Asimov's SF, June 2011
Page 10
Me & Andrew & my bandmates. You met them all during the snowpocalypse, remember? After a pause, she typed, Guess it's not the more the merrier anymore. Come if you want. We're going to get out of town fast, head east. We've got 2 cars & a van.
“She seems pissy,” Natalie said.
“Yeah. I'll go. It's not worth upsetting friends over a game, let alone family.” Maybe getting over the suspicion was the worthwhile part of this whole fiasco.
* * * *
She avoided human contact on her way to Union and MLK. The intersection was empty, and there were only a few cars in the grocery store lot—no one stocking up this time. She coasted to a halt next to a bus shelter and looked at the intersection. Something seemed wrong.
“Look out!” Natalie yelped, and flailed a pointing finger into her field of vision. A human figure had emerged from behind the graffitied shelter, tagger shining bright against his dull brown clothes. She burst away, put fifty feet between them. If she'd been on foot, she'd be finished. She turned her handlebars back to survey him. He was very nondescript—no special T-shirts or other player bling—easy to mistake for one of the computer characters. Since she'd paused, he started toward her again. Katrina switched out her bike for the gun and the other player changed direction inhumanly fast and ran up a driveway.
“Aww, you could have made him dance,” said Natalie.
The Jurassic Park thoom-thoom of a harvester sucking humans into its portal maw sounded from the left speaker, but it was still a ways off. Katrina put away the gun to pedal back to the rendezvous and ditched her bike by the parked Vanagon (3000 Survivor Points).
“Where're the other cars?” Natalie asked.
Katrina shrugged, hit the “use” button on the side door and typed “Who paid for this?” as her character maneuvered inside.
“Lydia!” Natalie squeaked.
Their cousin's avatar zoomed out of the darkness, her grout-gun gleaming.
You've been tagged for alien harvesting by Lydia Vang-Richards. Harvester ETA: 01:42, Kat's screen flashed.
Lydia froze as she typed. “It's my drummer's! He plays this game as much as you do.”
“Shoot her, jie jie! Come on, before the aliens get you!” Natalie said.
Katrina brought up her item wheel, spinning for the gun, but she saw her own bright green tagger first. “Look, she's typing. Monologuing is always the villain's downfall, right?” Lydia didn't move as Kat brought the tagger up and pressed “use.”
“You bitch! OMG!” Lydia chatted instead of whatever she'd been planning to say. 01:16, Kat's harvester countdown said. Lydia's avatar walked to the front seat and the van started up.
“You're the one who tagged your own husband and stole your friend's van,” Katrina said.
“See if we go to Thanksgiving at their house this year,” Natalie grumbled.
“Why would she do that, you think?”
Natalie flopped back on the futon. “Are you kidding? Andrew makes like five times as much as her. Why wouldn't she want to sell his ass for parts every once in a while?”
Katrina looked at her cousin's avatar on the screen, the view through the windshield beyond shifting erratically. She didn't see the point of running away from the harvester to gain a paltry few minutes’ survival, but Lydia had not consulted her. She flipped over to search real-time comment and see how the invasion was going over.
My MOM just sold me to the aliens.
Ha ha, I got 8 tags allready! Run bitches run
This is such bullshit, I only got 3 minutes today.
I for one welcome our alien overlords. #10tags
She flipped back to the game in time to see the glowing purple maw of the harvester engulf Wee Kat in the wreckage of the van, and the jagged static image as she was beamed up to the alien mothership via antenna. You have died. You have been awarded [12 Survivor Points] for your [1.2] hours of successful active play. You grouped with 0 other survivors, for 0 Teamwork Survivor Points. Log back in tomorrow to spend your points and try to escape another Armageddon!
She quit and stared at the comment updates scrolling.
Can other ppl tell if I have a tag gun in inv?
I gotta log on & tag my ex-gf it'll be sweeeeeet
“Too soon to tell how the wind is blowing,” Katrina said, and Traddles yawned.
“Blowing pretty hard,” Natalie said, and turned on the TV.
* * * *
The phone rang at eight AM the next morning. “Congratulations, Ms. Vang!”
“Uh, thanks.”
“Did I wake you? Norbert Jenkins.” The Veep of Operations, commonly known as Big Veep.
“Not at all, Mr. Jenkins. But I'm still, uh, making my coffee. I haven't been to my computer. Why am I being congratulated?”
“We had a record sign-up day yesterday! Five hundred thousand! Two hundred K in just two hours!”
“I'm reluctant to take credit, Mr. Jenkins—there was a huge marketing push accompanying A-day and—”
“No marketing like viral marketing. Everyone wants to see who will backstab who, whether they can sell their friends out before they get sold out. If they can resist temptation! Now, I know this is jumping the chain of command, but what have you got for this week?”
“Today's acid storms, and then we did airborne Ebola—”
“Hmm. I see. Carry on. And remember, Ms. Vang, A-day is what people like! Numbers don't lie.”
“This game isn't just about survival, though, it's about, umm, the human spirit.”
“Nonsense. It's about the bottom line. Don't you want your stock to split?”
“Of course, Mr. Jenkins. Thank you for calling.”
“Keep up the good work.”
Katrina listened to Natalie sing Norah Jones songs in the shower. Meeting with Lee in ninety minutes. She stared at the paintings on the walls, relics of her art degree. Maybe someone like Emil would be a better fit for the new Apocalypse Daily, a backbiter to plan the backstabbing game. An infantile thought, maybe. A real adult wouldn't sit here sulking because her favorite game is changing. Of course, a real adult would have a better resume, and some money saved. Katrina got out her tablet and started storyboarding.
The subscription graph was impressive, but Katrina didn't dare pause to let it sink in, for fear of Emil speaking up. “I think we need to leverage this success, Lee, starting with more player vs. player scenarios. Vampires vs. Werewolves, a combination plague and civil war story, would see 5 percent of the players wake up as vampires and 5 percent as werewolves, each tasked with infecting normal humans and killing each other. In the Solar Flare scenario, only given areas on the globe would be free from dangerous radiation, incenting groups to fight each other for possession of the safe zones. You'll see I've sent you several more ideas. I suggest we intersperse these events with more traditional disaster gameplay in order to hold onto our base of longstanding players, aiming for at least one player vs. player event per week.”
Lee blinked. “This is all excellent. I was only expecting to touch base on yesterday's event! Beautiful work, Katrina. Anything else, team?”
Sara seldom talked to managers. Emil was looking pole-axed. He opened his mouth a few times like a fish. “Well, the game is primarily social, sir, so perhaps—”
“The game's primarily about making money, Emil,” Katrina cut him off. “If we can avoid losing the happy-fuzzy players while adding in the new PVP contingent, the company has a broader base: more fees and more user data to sell.”
“All right then! Back to work, everyone. Let's end the world in style!” Lee added, “Katrina, hold on a second.”
Sara popped off the screen, then, after a full ten seconds, the frowning Emil. Lee's golf-tanned face filled the monitor. “Great initiative, Katrina. It's so gratifying to see you grow into your role as team leader.”
This felt a little condescending, given that Katrina's employee number was several hundreds lower than Lee's, but she smiled anyway. “Thank you, Lee. I'm glad to justify your confidence.”
Katrina liked “in there,” such a strange, football-coach thing to say about a meeting that had happened nowhere at all.
“Anyway, keep up the good work!”
“Uh, Lee! Wait. Actually, there's something I wanted to bring to your attention. Since I'm the head of the team.”
“Of course. My door's always open.”
“It's Emil. He showed a lot of early promise, but—” she summoned the words. “He's not a team player and he's not pulling his weight. I fear he has no commitment to the game or to Endertainment—it's come—” she realized she'd already said “to your attention” and coughed. “I've found out he has been paying someone else to play AD for him, and is aggressively pursuing employment at Zone Red. If he's willing to lie to us about playing the game, how can we trust—”
“Understood. I'll be sure to consider that going forward.”
He looked so serious Katrina was sure she'd misstepped, but the smile returned unchanged. “Congratulations again on the success of your—our—A-Day idea! Brave new world we're making!”
“Thank you, Lee.”
Katrina exited out of the videoconference, and noticed Natalie watching, face pale. She'd apparently been dying her hair back to uniform black, and the dye had left bluish streaks on her pajama top.
“You're trying to get that guy fired?”
“I don't know that'll happen. I just passed on some information—”
Natalie rolled her eyes.
“You know how it was! You told me to fight back yourself.”
“Sure, to save your own job!”
“Emil was gunning for me. What would you have done?”
“I'm not a boss, so who cares what I think?” Natalie shrugged.
“I'm not a boss either.”
Natalie turned toward the hallway. “Whatever. You've learned how to play the game.”
“I guess so,” said Katrina. “Turns out it's just about survival.”
Copyright © 2011 Felicity Shoulders
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* * *
Department: NEXT ISSUE
JULY ISSUE
July is an issue full of firsts. A novelette from famed Dr. Who television writer and Hugo-fiction-finalist Paul Cornell marks his first appearance in Asimov's."The Copenhagen Interpretation” warps time and space and history in a thrilling tale of espionage and life and death gambits that would leave James Bond gasping for breath. Masterful fantasy author Theodora Goss makes her inaugural visit to Asimov's with an SF tale about “Pug” and a group of Victorian-era girls who all have a very special ability.
ALSO IN JULY
This issue also introduces two other new authors to our pages. YA author Leah Cypess looks at the trouble high-tech interference with gestation can wreak on “Twelvers” and brand-new writer Josh Roseman's caravan of desperate survivors hopes to “Bring on the Rain” before they are waylaid by dangerous competitors. Of course, not every July contributor is new to the magazine. Long-time book reviewer Norman Spinrad's short story listens to “The Music of the Sphere"; perennial Asimov's favorite Kristine Kathryn Rusch seeks to uncover the truth about “Dunyon"; Hugo-Award finalist Bruce McAllister heeds “The Messenger"; and the talented Chris Beckett terrifies us with a tale about what might happen on “Day 29.”
OUR EXCITING FEATURES
Robert Silverberg's “Reflections” column allows us to journey along on “The Fantastic Voyages of Sir John Mandeville"; Paul DiFilippo contributes “On Books"; plus we'll have an array of poetry and other features you're sure to enjoy. Look for our June issue on sale at newsstands on May 10, 2011. Or you can subscribe to Asimov's—in paper format or in downloadable varieties—by visiting us online at www.asimovs.com. We're also available individually or by subscription on Amazon.com's Kindle, Barnes and Noble.com's Nook, and ebookstore.sony.com's eReader!
COMING SOON
new stories by Robert Silverberg, Eleanor Arnason, Ken Liu, Kit Reed, Allen M. Steele, Michael Swanwick, Melanie Tem, Lisa Goldstein, Robert Reed, Neal Barrett, Jr., Will Ludwigsen, Carol Emshwiller, and many others!
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* * *
Short Story: THE FIGHTER
by Colin P. Davies
Since his last story for us, “The Certainty Principle” in the February 2009 issue, Colin's tales have appeared in Jupiter Magazine, Membrane SF, Bewildering Stories, Time in a Bottle, and The Immersion Book of SF. Much of his time lately has been devoted to the third five-part serial in his comic fantasy Pestworld series for Beam Me Up! Podcast. Details can be found on his website www.colinpdavies.com. With “The Fighter” Colin returns to the short-short territory of “The Defenders” (October/November 2004) and “Babel 3000” (March 2007) and examines the future of genetics and entertainment.
By the time Dominick saw the police car in his mirror it was already too late. Controls were overridden and his car slowed to a halt. Headlamps lit up the interior, so that he felt he was in the ring again, in the floodlights, fighting. He tugged at his seatbelt. His gloved fingers struggled to find the button and he bashed it with his fist.
The radio switched itself on and a voice addressed him: Please get out of the car.
“I'm trying to. . . .” He threw off the belt, pushed the door high, and squeezed out from behind the wheel. Icy evening air soothed the fresh wounds on his bare arms. Sweat dripped from his thick eyebrows and he had the taste of blood in his mouth. Hecklers, pokers, groupies . . . and now this!
Step away from the car.
Dominick moved onto the crisp grass verge and out of the glare of the headlamps. Up on the overpass, the hiss of tires from cruising cars was a constant rhythm; like the dojo's drum, like the burn of repetition, ichi, ni, san, shi. . . . Pain had a beat, and he could feel it now, chiseling at his ribs.
Only three strides behind Dominick, a low wooden fence offered escape into the dark refuge of a swamp. He could run—but what was the point? Muddy shoes and an inflated fine. Besides, it wasn't the money that made him angry. It wasn't even the knowledge that he was about to suffer the condescension of a matchstick man that made him angry.
It was everything.
Two figures, a male and female, climbed from the police car. After a brief scan of their surroundings, the officers approached. Their breath clouded, illuminated by the orange light from the overpass.
“Was I speeding?” Dominick asked. “I've just come off the freeway. Should've slowed down. I need to get home to my family, so just give me the ticket.”
The policeman shook his head. “You weren't speeding.”
Dominick thought back over tonight's fight. Had he gone wrong, slipped up, pushed the limits of the law? He tried to fight clean, but he was only human.
Flecks of snow settled on the officers’ black uniforms.
The policeman edged out to the side, at a distance, while the younger female officer held up a small box—a scanner—and linked wirelessly to the chip in Dominick's head.
“Looking for something in particular?” Dominick attempted to keep the frustration from his voice; his last roadside meeting with the law had left a policeman dead.
“Just ID,” said the thin woman. “Hardly needed, but . . . regulations.” She was listening on a headset. “Dominick of Marsham Entertainment Industries. Ring name, Grizzly. Longest surviving fighter in the League.” The woman's lips lifted just enough to register disapproval. “That means you've killed more times than anyone else.”
Dominick glanced at the smears of blood on his white T-shirt. “You don't like fighting?”
“It's legal.”
“That's not what I asked.” Dominick wiped sweat from his bald scalp. The officer flinched and dropped a hand to her sidearm. “I like it,” he told her.
“You don't get a choice.”
He did not need this! The night had been bad enough already, with Eagle taking chunks out of his arms and then the dizzying crack
on his head. He just wanted to get to his white mansion on the cliff-top at Heavenly Hills. Every three days without fail he would make sure he went home. Linda expected it—she demanded it. She would be waiting for him now, standing at the balcony, sipping Chardonnay, watching snow drift in over the ocean, while tiny twins Gemma and Jane played in the games suite. He smiled; he felt sorry for these officers with their little lives and tepid loves. They could only imagine his life as a Hero.
“Do it, Higgs!” said the policeman.
“I'm not a killer.” Officer Higgs clipped the scanner onto her belt. “It doesn't come easy for me.”
“So what now?”
“Negotiation.”
“And what if it goes badly?” He unfastened the strap on his holster.
“Then it goes badly for us. Everything comes down to value . . . and he has more.”
Dominick was confused by the exchange. He reached slowly inside the pocket of his plaid trousers. “I fight in the Heroes League.” With gloved fingers, he took out a creased photograph that showed him in his gladiatorial armor.
“You don't have to prove it.” The policewoman took a glance at the picture. “Your muscles speak for themselves.”
He was used to being admired, especially by women. It went with the role. But Linda knew he was more than just three hundred pounds of born and bred fighting machine. She said he had the touch of a butterfly and the heart of a dreamer.
That dead cop had called him a prize bull.
Officer Higgs stepped within striking range. “You need to come with us.”
“Definitely not.” He glared down at her.
If she was intimidated, she didn't show it. “It's not a request. We have authority from the League.”
“Not now! I have to go home.”
The policeman shook his head. “You don't have . . .”
“Mitchell!” the woman cut off her partner. “Dominick . . . you don't need to go home right now.”
Dominick became aware of the scent of mud from the nearby swamp—a foul smell, and yet more vivid, more welcome in this instant than the familiar astringent air of the dojo. Maybe it was time to quit fighting. He enjoyed it—he couldn't help himself—but tonight's battle had left him feeling more disturbed than victorious. He'd known Eagle for some time, become used to having him around, but in the height of combat Grizzly had slashed his opponent's feathered throat without hesitation, without a thought.