All Against All

by Nathan Allen

  Money functions like a moat, he thought to himself as he slipped his shoes back on. It protects the rich from the rabble.

  Lachlan didn’t think he’d ever get the chance to see his sister again. As recently as a few days ago, he accepted that in all likelihood Alice was dead. He had tried contacting her numerous times, but encountered nothing but dead ends. Her APhID had been disconnected, and she had disappeared from her old apartment months ago.

  Filing a missing persons report wasn’t an option, given that he was still wanted over his role in the kidnapping. Besides, if she had become another statistic in the lottery there would be nothing anyone could do.

  The feelings of guilt and shame weighing down on him were overwhelming. No matter how many times he tried to justify his actions, he couldn’t look past the fact that he had abandoned his sister and left her to die. He knew he had no choice in the matter, and that even if he could have stuck around this would have done nothing to affect the lottery’s ultimate outcome. It was rational, but it didn’t make him feel the slightest bit better.

  Just when he thought he was ready to accept that she was gone, he received a call out of the blue.

  The shock of hearing Alice’s voice was so great that several minutes elapsed before it finally dawned on him what had happened. By some miracle, she had won.

  He stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, and less than ten seconds later he had ascended to the eighty-eighth floor.

  During their brief twenty-nine second conversation, Alice mentioned that she would need his help with something. She was sketchy with the details, and he would have to meet with her in person to get the full rundown on what she had planned, but she hinted that it involved Discordia regrouping to pull off one final jam.

  Lachlan wasn’t sure what she had in mind exactly, but Alice’s plans were unlikely to ever come to fruition. Discordia was finished now. They had bitten off far more than they could chew, and they were now dealing with the ugly fallout. They had incurred the wrath of some of the world’s most powerful people, and in the end nothing was really achieved.

  He should have known that nothing ever changes. The rich get richer, and the rest of the world fight for the leftovers.

  Lachlan would now spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. Emilia Ulbricht may have publicly declared her support for Discordia and refused to press charges, but this did nothing to affect their status as criminals. They were still wanted by police, who would doubtlessly invent new laws to charge them with, and all faced lengthy prison time if caught.

  The elevator doors opened, and Lachlan saw Alice for the first time in almost two years.

  From the moment he laid eyes her, he knew she was in deep trouble. She had shed so much weight that she barely looked human. She was so pale that he thought she might melt into a puddle the second she was exposed to natural light. Her cheeks were sunken and gaunt, like someone had taken a carving knife to her face.

  Despite her condition, Lachlan’s appearance managed to invoke a faint smile in her.

  “You made it,” she said.

  “Hey, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see what a luxury penthouse apartment looked like from the inside,” he replied.

  A moment went by without either one speaking. Lachlan settled into a chair.

  Alice reached for one of the many Xylox bottles she had scattered throughout the place. She winced as she extended her arm. Her body was so depleted that even the simplest movements caused discomfort.

  She tapped out two pills and forced them down with a mouthful of water.

  “So,” Lachlan said. “What are these top secret plans you have for me?”

  Alice took a deep breath, then leaned forward. The smile on her face grew marginally wider.

  “Are you ready for this?” she said.

  XOMBIES RUN WILD

  The Daily Ink

  21 April, 2067

  Pharmacists across the city are bracing for the worst as swarms of violent xombies roam the streets on the hunt for drugs.

  As many as five pharmacies a day are being held up, with degenerate addicts making off with thousands of dollars worth of medication.

  “It’s completely out of control,” remarked one retailer, who asked not to be identified. “We’ve been robbed three times in the past two weeks. These people will do whatever it takes to get their hands on the drugs. They don’t even care what it is, just as long as it gets them high. Half of my staff have quit because they’re unable to deal with the stress.”

  Many have taken unprecedented steps to protect themselves and their employees, including hiring round-the-clock security guards. Unconfirmed reports have emerged of others arming themselves with weapons.

  This latest shocking crime wave is believed to be the result of the ongoing counterfeit Xylox drought, brought on by the recent death of notorious underworld crime figure Bourke “Goliath” Nation.

  Health experts have called on Elixxia Pharmaceuticals, the makers of Xylox, to supply addicts with affordable medication and provide further treatment options to assist with their withdrawal and rehabilitation process.

  This proposal has been rejected by Elixxia Pharmaceuticals, who declined to comment for this article.

  The company’s share price rose a further six percent today to reach an all-time high of $124.55.

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  Alice opened her eyes. Her head pounded with sharp spasms of pain. A dull tone rang in both ears. She didn’t know how long she’d been out for. It couldn’t have been long; half a minute, maybe.

  She tried breathing, but inhaled a lungful of the toxic smoke wafting through Goliath’s lair.

  She was sprawled out on the floor, barely able to move. She felt like she had been hit by a car.

  She raised her head and saw that everyone else had been floored by Needlemouse’s unscheduled detonation. Dozens of dazed and semiconscious xombies were spread throughout the room. Christopher was on his back, his robotic legs twitching in mid-air.

  And then, for one brief moment, something remarkable occurred. Time stood still. All her fear and anger and sadness lifted, and she was touched by a sudden revelation.

  She didn’t want to die.

  More to the point, she didn’t want to die here, like this. As a contestant in some warped game, held solely for the amusement of the world’s most privileged people.

  That was the exact moment Alice chose life over death. If she was going to die, it wouldn’t be without a fight. She wasn’t about to just sit there and accept her fate. She was going to make those responsible pay for what they had done to her, and to the twenty-six others in the lottery. She vowed to do whatever it took to ensure this kind of thing never happened again.

  She made it out of the slaughterhouse in one piece, and an hour later was declared victorious in the lottery.

  The following six months were spent mapping out her next move. She was confident she could pull it off, but she couldn’t do it alone. She would need Lachlan’s help to make it happen. And Lachlan would need every contact he had to make her plans become a reality.

  But if everything came together, the sweetest revenge of all would be hers.

  Chapter 37

  It took multiple attempts before Solomon Turner could prize open his heavy eyelids.

  He squinted. His eyes turned to water.

  He blinked several times in rapid succession until his pupils adjusted to the bright light. He evaluated his surroundings. An unfamiliar all-white room, like an insane asylum. Everything was out of focus, an indefinite blur of hazy shapes and muted sounds.

  His mind had regressed to sludge. This was like waking up after a month-long bender. He didn’t have the faintest idea of where he was or how he came to be there.

  He tried standing, but found he was unable to move. He focused all his energy on lifting his right arm. It refused to budge.

  He was paralyzed, numb from the neck down. Trapped like an insect in amber.
He wanted to cry out for help, but the words traveled no further than the gag stuffed inside his mouth.

  A minute later his vision sharpened, and the fog cleared from his mind.

  He looked down to find that he wasn’t actually paralyzed. He was strapped into a large chair, like the ones used in courtrooms to restrain violent criminals. His arms and legs were held firmly in place with electronic shackles. He moved his body around and attempted to wriggle free, but to no avail. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  A silhouette appeared in front of him. The outline of a man of towering height.

  This must be the kidnapper.

  Solomon was being held for ransom. When you were the world’s tenth-richest man, something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.

  He knew not to panic. He was prepared for situations like this. Contingency plans had been in place his whole life. His security team would be on their way any moment now. They could track him through his APhID, or via the nanodevices he had implanted in his clothing.

  He didn’t know who was behind this. He only knew they wouldn’t be getting a cent out of him.

  He looked up at the man, and a flicker of recognition crossed his face. He knew this person. It was an employee of his.

  It was the Messenger.

  A flood of relief came over Solomon. His team must have arrived already. He had never been so thrilled to see a member of his staff in all his life. He relaxed, safe in the knowledge that everything would be alright.

  So why were there still lingering doubts in the back of his mind?

  Something wasn’t quite right with this picture. Something to do with the Messenger’s demeanor. He made no move to get Solomon out of his predicament. He gave no indication that he was here to help. He just stood there with an impassive look on his face.

  A horrendous thought entered Solomon’s mind: what if the Messenger wasn’t here to rescue him?

  What if he was part of this?

  That couldn’t possibly be true. Not a chance. There was no way something like that could ever happen.

  And then, while Solomon was still trying to figure everything out in his head, the Messenger launched straight into his spiel.

  “If you are here tonight,” the Messenger began, “that means you have been selected to take part in a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

  For the first time, Solomon noticed he wasn’t alone. Twelve more chairs encircled the room in a seashell formation. Each chair held a captive, and each captive was in the process of emerging from their anesthetized slumber.

  They were:

  Katharine Deckert, mining entrepreneur (estimated net worth of $340 billion).

  Angelo Deluca, casinos & gambling ($600 billion).

  Mae Foster-Morris, banking ($1.2 trillion).

  Jennifer Gibbs, petrochemicals, oil & gas ($850 billion).

  Boyd Hemingway, aviation ($720 billion).

  Teresa Hubicki, energy ($570 billion).

  Nelson Hyslop, ASE Industries ($280 billion).

  Dominic Massa, real estate ($770 billion).

  Lexis Oxley, telecommunications ($380 billion).

  Douglas Pridham, Elixxia Pharmaceuticals ($1.4 trillion).

  Ethan Ulbricht, AFX Entertainment ($560 billion).

  Hannah Unger, retail ($440 billion).

  The thirteen captives were all members of the Consortium. Some of the world’s wealthiest and most powerful people, all in the one room, and all being held like common prisoners.

  “You may be wondering what’s going on here,” the Messenger continued. “So let me bring you up to speed. At one point, the thirteen of you held a collective wealth amounting to nine trillion dollars. The large majority of that is now gone. My client has seized control of your bank accounts, your holdings, your properties. Anything of value that my client could find. The total value of the assets they were able to recover was somewhere in the vicinity of six trillion dollars. My client has now placed that in a trust.”

  For a short eternity, Solomon’s heart stopped beating.

  This had to be a hoax. Some sort of elaborate practical joke the others were playing on him. But judging by the looks on their faces, they were just as stupefied as he was.

  “Which brings us to our reason for being here tonight. Each of you will find an invitation in your pocket. On the back of that invitation are two contact numbers. If you call the number on the bottom right, your name will be entered into a type of lottery. The entire prize pool of six trillion dollars will be awarded to the lottery’s last surviving member.”

  This news hit the thirteen members like a sledgehammer to the face.

  “For each day the contest runs, one billion dollars will be deducted from the total prize pool and deposited into ten thousand randomly-selected bank accounts.”

  The Messenger paused a moment to straighten his tie and allow this to sink in.

  “Of course, participation in the lottery is completely optional, and you are under no obligation whatsoever to take part. For those of you who do not wish to participate, simply dial the number on the bottom-left of your invitation, and you will receive your consolation prize of two thousand dollars in cash within twenty-four hours.”

  Solomon’s fear and confusion was rapidly fading, and a blind fury taking its place. The drugs were wearing off, and the numbness slowly leaving his limbs. He wanted nothing more than to burst from his confines and dismember the Messenger with his bare hands. But it was useless. These chairs were designed to restrain convicts five times his size.

  “You have until midnight tomorrow to make your decision, after which the offer expires and you will receive nothing.”

  For someone so used to being in control, this was pure torture. Solomon had never felt so helpless in all his life.

  Even though the individual members of Discordia had agreed to lay low for a while, it didn’t take much to convince them all to regroup for one last jam. Lachlan called them together to pitch this final stunt – one in which they would go out with a bang.

  It was their chance to create history by pulling off the single greatest act of rebellion ever.

  They recruited as many people as they could to make it happen, and everyone they approached immediately agreed to help out. No one was about to pass up the chance to stick it to the mega-wealthy; these selfish egomaniacs who had spent their lives greedily accumulating massive fortunes with no regard for those they hurt in the process, and depriving resources from the ones that needed them the most.

  Everyone had fantasized at one time or another that something like this might occur, and these tyrants would be held to account and given a taste of their own medicine. But no one dreamed it would ever come to fruition.

  They began by slowly infiltrating the lives of each of the thirteen Consortium members. Documents were forged, identities stolen, accounts hacked, assets seized and safe havens raided. Discordia meticulously plundered everything they could get their hands on – stocks, bonds, properties, cash, jewelry, gold bullion, priceless artworks, vintage cars – and eventually made off with over six trillion dollars in assets, or close to seventy percent of their combined wealth.

  The thirteen Consortium members were sedated, then transported to a rented warehouse and strapped into their restraints.

  Hiring the Messenger to deliver the news was Alice’s idea. She thought it would be the perfect layer of icing on an already delicious cake.

  Of course, none of this would have been possible without the cooperation of the Consortium members’ many loyal employees; their drivers, butlers, bodyguards, secretaries, chefs, personal assistants, and so on. Alice’s near-inexhaustible fortune opened many doors, and staff were easily persuaded to turn against their employer. Loyalty appeared to dematerialize the second someone laid eyes on a briefcase full of cash.

  When ordinary people were presented with extraordinary amounts of money, free will became something of an elastic concept. After all, everyone has their price.

  The chair�
�s restraints snapped open, and the captives were freed.

  They looked to the Messenger, but he was nowhere to be seen. He had somehow slipped out of the room without anyone noticing.

  The thirteen members of the Consortium traded uneasy sideways glances, unsure what to say or do next. Many were still quite woozy, their bodies as limp and languid as dying house plants.

  They knew they should discuss what had happened in a calm and orderly manner, then figure out what course of action needed to be taken from here. They had all been victims of a serious crime. Immediate steps should be put in place to hunt down the perpetrators and recover what was stolen.

  But no one moved, and none of them spoke.

  The room crackled with an electric silence.

  The thirteen people inside this room once had a combined net worth greater than the world’s poorest eight billion. Now, nearly two thirds of that had been wiped out in a single hit.

  All still controlled vast fortunes. Empires worth many billions of dollars. Enough to live fabulously decadent lifestyles a hundred times over. But was that enough? Once you’ve experienced life with three-quarters of a trillion dollars to you name, how could you possibly go back to a mere eighty billion? What sort of power would that exert?

  And what sort of power could you exert with a mind-boggling six trillion?

  The exact same thought entered the brains of all thirteen members simultaneously: the opportunity now existed for someone in this room to become the most powerful person in the history of human civilization.

  The Messenger wasn’t lying when he said he was offering a once in a lifetime opportunity.

  Solomon Turner was the first to crack. He propelled himself out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box.

  His legs gave way as soon as he put weight on them. He collapsed to the floor like a heavy sack of potatoes. His body was still recovering from its involuntary tranquilization.

  He willed himself to move. There was no time to waste. Time was money.

  He pulled the gag from his mouth, then staggered to his feet and scrambled out the door like a newborn foal just learning to walk.