by Haidji
As the platform stopped, she announced the game:
‘Now, live from the Night Stadium, especially for you,
SUICIDE GAME!
The new game
The new mania
8000 candidates and
Only one will survive
Only one can win!
Live from the Night Stadium
Nothing compares to what you'll see here
Nothing compares to what you'll watch
You have already chosen your candidate,
You have Made your bet
To be part of a
New and unexpected game
Now it’s time to let all be in the laps of the gods
And when the bell rings…it is time to jump for your life!
She spoke, as would she be the human part of the counter’s voice, as the counter displayed its numbers on all screens inside and outside the Stadium, inside people’s homes, and on their hands in mobile phones or other devices.
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1!
And the jump bell rang out loudly
JUMP!
And the candidates jumped, all at the same time, still hearing the echo of the bell’s sounding, as the Hare Krishna mantra started again.
In their homes, in front of the TV, holding their mobile devices, and even in the Stadium, people jumped, standing up, caught in the adrenaline rush of the moment, as the bell rang out.
Free falling bodies. After a twenty meter free fall, some wires broke, and the bodies continued down, falling on the Stadium ground, where dumb screams where muffled by the sound of the Hare Krishna mantra.
Outside the Stadium and also inside, everyone saw the candidates jumping and falling, even though some persons sitting very high up the Stadium did not have a good view. The 3D laser and plasma screen images were captivating, so people would concentrate on the candidates jumping; nobody saw or noticed the dead bodies on the Stadium ground, or really even thought about them.
Quickly came the ushers, all dressed in gray—the same color of the sand on the Stadium ground floor, with their minivans. Some removed the bodies, counted them, and took note of the numbers written inside their gloves, and brought them into different minivans to bring them to the elevators, to reach the street level floor and the right department, already separated by age and gender.
Others were busy spreading new sand on the floor, sweeping it over the places of impact, and taking out the remains of fresh blood with a shovel.
Each candidate had signed a complete donation form at the time of their registration in the game, so their bodies and belongings would never be claimed by their loved ones.
Meanwhile...the survivors were swinging on their lines, thirty meters from the ground, catching the attention of all the other persons present or watching on the media. They had been trained to never look down, and to smile and wink. Most of them managed only a pale smile, having survived deep inside a mad frenzy.
The cameras showed them smiling to the cameras, while the platform was now moving down to the ground, where young models dressed in blue, the color of the sky, were waiting on the ground to walk onto the platform with tables filled with transparent champagne glasses, to celebrate their victory.
125 glasses.
125...was the number, while the others who had jumped were already being forgotten.
As the platform touched the ground, the winners walked onto it again and the models rolled the tables onto it.
Then the platform moved up slowly again and stood at the height of the principal row of chairs, for the ten minutes of celebration, while the next group was being prepared to jump. The cameras kept moving between the first survivors, and the next group of candidates, never showing the ground of the Stadium or the already dead candidates.
After the celebration, the platform moved down, the winners winking to the audience and getting ready to leave the platform to enter the same minivans used by the ushers some minutes before. Elevators would take them to the street floor and they would leave the Stadium.
They would return to the condominium that was nearby, a big modern construction made with concrete and green glass, a kind of modern ghetto like modern fancy condominiums used to be, because human beings like transparency in their neighbors’ lives, while they figure out how to protect their own privacy. Inside the condominium all was virtually transparent, while the guards on the security gated entrance and some glass shards and electric wires over the walls could protect them from the dangerous outside world.
With the transparency and some cameras in the right places, the Council knew almost everything that happened inside the condominium. They knew where each of the candidates was staying.
After surviving the first step, the survivors would move into new rooms, the rooms for Step 2 of the Game, while the belongings of those who would never return were donated (or even better, sold) to certain kinds of ‘charities’, as the candidates had also signed in their registration waivers a clause that they would donate everything in their bodies, and left in their condominium rooms, to the administrators of the Game.
Meanwhile, the second group of candidates entered the Game and took their places on the platform while persons dressed in yellow walked among the crowds of spectators to sell betting tickets, while other groups of persons dressed in red were walking, selling drinks and meat sandwiches. Betting huts had been built, but in a hurry, so there weren’t enough to attend to all the spectators, or even the players, some of whom also placed bets before they were to make their jumps.
The voice of the beautiful Hostess rose again over the murmur of the crowd:
‘Wow, that was exciting! The first jump of the Game has already happened, did you make your bet? Do you already have your candidate? Soon it is time for the second group to jump. Here they are! Let’s welcome them all with a big round of applause!’
And there they were, the second group of candidates, standing on the edge of the platform, hearing the Hostess’ voice while the counter started…
‘SUICIDE GAME!
The new game
The new mania
8000 candidates and
Only one will survive
Only one can win!
Live from the Night Stadium
Nothing compares to what you'll see here
Nothing compares to what you'll watch
You have already chosen your candidate,
You have Made your bet
To be part of a
New and unexpected game
Now it’s time to leave it all in the laps of the gods
And when the bell rings…it is time to jump…for your life!
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1!
JUMP!’
The crowd jumped up again in their seats, and backwards, while the candidates were falling down through the air.
‘What a game! What a day!’ announced a commentator on the TV. ‘You have never seen anything like that!’
The second group’s jump left ninety survivors, the third group’s eighty-five, the fourth one hundred and thirty, the fifth—to many people's surprise, 192. There were 105 survivors in the sixth jump; the seventh, 108; 85 in the eighth; and in the ninth and tenth jumps, 106 and 96 respectively. Interesting numbers, and there was also betting on these numbers, not just betting on the identities of the jumpers, but on the number of survivors, so there was a lot of work for the odds-makers.
And while a seemingly increasing number of people walked among the crowd, dressed in yellow to sell betting tickets for today, the crowd was already running to the betting stands to buy some tickets for the next day.
From the initial 2000 candidates who jumped in step one of the Game, only 1122 remained alive.
They were waiting to participate in the second step, taking part in seminars at the condominium, where they were fully moved in; as though they believed this was their new home and they would live there until the end of the Game, and emerge as the lone survivor.
>
For now, at least, post-game interviews at the condominium were prohibited, but everyone, including the odds-makers, wanted to know why these people had moved in, like they were moving into a new home. There was considerable gossip, and some serious discussion, about what this meant, if anything, about the odds and who would win the game.
And then the Hostess, wearing the Femme Fatale red dress, as would she be the one that decided over life and death in the Game, slid over the platform that was descending to the ground floor. She was laughing and proclaiming the results after the 10 jumps on the first day, and the success of the first day. She promised more excitement and adventure in the Game between life and death, now coming up for the second game day with 2000 fresh new candidates, while the Stadium lights were fading away…and the yellow dressed bet sellers and red dressed food sellers counted how many bitcoins profit they had made on their first day.
White, Yellow, Red, Blue, Green, Purple and Black entered the conference room in silence. Alphabot from Alpha Smart Systems, the robot created by Vladimir Belyy, opened the door for them and then left the room to take care of his other obligations. It was Steven Laurence’s newest acquisition, his Personal Assistant to help here and there, wherever he needed a hand in the Stadium events.
Wearing colored togas according to their names, White, Yellow, Red, Blue, Green, Purple and Black took their fixed places around the round conference table, sitting down one after another, in a clockwise direction. Each of their respective parts of the round table lit up, in their respective color, when they spoke; voice recognition software also ensured they were always in their own places.
In front of each member was a polished metal sphere, about 3cm in diameter, which could be opened in two equal parts. The sphere was part of the voting system. Inside the sphere was a button that changed the color inside into red or green, by pressing it; red was for disapproval and green for approval. But the light would come on only after closing and then opening the sphere again, to maintain the privacy of the system.
A cup with coffee was already there for each one of them, in front of their places.
In the middle of the table rested a crystal ball, part of the voting system.
They were all of the Council Members, the ones who decided all that happens in the Game.
For about one hour they had their meeting about the first day and they voted on different issues for the next days. From outside their room, sometimes workers walking in the corridor could hear the sound of metal rolling, and crystal.
By request, Alphabot came back to open the door.
They stood up from their places, one after another, in a counterclockwise direction. In the reverse order from which they entered, and more or less satisfied with the voting results and with the first day of this first step, Black, Purple, Green, Blue, Red, Yellow and White left the conference room.
Alphabot removed the coffee cups from the table. One member did not drink his coffee. Alphabot closed the conference room’s door.
Council Table
Chapter 2
Candidate 0907: Moma
His nick or code name was Moma; his real name?
He probably did not remember his own name in the middle of so many fake passports and IDs; Mohamed something. His family moved into a new country, but kept their roots. Cultural roots, his father used to say, we need to keep them. They make our country essence alive, no matter where we are. Our country is inside ourselves and we carry and expand it to the places where we go and live. Our country is the skin of our soul; it is the color of our Flag that makes us who we are, we can live without a country, our home is inside of us, it is what we carry with us; wherever we go.
Moma was the fifth of seven kids, praying many times a day every day, and having to read the same books again and again in his free time. The first book he remembered reading was ‘Milestones’.
And he never forgot some quotes from the book. Such as:
‘Mankind is on the brink of a precipice…it is essential to have a new leadership’.
And every time he started to read again he almost fell asleep by the words, repeating like a mantra, the same meaning in other words.
His mind woke up one day reading: ‘…peoples of any race or color—Arabs, Romans or Persians—are equal under the banner of God’; this was all he could keep, apart from ‘no sovereignty except God's, no law except from God’.
Growing up in Europe, his beliefs mixed up: God was love, all persons are equal; and so, God’s law should be what his heart tells him to do.
The rest of the book passed by in his soul like a too soft wind on a too hot day; he did not keep the words or even feel them. Like raindrops over fire they evaporated away from him, without touching or coming close to his heart or mind.
Moma had been in a special terrorist camp. He had previously obtained his Ph.D. in Explosives Engineering from the University of Missouri, which had the best professors of destruction. He learned to be in silence and do his work quietly. Moma learned to be almost invisible, not too much the party guy, not too much a nerd. A common guy that is always there but no one notices. A specialist in bombing attacks, he knew how to build bombs, but his special skill was how to disarm them without being noticed or even leaving a mark.
He was there…in every big attack, in every big event; but what his friends and colleagues did not know about him was that for each bomb that exploded, seven others were disarmed or failed; they thought that maybe the dealer sold them bad products, or an infiltrated agent had been there, or just bad luck happened, and they searched exhaustively between foreigners for spies, for CIA or FBI agents.
But the seed for failure was inside the main group already…so quiet he was, so cooperative he seemed to be…Moma never forgot the words engraved in his heart from the first time he read them: ‘All peoples are equal….’ So for each bomb that exploded in each attack in which he was involved, he disarmed seven others.
A long time ago he decided to be what they wanted him to be, a terrorist, and a good one. Moma decided also to follow his heart and be a good terrorist and never kill someone. Instead of killing, he saved lives. He decided to be a good terrorist, with his own point of view.
Years ago, Moma was involved in an attack.
Moma knew that something, like a sign coming from the sky, would happen in the middle of the city to distract people’s attention and then, around every 15 minutes thereafter, a bomb would explode.
He did not know exactly what would happen, because it wasn’t the group he usually worked with that prepared this attack, and because of the fear of FBI and CIA spies, all was more secret than usual. He tried to discover the details but failed, all he knew was that would be something big.
A kind of signal coming from the sky to start, and then activation of all the other bombs around the city. One Bomb, every 15 minutes.
Moma looked again at the New York City map trying to figure out where the attack would start; maybe he could disarm these bombs too?
Depending on where the attack started, the bomb closest to it would explode first, with the other bombs following in a similar direction.
All he could do was wait for the signal and then run to the closest bomb to the signal site, to deactivate it.
He couldn’t deactivate the bombs before the attack, because there would be guards around it until the signal came. Only then they would leave their spots, not to be caught.
He looked at the American credit card he had pick-pocketed from some teenager at Times Square, too full of beer or tequila to even notice, eyes bulging at the neon marquees boasting topless and nude live stage shows. When the kid sobers up, he thought, he and his friends will notice, and it will be a big tragedy for them.
How little would they understand the role their minor tragedy would play in the secret history of the City? He smiled to himself; this cesspool of American filth, so detested by his terrorist clansmen, had in fact provided him with some essential tools he would use to save the City. On
ly in America. In America, the land of opportunity.
He used the credit card to buy burner phones, one from each of the City’s mobile phone networks; phones he needed to deactivate the bombs. He still needed to discover to which networks they were connected. So, he needed all them. He bought the phones from the networks’ kiosks, in locations unlikely to have surveillance cameras. AT&T, Sprint, T-Mobile, Verizon Wireless. He thought about the pandemonium that would probably follow after the signal came, better to already have the phones ready to use.
He then set about to chart his route.
The most efficient way to reach his seven targets before the bombs could explode. He figured out different ways, depending on the first signal.
Moma knew the City pretty well, but couldn’t predict what would happen when the first signal would come. It was foreseeable that the City’s transportation systems could break down or become gridlocked when all hell broke loose, so he devised several alternate routes, still not knowing what was the start signal. Each route would take him to the targets.
With the routes done, he was ready to practice them, and then he would just wait for the start, still trying to figure out how to be able to avoid any problems along the way.
The first plane hit at 8:46am.
New York, New York. Manhattan.
Moma was sitting outside a café in the financial district, this most pristine of September mornings. He now knew the code: ‘first attack’ is the signal; it means all seven bombs are now armed, set to detonate in 15-minute intervals. A septuplet of falling dominoes of blood and body parts. Added to the couplet of destruction and death they told him would start the carnage that morning, made nine. Nine for New York. That day. Nine eleven.
