Gauntlet

by Holly Jennings

  “This is the championship course. It lasts anywhere from four to six hours.”

  Diana’s eyes went a touch wide, and she leaned back in her chair. “Six hours? How is that possible?”

  “The pods reenergize the user instead of draining them.” Tamachi paused for effect. It worked. Diana and Farouk exchanged glances, their eyes another fraction wider. “I’ve signed up teams from around the world. If you swipe to the next page, you’ll see the full roster.”

  Diana slid a single finger across the screen once to turn the page. Her jaw dropped. Well, not really. More just a slight unhinging, like the corners of her mouth came a little loose. I’m sure for her, though, that was as close as it got.

  She flashed the screen at Farouk. Now his jaw actually dropped. I’m surprised it didn’t hit the table. My stomach went right along with it. I had no idea who was on that list, but they were the competition. If the VGL was impressed, I could only imagine what names were listed there and who we’d be up against.

  What the hell had I gotten us into?

  “So,” Farouk began, “the matches throughout the tournament will be standard length. But the championship will be hours long.”

  Tamachi leaned toward them. “And that championship will be the Super Bowl of gaming. A daylong event. People will have parties around the world.”

  “And when are you planning to run this tournament of yours?”

  “Two weeks from Saturday.”

  Diana frowned and shook her head. “Two weeks from Saturday is the start of the Special Ops tournaments. That’s our most popular game.”

  “Until now,” he said. “You can bump it to another time slot, push it back a few months, or have it compete against my tournament on another channel. Besides, some of your most popular teams have signed on to play my game instead. I don’t think your ratings will compare to last year’s.”

  “We have contracts,” she protested. “We can refuse to allow those teams to play.”

  “That’s fine,” Tamachi said. “But other leagues around the world have already signed on. Do you really want to be the only country that doesn’t allow its gamers to play?”

  She sat back in the chair again and crossed her arms. This time, the move was deliberate. Practiced. “How would we get the pods installed in time?”

  “The local teams could have pods installed by this time tomorrow. I have the means to make it happen. The other teams, including the internationals, have all flown in for the tournament. I have more than enough pods available for their use inside my facility.”

  This guy had an answer for everything.

  Diana considered that for a minute, studying Tamachi through narrowed eyes. When the same intense gaze flicked to me, I straightened my back to stop myself from shuddering.

  “You’ve tried these new pods, Ms. Ling?”

  “I have.”

  “What do you think?”

  In a word? Awesome. But I was pretty sure that wasn’t the answer the VGL was looking for.

  “I think they’re exactly what the industry needs,” I finally said.

  Diana drew a deep, deliberate sigh and slowly let it out. For a few seconds, she said nothing and simply tapped her fingernail against the table. Not easy to read, this one.

  “This will be unlike anything the industry has seen before,” Tamachi continued. “Imagine the ratings, the hype. Think of how much sponsors will pay to air their ads—”

  Diana held up a hand. “Honestly, you had me at six hours.”

  Was that yes? It sounded like yes.

  Diana flicked through the tablet a few times, glancing at Farouk next to her. He nodded. He was in.

  Was she?

  “We’ll still need to formalize this,” she finally said. “The higher-ups will need to sign off. And we’ll have to rearrange our schedule for the next few months.”

  Here it comes. Yes.

  “And we’ll need to publicize the event,” she added. “This is pretty over-the-top. The marketing needs to be that way, too.”

  Mr. Tamachi smiled.

  “Trust me. I’ve got it covered.”

  • • •

  The next day, the announcement was made.

  The VGL and Tamachi Industries went public with the all-star tournament, the advanced VR pods, and the marathon championship round.

  The Internet lost its shit.

  The VGL changed up some of its programming, and the Special Ops tournament got bumped back by several weeks. Too many of the top teams from Special Ops were competing in the tournament, so the VGL didn’t want to run both tournaments at the same time. Even if they scheduled them on different nights, there was no way any team would split themselves between both tournaments. Not when they had the chance to be crowned number one in the entire world and win the hundred-million-dollar prize.

  “This Saturday night, the roster of teams will be revealed,” announcer Marcus Ryan reported on the latest newsreel on the VGL home channel.

  The coming Saturday night, there would be a party for the teams in the tournament at the Tamachi estate. No one knew who was on the roster. Not even me. I had no idea who would be there, and it was the first and only time we’d be meeting our competition outside the arena.

  The frenzy over The Wall had hit an all-time high. Everyone knew now that Tamachi’s mansion held the latest advancement in virtual reality and would be hosting a never-before-seen gaming tournament. So, based on the paparazzi’s stalking from the past several weeks, people were guessing at the roster by who’d been seen at the house. You’d think that would have made things an easy guess. Turns out, not so much. Mr. Tamachi went to extremes to throw people off and keep things private. Sometimes, he’d snuck the real gaming teams through the back of the house while decoys went through the front. He’d even hired people matching body stats of other teams to enter the house in disguise to throw off the paparazzi. And there were a handful of teams that had gone to the house but had turned the opportunity down. So, the guesses were strictly that—guesses.

  Sites were overflowing with mock-up rosters of possible all-star teams. The only thing that had been revealed about the roster was that it would feature a combination of teams from the highest-rated rookies up to gaming’s heaviest hitters, and that teams were coming in from around the world. I could only imagine there would be fantasy mock-ups of the tournament spread as well once the teams were revealed. This was NCAA March Madness for gaming. Thirty-two teams go in, one comes out.

  And just wait until the fans saw that code.

  No one had seen the style of the game. Sure, capturing flags was as old as pro gaming itself. But that code, that style. Everything was so smooth there. Everything was silk. Now the VGL had a game that topped even racing in terms of style. And because of those insane visuals, there was even talk of having the tournament broadcast in virtual definition—specifically made to be watched with virtual-reality headsets, so the audience viewed the game as if they were inside it as well.

  The new pods were installed in my home the next day. They gleamed like opalescent pearls. No workstation sat behind the pods. Just a single screen for choosing the game and basic setup info. It would also display and keep track of our activity once inside, fully available for review once we were out. However, these new pods came with a side effect I had failed to anticipate—until all five of my programmers bombarded me in my office.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, looking up from my desk.

  Usually my office was a peaceful place. I’d designed it that way on purpose. Wood ran the length of the two sidewalls, broken only by several poster-sized screens. Most people had poster-screens in their homes now since they were more affordable and versatile than traditional art. Tired of that Van Gogh? One click, and you’ve got Monet instead.

  In my office, the screens featured my team in their gladiatorial battle gear
. Clarence, my former team owner, had done the same in his office, back when I’d been on his team. I’d questioned his motivations in owning a team on several occasions, but he wasn’t wrong about everything. While he’d kept pictures of us in the office to show off his major assets, I did it to remind myself who was most important in all of this, including someone no longer with us.

  Nathan.

  Our former teammate had overdosed on heroin after a particularly grueling matchup. Sure, someone’s choice to do drugs was always their own, but the way virtual gaming operated didn’t make it easier for the players. Spending hours on end in a world where anything was possible, and there were no consequences, combined with riches and fame, led most pro gamers to believe they were invincible.

  Elise took a step ahead of the other programmers and folded her arms. “Is it true what they’re saying about these new pods?”

  “That they’re safer for gamers?”

  “No. That they don’t need programmers to run.”

  I blinked. Huh. I hadn’t thought about that. Technically, no. They didn’t need programmers to run. Which meant that the five people standing in front of me were no longer needed for the team. I’d have to let them go. At least, until the RAGE tournaments started up at the end of the summer—and that was only if they didn’t switch over to these new pods for every tournament.

  I bit my bottom lip. I’d never had to fire someone before, and the thought of sabotaging the livelihood of my programmers sunk my heart through the floor.

  “It’s true,” I finally admitted.

  Elise’s jaw dropped. “Are we out of our jobs? I have $40,000 left on my student loans.”

  I stood from my desk and made a calming motion with my hand. “It’s just for this tournament. We’ll still need you for RAGE.” If my money lasted that long. “Maybe after this all-star tournament, they won’t use these pods again.”

  She scoffed. “You mean the pods that would save every team owner hundreds of thousands of dollars a year in salaries?”

  “That’s not what this is about—”

  “No, it’s about another machine taking the job of a human being.”

  A machine. I felt about as heartless as one right then. Maybe there was a way to salvage this.

  “I’ll pay you severance for the tournament,” I offered.

  Elise glared at me. “Do you really think this is about money? Maybe that’s all the VGL cares about, but we do our jobs because we enjoy it.”

  “But—”

  “Have fun in your tournament.”

  With that, they walked out of my office and out of the house.

  • • •

  So, I had to fire five people on my staff. Or temporarily lay off. They were good at their jobs, and it wasn’t fair. I felt, frankly, like a horrible human being. Taking over as team owner, I’d only ever thought about the positive. About making things better for the team and leading the lives we wanted to lead. I’d never thought twice about the hard stuff, like firing people. Especially since it was beyond my control, and they really hadn’t done anything wrong. But, at the same time, that was life. Industries evolved, and we had to, too. Moving on, being receptive to change, had gotten me to where I was now, and I’d learned it was one of the best ways to get ahead in life.

  By the time Saturday rolled around, my emotions still wrestled between I-did-what-was-necessary and I-deserve-to-be-trampled-by-elephants. But I had to push it from my mind as I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom. Tonight was the all-star dinner. The competition would be revealed—the best teams from around the world—and I’d have a whole new set of worries. If there’s anything that can perk someone up (besides coffee with six sugars), it’s an afternoon’s worth of prepping and pampering for a night out. Even someone like me, who preferred swords to heels, liked to primp and preen once in a while.

  Unlike our previous team owner, who’d dressed us up like little dolls, I told my teammates to dress however they wanted. But Tamachi had requested one specific limitation.

  “Wear your team color,” he’d said.

  Defiance’s dark, gunmetal gray wasn’t the worst color in the world. In fact, it was one of my favorites.

  After checking my appearance and adjusting my hair one last time, and another last time, I left my room and headed downstairs. My heels clicked along the hardwood floors of the house and onto the marble tiles of the kitchen and, at the sight of Rooke, I stopped short and nearly tripped over my own feet. I must have sounded like a tap dancer who suddenly fell down the stairs.

  Smooth, Kali. Smooth.

  Rooke leaned against the counter, dressed in a traditional suit except for the jacket, which extended down several extra inches to midthigh and had an oversized collar, leather inlays, and several extra zippers across either side of his chest. The outfit was still formal but, with the jacket’s techy vibe, was an obvious tribute to Tamachi’s game. Guess he liked his in-game image from the new virtual pods. Of course he did. We all did. The pods had created images based on our own tastes and likes.

  When my feet decided to behave again, I took a step toward him.

  “You look . . .” My voice trailed off as I hunted for a safe word. “Nice.”

  Yes, that was good. “Nice” was solidly neutral, like “let’s be friends.”

  He glanced in my direction, took in my form, and swallowed. “You look more than nice.”

  He met my eyes and locked on me. So much for neutral. That look was anything but “let’s be friends,” unless you added “with benefits” at the end. We stood there, staring at each other, both apparently looking nice. Or more than nice.

  Derek slid into the room then, and I could have kissed him for breaking the sexually charged standoff. He wore a suit, shirt, and tie, all the same shade of dark gray, with a purple rose pinned to his jacket and sunglasses that mirrored his in-game visor. Suave, much?

  “The cars are here,” he said. “Are we going now? Or do you two need a knife to cut the tension between you first?”

  I stared daggers at him. He grinned.

  “Whoa. No need to get a knife. Kali’s got one in her eyes.”

  My teeth gritted together. If I’d had knives in my eyes before, then they must have been four-foot-long swords now.

  Hannah and Lily walked into the room, both sporting dresses, though Hannah’s was an elegant, floor-length evening gown and Lily’s was an edgy cocktail dress. Still, they both looked like they could have walked the red carpet at the Oscars and owned it.

  “We’ll be in the other car,” Derek said. “That way, you two can pretend to talk about whatever it is you’re not talking about.” He offered his arms to Lily and Hannah. “Ladies.”

  They each looped an arm around his and walked with him through the house, laughing as they went. At least they were having fun tonight.

  I followed them through to the front door, Rooke in tow. When I hit the front porch, I stopped dead.

  A pair of four-door Maseratis sat in my driveway, both dark gray for Team Defiance. The early-evening moonlight rippled across their glossy exteriors. Forget fiberglass. They looked like a combination of metal, satin, and ice blended together in one ultrasleek package. Now, that’s one hell of a car.

  Hannah, Derek, and Lily headed for the first car. Technically, I could have joined them. There would have been one other seat left. But that left Rooke to ride by himself, and that wasn’t fair. Plus, it wasn’t good for the team’s image.

  Did I really just think that? Since when did I worry about the team’s image over someone’s feelings? Image did matter in this sport, and putting on a show wasn’t just for the crowd. It was also for our opponents, and we were about to be in a room full of the greatest teams in the world. But is that what really mattered to me now?

  I steered myself toward the second car. When I was three feet from the door, it opened itself.<
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  “Good evening, Ms. Ling,” a voice said.

  Facial recognition. The cars would open for us, and only us. I climbed into the front seat. Rooke sat next to me, in what was once the driver’s seat, and stared out the window. The car locked itself and took off, coasting through the streets, directly behind its mate.

  The interior of the car looked like a mashup of a high-end nightclub and a yacht. The leather interior lined the seats, while wood accents and a stylish blue glow lit up the dash. I traced my hand over the edge of the seat, my fingertips relishing the supple material.

  “What are you doing?” Rooke asked, looking down at my hand.

  “It’s real,” I said.

  His jaw went tight, and he looked out the window again. “Have you been having trouble?”

  Luckily, with his gaze out the window, he didn’t notice my expression falter, or the way I bit my lip. Had I slipped back down the path of parties and drugs and alcohol? No, not even close. But every step back into the gamer-celebrity lifestyle brought with it another whisper of temptation, another ounce of stress. Stress that would be oh so easy to drown at the bottom of a bottle. But, given that we weren’t on the best of terms, I wasn’t about to tell him that. So I forced a smile across my face.

  “No. None at all. It’s easy, now.”

  He nodded though he kept his gaze out the window. “That’s good.”

  He bought it. How’s that for putting on a show?

  Rooke said nothing else. Neither did I. Silence became the car’s sound track, the tempo kept by the whishing sound of lampposts as we drove past marking the empty seconds like a ticking clock. If things had been awkward between us in the kitchen, then being in this car was about as cringingly uncomfortable as a situation can get, like a sex scene coming on when you’re watching a show with your parents.

  “Thanks for rejoining the team,” I said, trying to find a way to break the silence. “I imagine it’s not easy.” Every word came out strained and broken. I sounded as uncomfortable as I felt.

  Rooke shifted in his seat but still didn’t look at me.