Herokiller

by Paul Tassi

  “What happened?”

  “Exoware was printing parts in China, and suddenly the government stepped in and shut down one of their largest factories for pollution violations, which crippled production. What do you think happened then?”

  “PrecisionPoint landed the contracts,” Mark said slowly.

  “Exactly,” Brooke said. “Crayton’s investment went from hundreds of thousands to tens of millions in just a few years. And that was just one company.”

  “That’s good,” Mark said. “That’s really good.”

  “I’m going to keep hunting for stuff like this, but I’m going to send what I’ve got to Gideon. See if they draw the same conclusions at Langley.”

  Mark nodded his head, feeling a bit renewed from the breakthrough. But something told him that Crayton was a freight train that was going to be hard to stop before the tournament started. They’d need more, way more.

  “They have me in the main manor. I’ll figure out a way to start searching the place on my end. They’ve got cameras everywhere for this damn show though, I’ll need some help disabling them.”

  “On it,” Brooke said. “Well, almost on it. These camera feeds are all hooked in through the CMI network, which will be a different beast to break through. Will have that capacity soon enough though, don’t worry.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said. “I appreciate it. You’re doing great, seriously. I know I gave you and Gideon a lot of shit, but I’d be nowhere without you two. Thanks for watching my ass.”

  Brooke smiled through the camera briefly, then regained a straight face.

  “Just be careful. Glasshammer’s crawling around everywhere in that compound, and even if you’ve met a few nice guys, there are stone cold killers in there with you.”

  “I know.”

  Brooke paused.

  “Pretty messed up, having you all live together and get to know everyone before you’re supposed to kill each other on camera.”

  “Crayton said something about it ‘raising the emotional stakes’ for both us and the audience. And yes, this is all fucked up in every conceivable way.”

  The next morning, tiny, self-driving electric carts lined up outside. It seemed to be the most efficient way to shuttle everyone around the sprawling property. Mark sat inside the first one in line. He didn’t see anyone else coming out of the doors, so he told it to go, and off it went, already programmed to zip over to the second guest house, which Mark could see a ways off.

  He still couldn’t get over how strange the surroundings were. It was like being in an incredibly well-maintained microcosm of a cross between Central Park and the surreal rose garden of the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland. The greenery was punctuated only by the mansions and the outer wall, which was almost invisible in the distance because of how large the property was. There were beautiful gardens, cubed hedges, enormous fountains, and yes, Mark realized as they drove along its edge, definitely a lake in the middle. Huge trees that didn’t look like they should be indigenous to the Vegas desert were clustered together to make little groves of shade, and Mark could only imagine what the water bill for the place must be. Somehow, the air felt at least twenty degrees cooler inside the compound than out. Mark hadn’t figured out how Crayton had managed that little climate control trick. Mark squinted to see if they were actually inside some kind of giant clear dome, but it appeared Crayton had stopped short of planting a moon base in Nevada.

  Soon enough, they arrived at the second guest house, and Mark saw other combatants filing inside. He caught up with Ethan, who shook his hand.

  “Get much sleep?” he asked.

  “Not really,” Mark said. “You?”

  “Nah,” Ethan said, though he did look more well-rested than everyone else shuffling through the halls. “Was not expecting that little twist,” he said.

  “I don’t think anyone was,” Mark said. He thought about what it would be like to shove a sword through this kid’s chest. The notion was laughable, like some sort of bad dream, but that was exactly what he was supposed to do a few months from now.

  The two turned a corner and walked into what could be best described as museum. With one very particular type of item on display.

  There were weapons. Dozens of them. No, hundreds, Mark saw, as he entered the wide-open space. Each had its own stand or case, but as he drew closer, Mark saw that none of them were actually behind glass. There was every type of melee weapon Mark had ever seen in a history book or a movie. Swords, spears, shields, axes, maces, daggers, flails and … that was about all he could name. There were countless other types, different kinds of blades protruding at odd angles, or blunt-force weapons that looked like they could crush your bones if you just looked at them the wrong way. As they moved to the center of the room, they saw Moses looking around at the racks on the outer walls like he was in heaven. Light beaming in from the skylights above completed the effect. So far only Moses and the Prison Wars crew seemed pleased with the weapon announcement.

  “This collection is just stunning,” Moses said as they drew closer. “Some of these aren’t even replicas! They’re the real thing! I saw a halberd that had to be at least six hundred years old, and you can just reach out and touch it! Incredible.”

  “Everyone’s gotta have a hobby,” Mark said. Ethan chuckled.

  “Hey guys,” said a small voice from the center of the room. Standing between fighters a solid foot and a half taller than him was a young kid wearing a CMI LABS polo with double S-lenses sparkling in his eyes. He couldn’t have been older than twenty.

  “Guys, if you could gather around,” he said. Everyone ignored him.

  “Guys …” he said, his voice pleading.

  “Hey!” Chase Cassidy barked, assuming the leadership role. “This young man needs our attention.”

  That made the chatter cease and everyone turned to face center. Drago Rusakov glared at Cassidy, who had cut short his conversation with Ja’Von Jordan, but he folded his tattooed arms and turned to the young man in the middle.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cassidy,” the kid said with an awkward bow in the actor’s direction. “My name is Arthur Stemkowski. I work at Crayton Labs in Burbank, and Mr. Crayton has kindly flown me and my team out here to help you with this next phase of the Crucible. I have a dual doctorate in chemical and mechanical engineering, and I promise, I am older than I look.” He paused for laughter, and none followed. The best he got was a stiff chuckle from Moses.

  “So you’re here to what, prep us for the SATs?” Matthew Michael Easton said with a sneer. He flipped his stringy bangs out of his face, and his ghostlike blue eyes flashed from side to side. Even his voice was creepy, like a string of sour notes in a song you already hated. The thought of planting a nearby mace in his skull was not unappealing, Mark realized.

  “Hah, uh, no, rather, I’m here to help you craft custom weapons and armor to help suit your combat needs for the Crucible.”

  That drew a few appreciative nods from the crowd, which seemed to suddenly acknowledge the potential usefulness of the young man in front of them.

  “Normally, I design military-grade hardware, but this is a special treat. We are going ‘old school,’ as it were. No guns, no projectiles, no electronically assisted anything. Just metal, leather, carbon, and whatever else we can cook up,” Arthur said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Very soon, I’ll be working with you to design a weapon and armor set to meet your exact specifications. I won’t train you how to use them. That’s, uh, obviously not my department,” he said with a nervous laugh. “But my team and I will build whatever your heart desires. Within, um, the stated rules of course.”

  He spread his twiglike arms and pivoted around.

  “The point of bringing you here today to Mr. Crayton’s private collection is to give you a taste of the types of weapons you can use in the Crucible. Anything you see here can be replicated, and most likely improved with modern day technology, for use in the Crucible. Armor design and fitting
will be another day, but for now, your instructions are to just get a feel for what type of weapon you think you’d be comfortable using. And remember, weight matters. If you think something is heavy now, it will be even heavier when you’re wearing armor. You’ll have no power assist in your suit to help share the load. If you have any questions, I’m right here, but for now, feel free to explore. And yes, the edges are sharp, so please don’t accidentally dismember each other and get me fired, heh.”

  The group made their various ways to the edges of the room. Opera music started to play over hidden speakers, and Mark looked up and saw camera spheres embedded in the ceiling, and at least one drone drifting lazily around twenty feet up. He kept forgetting they were on TV.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, as he ran his hand over the handle of a long axe. “We’re really through the looking glass now.”

  “I don’t even know where to start,” Ethan said. He picked up a spiked ball attached to a stick with a chain. It dangled dangerously by his shins, and he began to wind it up as Mark took a step back.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Moses chided as he stepped in and gently put his hand on the handle before the ball gained momentum. “I would avoid that,” he said. “The flail takes a lot of training, and you’re still probably going to end up smacking yourself in the face. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen. At this one Renaissance fair in ’28, a guy lost an eye trying to show off with one of these.”

  “Alright,” Ethan said, putting the weapon back, “what would you recommend?”

  Moses took a step back and sized him up.

  “Offense or defense?” he asked.

  “Can’t have both?” Ethan replied.

  “Of course,” Moses said. “If that’s your game, I’d probably recommend a sword and shield combo. Here, try these.”

  Moses lifted a tower shield from its resting place and grabbed an old-looking sword to pair with it. Ethan took both and buckled a bit under the weight of the shield.

  “Wow,” he said. “Even heavier than it looks.”

  Moses laughed, “That’s what training is for. Try a few swings.”

  Ethan stepped back and parried and thrust a few times. His form looked surprisingly good, from what Mark could tell.

  “Impressive!” Moses said, apparently agreeing. “You’re a natural. Never done this before?”

  Ethan smiled. “Nah, not much call for this kind of thing in Iran, right Mark?”

  Mark raised his eyebrows. “Right.”

  A loud clatter startled them all, and they turned to see Aria Rosetti looking sheepish with the bladed end of a giant double-headed axe sticking out of the wooden floor.

  “Uh, it was heavier than it looked,” she said, echoing Ethan’s line. She tried to pull it out of the ground, unsuccessfully. Behind her, the pro-fighter pair of Dan Hagelund and Asher Mendez were snickering.

  Mark stepped in to help her, but Moses was closer and reached her first.

  “No worries, miss,” he said. He ripped the axe out of the floor with one motion and slung it over his enormous shoulders like it weighed nothing. “We all have to work within our weight class!”

  He put the axe back on its stand and fingered through some nearby blades.

  “For you I think … these, maybe.”

  He pulled out two matching short swords, each about as long as her arm. She took them in hand, and though they dropped in her grip momentarily, she was able to hoist them up into something resembling a fighting stance.

  “That’s more like it,” she said. “What are you, some kind of blacksmith?”

  Moses laughed that contagious, deep laugh of his.

  “If only,” he said. “Just an enthusiast. Moses.”

  He offered his hand, and she took it. The size disparity was comical.

  “Aria.”

  “And this here’s Ethan and Mark.”

  “Hello,” Ethan said, smiling warmly and shaking her hand. Mark offered his as well.

  “The Wolf,” she said, nodding.

  “The Horse,” he replied. She frowned in mock outrage.

  “I’m going to stick with Stallion,” she said. “Sounds prettier.”

  “Well at least you avoided being the Wasp,” Mark said, jerking his head toward Soren Vanderhaven across the room. She was twirling a long spear around with worrying skill. Next to her, Chase Cassidy was fighting phantom enemies with a katana.

  “What about you guys?” she asked.

  “Eagle,” Ethan said.

  “Grizzly,” Moses said. Mark hadn’t seen his statue. It certainly fit, and naturally, Moses seemed to love it.

  “I was never one of those girls who wanted a pony growing up, but whatever, I’ll deal with it,” Aria said.

  She swished the swords around, which cut the air between them.

  Moses picked up a large maul that looked like it may have once been a tree trunk.

  “If you’ve got the size, you’re supposed to use it,” he said. “That’s how battles used to be won with weapons like these. Don’t think I’d be much use with a little sword-needle in my hand.”

  Mark had no idea what to grab, so he simply picked up the nearest sword.

  “Bastard sword,” Moses said. “The favorite of many a knight. Can use it with one hand or two because of the extended grip. But it would be tough to pair with a shield.”

  “I like to be mobile,” Mark said, giving it a few practice swings. It was uncomfortably heavy, and he could feel the muscles burning in his forearm already. Ethan playfully swatted at his blade with his own, and sparks flew between the steel as they met.

  “Want me to test that shield out?” Mark menaced.

  “Uhhh, I’m good for now,” Ethan said, laughing nervously.

  “Excuse me, Arthur,” Moses called out. “How many weapons are we allowed to use in our fights?”

  “Whatever you can carry,” Arthur said, excited someone was actually talking to him. “But I would advise against overloading.”

  “He’s right,” Moses said, turning back to them. “You can strap four swords to your back, but if they make you twice as slow, you’ll be dead in a hurry.”

  “Maybe just a little extra then,” Mark said, and picked up a long knife from a nearby table. He noticed there wasn’t a blade under a foot long in the bunch. Nothing too small and sharp that could be thrown as a projectile. Or at least nothing that was supposed to be thrown.

  All four of them were now holding some sort of weapon. For a moment they paused, and the smiles drained from their faces. In that instant, they seemed to realize that this wasn’t a game. They could all potentially be tasked with murdering each other by summer’s end.

  And yet, somehow it didn’t matter. They could ignore it a little longer.

  “Breakfast?” Aria said. “I hear you can just yell ‘pancakes’ in an empty room here and someone will bring them to you in less than a minute.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Ethan said, “I’m starving.”

  As they put their weapons back, Mark watched Shin Tagami, slowly shuffling around the room, hands behind his back. He hadn’t touched a thing, and quietly let himself out a back entrance.

  After indulging in a breakfast that left each of them, even Moses, completely stuffed, they walked toward the exit of the guest house with the intention of exploring the grounds before they headed back to continue playing with weapons. Training didn’t begin in earnest until the following day, allowing at least a short period of adjustment to their new surroundings, and Mark realized that he’d probably just eaten his last chocolate chip pancake for the summer. Aria said she’d spoken to the staff and Crayton’s team had drafted “recommended” meals for them in order to keep them in fighting shape, which was meant to join roughly six hours of fitness training each day, on top of specific instruction relating to armor and weapons. Mark was exhausted just thinking about it. He was going to completely give up his nocturnal schedule and possibly quit drinking altogether.

  Of course you can, he thought, it’s n
ot even an issue. Though just the thought of it actually made him want a glass of whiskey. Of course competitors were allowed to eat or drink or train as much or as little as they wanted, but to be taken seriously, he’d have to put in the work like he was actually attempting to compete and win. It would look more than a little suspicious if he spent his days lying in bed having pizza and beer delivered to him by the help while everyone else was out working their asses off. It seemed Crayton was counting on self-discipline being a determining factor to victory rather than skill alone. Their current accommodations were akin to a luxury vacation, but they’d have to treat their training like a day job.

  The four of them were about to try and walk over to the lake, but when they exited the guest mansion, they saw something happening outside.

  Crayton’s security detail, a few wearing suits, but some wearing Glasshammer-issued riot armor, were surrounding a man with wild hair and a crookedly buttoned shirt paired with what appeared to be a swimsuit. Mark circled around and saw that it was Manny, the homeless veteran no one seemed to know anything about. Medical personnel were attending to one of the suited guards nearby whose white shirt was streaked with red. Manny raised his hand, and Mark saw that he was clutching an axe with crimson on the blade. The head was misshapen and jagged, like something a caveman might have crafted. Moses would know. Manny was yelling something unintelligible, and Mark saw that there were already at least three pairs of taser hooks in his skin, which appeared to have done nothing. The other guards were taking aim with weapons that Mark at least hoped were loaded with non-lethal rounds.

  “Sir, again, put the axe down. You cannot take weapons from the display area without permission,” a guard said.

  That was generous, considering one of their own was lying on the ground with a chest wound. Mark imagined the guards were supposed to handle the “talent” with kid gloves, no matter what happened. But this guy clearly need to be in a room with padded walls.

  “Stay back!” Manny yelled, finally saying words Mark could understand. “You’re all fascists! You’re Chinese spies! This is a prison camp for those who know.”