big but, but if he ran into something needing a superstring cannon to be brought down, he reckoned he’d be in a bigger pile of shit than ever seen.

  It was bad on general principles; the more functional the Suit grew before gaining access to the HIM and freed himself from the armor, the more likely it was that Trinity’d just reach out and snag him back.

  Griffin nodded. “All right now, son, show us what that was all about.” The Enforcer flicked his hands through the holographic command, weeding through the nearly limitless pile of data absorbed by the Suit every second.

  Owing to the strange nature of the event, finding the data took no time at all. Griffin watched the footage a few times, increasing the slow-motion replay until the images crawled across his visor at glacial speed.

  He’d been too far away from the epicenter and the Suit was too damaged to do much in the way of virtual reconstruction, but fuck him if, in the very middle of that first boom of light … yes, he was pretty damn sure that was Chadsik al-Taryin.

  “Oh, ain’t that rich.” Griffin slapped his knee. “The mighty, mighty assassin gits his ass handed to him. Finally.”

  There was nothing much to the second, smaller, purple burst. It was apparent something was at the center of the blast, but again, the condition of the Suit and his distance from the event revealed nothing. Unsurprisingly –at least in the cockamamie solar system that was Latelyspace- the Suit had zilch to say about the matter of either explosion. The energies released could just as easily be Pym Particles as gamma radiation, for all the Suit was concerned.

  “Ah well.” Griffin oriented himself on where he wanted to be and trucked off, keeping a wary eye out for prowling God soldiers. Wouldn’t do to have to bust a few heads this close to the end. No, stealth –while not his strong Suit- was key.

  xxx

  Alyssa smiled happily at her reflection in the mirror. It was a good day. Things were going her way and would continue to do so until she became Ruler of The Universe. It was just a few small steps now. Once Garth was dead and his vast empire of money hers, her dreams of conquest would become manifest.

  Everything was going to work in her favor. She’d seen to that; if, miracle by miracles and impossibility piled high enough to touch the moon, if that damnable Offworlder managed to defeat eight God soldiers and Gurant in a single day, well, there were people and equipment in place to ensure Garth would not walk out of the arena.

  It was a most delicious plan. Garth’s adamancy towards ownership of The Box had given her the idea not two hours ago; he, like everyone else, believed that the Box ultimately displayed for the Victor of the Final Game was the real thing and so, when –if, so tremulously, implausibly, unlikely if- Garth Nickels survived to make an attempt to open the un-openable Box- he would be confronted by betrayal upon betrayal.

  Four snipers were going to murder him. Alyssa didn’t even care that it was going to happen in front of a hundred thousand or so spectators; the last few minutes of Garth’s life wouldn’t be televised, minimizing the gossip.

  While Garth’s brains and blood gently cooled on the floor of the Arena, she’d make an announcement concerning some kind of plot or insurrection or crime or whatever –she trusted her canny political mind to come up with something Suitable on the spot- that’d necessitated his death. Garth Nickels would be dead, his money hers, the Latelian Regime would become truly indomitable, and her might would blot out the suns from a hundred million galaxies.

  If the snipers failed, there were … other plans. Alyssa had learned to have more than one layer to everything she did where Garth Nickels was involved.

  It was all going to work out just fine.

  xxx

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, sis and sas, Chairwoman Alyssa Doans here, speaking to you in a recorded message. I bring good news, citizens of Hospitalis!

  Your magnificent adherence to the rules of Martial Law as I laid them out to you has earned a temporary reprieve! Every man, woman and child on the planet is hereby permitted to witness the Final Game wherever they choose, and in whatever numbers. Businesses great and small who rely upon Gametime customers for the bulk of their yearly profits will be open first thing in the morning, selling your favorite Gametime snacks and drinks.

  The Arena where the Final Game is being held will open their gates earlier than ever, allowing those of you with tickets to make your way there as soon as the sun rises! Once there, you may sit and relive the glory of previous Games and revel in the glorious magnificence that is the Game.

  But remember, loyal citizens! Martial Law still persists, and will continue to do so until I am confident that this world and all are capable of behaving like rational adults. Chaos in the stands and in the streets pre- and post-Game will not be tolerated. The slightest infraction will shatter my good will on this most momentous day and I can assure you, none of you will like the repercussions of foolish childishness.

  I understand that a certain amount of revelry is expected during The Final Game, and I encourage you to find as much enjoyment in the spectacle and glory of the new Eight Versus One category as well as the Final Fight itself, but I caution you; failure to abide by rules of enjoyment, a list appended to this message, will result in vigorous repercussions.

  Fear not, citizens of Latelyspace! The rules for spectatorship are not designed to detract from your enjoyment. They are there to enhance the fun.

  Follow them with all your heart and you will find yourself safely home before the sun sets, bodies intact.

  Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, sis and sas! I look forward to seeing you at the Arena tomorrow!

  xxx

  Huey looked at Ute, who looked like he could rip a building in half. The man was clearly a Foursie. While he didn’t have access to a great many of the implants and augments that such a soldier had to command, the meatsuit would have a hard time keeping up. “Look, sa, this is totally legit.”

  Ute was in a quandary. The man standing in front of him, arms thrown up to keep him from approaching the big metal box –from which agonizing screams erupted- was undoubtedly Hamilton Barnes, whom he’d dealt with once or twice before. The demeanor, though, was wrong.

  “Who is in there? Where is Garth Nickels?” Ute demanded loudly, raising his voice to parade ground levels to be heard over the escalating shrieks.

  “That’s a rhetorical question, right?” Huey’s eyes glazed over as he used the HIM’s quantum field to make a few on-the-fly manual adjustments to the q-circuits being burned into Garth’s atomic structure. The man wasn’t doing well. The injuries were fatal, and his Kin’kithal survival traits had been driven to the ultimate limit; somewhere down in the deep recesses of what made Garth Garth, some little genetic bit of resolute intent was trying to heal him.

  That same kernel of stubbornness was treating the quadronium circuitry as an infection, and was doing … doing weird things, implausibly shifting the structure, bizarrely managing to throw bits of impending q-circuitry off target.

  That was why it was taking so long and why Garth –who wasn’t even technically alive- was screaming as though his soul was being ripped from his body, inch by agonizing inch.

  Figuring out a solution was taking a considerable portion of Huey’s gigantic brain, and even aided by the limitless floodgate of processing power offered up by the HIM, it was taking its toll. The last thing he needed was a Foursie –underpowered or not- looking like he wanted to play a game of Punch the Stranger Torturing Garth N’Chalez in a Big Metal Box.

  Another howl erupted but Ute didn’t move, at least, not much; his massi
ve hands curled into fists and it took a bit of effort to keep from bashing someone who might not be Hamilton Barnes in the side of the head. The ex-Foursie’s reasoning was sound, if … barely. Garth Nickels had built the box. That was … that was basically it, the only thing keeping him from beating the grey-eyed stranger to a bloody pulp and attempting what would surely be a foolhardy rescue effort.

  Garth Nickels had built the box, and the box was clearly some kind of conversion chamber, an eerie copy of the original units used to create the Five. He’d failed to recognize the hulking contraption before because Garth’s unit had been built to stand like a tank, whereas the ancient machines had been more like beds than anything else. A simple mistake, one Ute suspected his subconscious had refused to correct for the even simpler reason that the entire concept was insane.

  Garth had built the box to transform himself into something capable of surviving the fight against the Eight and to win out against Gurant.

  Ute remembered his own transformation quite clearly. It had been … uncomfortable.

  A throaty, ragged shriek full of desperate pain issued from the box and Ute watched as Hamilton Barnes’ eyes glistened with tears. His hands, waving and wiggling in the air precisely like someone operating in a virtual environment, redoubled their efforts.

  “What happened?” Ute stepped forward, unclenching his fists. “My own conversion didn’t hurt this much. It grew unbearable … but this … this is …”

  “Fucking torture.” Huey grunted. It was the sheathes. The fucking sheathes were bucking the whole fucking system, preventing the laces of q-circuitry from latching onto the molecules making up Garth’s body, throwing the infinitesimally fine tendrils of ‘metal’ back and forth through an already shredded body. The process was mincing Garth N’Chalez into a thin paste. About the only thing keeping the man in human form was the QFE machinery, and that was more of an energy field closely approximating Garth’s natural body than anything else. “And Chadsik al-Taryin happened is what happened.”