by Ted Weber
As she closed, Kiyoko wove a light spell directly into her enemy’s eyes. Cheating, maybe, but I need every edge. She thrust with the naginata as she reached him.
“Sorry, no effect,” he said, swinging his huge sword down and severing her naginata’s blade from its wooden shaft.
No! I’m so stupid.
His hell-horse clamped onto Nyasuke, two sets of teeth biting into the unicorn cat’s flank. Kiyoko screamed for him. Vostok swung his sword again, and Nyasuke’s head tumbled from his body. Kiyoko fell from her saddle and hit the ground hard. Her vision flashed red and her immersion suit stiffened against her back.
Vostok laughed. “+5 vorpal sword, bitch!”
Kiyoko stared Nyasuke’s severed head in the eyes. She couldn’t help it. She cried. It was like he killed the real Nyasuke, her soulmate.
The tears wouldn’t stop. Her father, Feng, wore that black suit of armor.
Kiyoko was five when her sister brought Squeaky-Squeaks home. “A friend for you,” Waylee said. The cutest calico kitten in Philadelphia.
But Feng snatched up Squeaky-Squeaks during one of his tirades, saying the kitten wouldn’t shut up and was driving him crazy. “Just like you, you little brat,” he told her. She cried and Waylee kicked him in the shin and then Feng beat the crap out of both of them and she never saw her kitty again.
Feng loomed over her on his three-headed horse. “Cry all you want, it won’t do you any good.” He raised his huge sword. “And now I’ll have your head, little Princess. And your realm with it.”
She had always been small and weak compared to Feng, a burly Manchurian transplant who claimed to have never lost a bar fight. She couldn’t even stand up to her mother. All she could do was pray.
Vostok and his hell-horse slid backward, away from her. Abrasax. Her fangs gripped the hell-horse by the right rear leg. The horse thrashed and gnashed at the air as the dragon pulled it away from Kiyoko. Vostok twisted in his saddle, but the dragon kept just out of sword reach.
Oh, thank you.
Abrasax shook the horse violently. The leg ripped from its socket and the horse collapsed, spilling Vostok to the ground.
He leapt to his feet, charged Abrasax, and brought his glowing sword down on her neck. It sliced off her head.
“No!” She’d lost Nyasuke and Abrasax now. She’d never heard of a weapon that could behead every opponent, every time, but somehow Vostok had one.
Vostok grinned. “I’ll trade a horse for a dragon any day. I can salvage this battle yet.” He sprinted toward her, sword raised.
Kiyoko pulled her katana out of its scabbard. At least she’d die on her feet. Waylee fought Feng year after year, and in the end, she beat him.
And Waylee said, if the game is fixed, change the rules.
She threw her katana aside, knelt, and gripped Nyasuke’s spiraled horn. She emptied its huge store of qi, undissipated by death, and added the rest of hers, weaving a spell she hadn’t used since reshaping her realm years ago. Transmute earth to water, used to create stream valleys and other topography.
The ground beneath Vostok turned liquid. “May the very earth you tread on refuse to support you anymore,” she said, “and swallow you whole.”
Vostok’s legs sank into the soupy mire. He cursed and waved his vorpal sword, but his heavy armor dragged him downward. Still clutching his sword, he tried swimming. But his dark torso sank beneath the surface, then his arms, and finally his spiked helmet, leaving only ripples.
She felt no sense of triumph. Only relief. “Goodbye, Vostok.”
A glowing sword thrust up from the mire. It traced circles in the surface and flung bits of muck into the air. Kiyoko stepped back and shouted for help.
The tip sank lower with each slice, though. Then it disappeared entirely.
Reinforcements arrived. Kiyoko ordered her troops to drive off and kill Vostok’s remaining cavalry. She summoned one of the unicorns over, tapped its qi, and reversed her spell, turning the liquid mud back to solid earth. Even Prince Vostok couldn’t escape burial deep underground.
With Vostok and his top lieutenants dead, Kiyoko’s cavalry and infantry tightened the noose and drove his remaining troops back against the river. We need some stirring music for this. By now, a real army would surely surrender. But no one ever surrendered in BetterWorld—they always fought to the death.
Which is what Vostok’s forces on the west side of the Sylvan River did. Kiyoko’s army splintered them into uncoordinated groups, which they overwhelmed one by one. They killed his remaining player characters first, then finished off their passive automatons with volleys of arrows. While the players disappeared after death, non-player corpses littered the ground. Kiyoko and her allies collected their possessions.
Vostok still had forces on the other side of the river, but without bridges or horses, they couldn’t cross. They’d have to strip off their armor and swim, and thereby present easy archery targets. Their commanders didn’t seem eager to attempt that.
Kiyoko moved her forces closer to her walls, healed her wounded, and waited. Her casualties had not been light. But three of Vostok’s died for every one of hers, giving her a victory even if neither side possessed the Neutral Zone.
After a while, the BetterWorld admins declared the battle over and Princess Kiyoko the victor. The Vale was safe, and she now owned some of Vostok’s territory, which she’d split among her allies.
Her reputation would eclipse all others on the Fantasy Continent, and Pel and Waylee would get the money they needed. She hoped this was a good thing, hoped they knew what they were doing.
9
Kiyoko
The taxi driver dropped Kiyoko off right at the house gate. Red regalia on, she had gone out celebrating her victory over Prince Vostok. From her winnings, she’d given Pel the money he needed, saying not to worry about paying her back. Next thing was to buy augmented reality glasses, if she could find any that didn’t make her look dorky. Maybe she’d buy a bunch and invite people over to play live action role-playing games.
Her friends inside and outside BetterWorld had toasted her as a military genius, even though she had done nothing special except use surprise. At Club Kuro Neko, her favorite downtown club, she bought her friends glasses of boba tea and matcha, and boxes of Pocky biscuit sticks. Her friend Jayna used her fake ID to buy a round of plum wine. Kiyoko had almost accepted.
“This good?” the driver asked in some Old World accent.
“Yeah.” She paid him, then unlocked the gate. The floods were on, but none of the interior lights. Everyone’s asleep. It is almost four, though.
Club Kuro Neko catered to the cosplay and Otaku scenes, and stayed open all night, but even it got boring after a while. It was still Baltimore, after all, not Tokyo or Shanghai, the centers of world culture.
And besides, Nyasuke needed her. He’d be waiting. Her cat wasn’t treacherous like boys. Or girls for that matter. Kiyoko couldn’t help it—once she opened up, she opened up completely. If her body was naked against someone else’s, her soul followed, seeking to merge with the other, to bond at a fundamental level. But no one she’d met wanted that—she was just another conquest.
This was all just temporary, though. Their band would land a contract, enter the market, and move someplace real. They had a lot of fans, locally anyway. If they moved to New York or Tokyo, and had a professional manager, they might actually make some money. She’d hire her own limo driver, and maybe a posse of ninja bodyguards.
Kiyoko watched the red tail lights of the taxi recede, and then she was alone. Such silence. No one talking, no one shouting, no gunshots, no sirens, nothing.
She latched and locked the gate behind her. And then saw something moving up in the sky. Not a bat, obviously. Hadn’t seen a bat since forever, and it was way too big. It looked like a floating truck tire, silhouetted against the city’s eternal glare as it silently banked back and forth over the neighborhood.
She set her comlink video to low-light and maximize
d the magnification and image stability. It took a couple of minutes to find again, but there it was—a large, black, wheel-shaped object, bristling with antennae and lenses. Some kind of police drone?
The flying object changed course again. But this time it glided straight toward the house. Toward her.
Her first impulse was to run. But Princesses didn’t do things like that, and certainly she wouldn’t. She put her comlink away and waved at the machine. “What do you want?”
No answer. It descended to about twice rooftop level and came up the street.
“I am Kiyoko, Princess of West Baltimore. Who are you?”
It stopped directly overhead and pointed lenses at her.
The thing gave her the creeps. But no way was she going to let it intimidate her. She waved again. “I’m in a band. Dwarf Eats Hippo. I play bass. Check us out, we’re playing two sets at Bar Zar on Friday.”
On the second floor, her sister’s bedroom light switched on. Oops.
“We’re waking everyone up. Go home, flying machine. You’re drunk.”
Instead of leaving, the machine descended to rooftop level. It made a faint whirring noise like a blender wrapped in a towel.
“Look, I don’t even know you. I’m not gonna invite you in. I’m not that kind of girl. Go home. Come by Bar Zar on Friday and you can watch us play and buy me a drink.” I’m underage, and don’t drink anyway, but whatever. She waved goodbye.
Once inside the house, she couldn’t help but peek past the living room curtain.
The machine was gone.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Pel’s voice behind her. “Everyone but you is trying to sleep.”
She whirled. She hadn’t noticed him come down the stairs, clad only in briefs and his Philosoraptor T-shirt.
She averted her eyes from the bulge in his underwear. “You missed it. Some kind of flying machine was stalking me. I’m guessing police drone.”
“What?”
She described the black wheel-shaped object and how it flew back and forth across the neighborhood and fixated on her when she pointed her comlink at it.
“BPD can’t afford something that fancy. All they got are the toy helicopters.” His forehead furrowed with worry. “Did you take video?”
“Yeah, so I could see it better.” She played it back for him.
“Lemme borrow your link.” Pel yanked it out of her hand, not waiting for a reply.
Jerk. “You’re as rude as Dingo sometimes.”
He ignored her, sat down on the sofa, and started fiddling with her comlink.
She sat next to him, not touching though, and peered over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I grabbed the best still and I’m searching the net for a match.”
A manufacturer’s photo appeared next to the video grab of the machine outside their house. The objects looked identical.
Pel tapped the reference photo, and scrolled through text and diagrams. “It’s called the Watcher,” he said. “Built here in the U.S.” He followed a link. “It can see and hear pretty much anything. Even has giga- and terahertz scanners.”
“What’s that?”
“They can see through walls.”
“And clothes?”
He scoffed. “Probably, but I doubt gawking at your nether regions is their top priority. Now the question is, who uses these things?” He navigated a series of pages. “Oh.”
“Who is it?”
“Homeland Security.”
10
Waylee
Waylee was still a little pissed at Pel for not telling her about the Watcher until the next morning.
“Why didn’t you tell me right away?” she had screamed, wanting to punch him in the mouth. “Didn’t you think it was important?”
“Not an emergency. And you know you need regular sleep to control your condition,” he insisted.
“Fuck you.”
She apologized later. Pel knew her better than she knew herself, and didn’t deserve her abuse.
Cyclothymia had two cycles, the virtual doctors said—hypomania and depression. The hypomania was good, she thought. It made her more energetic, creative, and optimistic. Perfect for writing and composing. Pel and her prior partners loved what it did for her sex drive.
Then there was the depression. The better her good times, it seemed, the steeper her descent into hell. It was like a cosmic see-saw.
All she could do was try to stay calm. If she didn’t, especially after that blow to the head, it could turn into full-blown bipolar disorder, with racing thoughts, delusions, and suicidal urges. Then she’d really be fucked.
She felt her energy draining away, down into the floor. They couldn’t possibly afford the drugs they needed. And Homeland Security had jumped in. Homeland had unlimited resources to track people down and crush them…
“Waylee?” Pel waved his hands, trying to get her attention.
“Sorry.” They were all gathered in the living room—her, Pel, Shakti, Dingo, M-pat, Charles, even Kiyoko. Except for Shakti, no one sat. Rain pattered down beyond the drawn curtains.
Waylee tried to keep the fear out of her voice. Hope for the best. “So first off, we’re sure Homeland Security is nosing around our neighborhood, and we’re sure they’re looking for Charles?”
Pel drummed his fingers together. “Only the feds have Watchers.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have used the EMP bomb,” M-pat said. “Not exactly your typical prison break.”
Pel turned to face him. “Wouldn’t have worked otherwise. They would have gotten video. And called up reinforcements, with drones and helicopters. Too dangerous in the middle of the city without getting a big head start.”
“Think they got DNA or anything from the van we left?” Waylee asked.
“No chance. No skin or hair exposed.”
“So why are they looking here?”
Alone on the sofa, Shakti leaned forward. “Maybe they’re looking everywhere.”
Let’s hope. Feeling a little better, Waylee powered up the living room wall screen, sat down with the interface unit, and navigated to the local news site. The others plopped onto sofas or chairs.
The top story was titled “Councilman Cutler’s Ties to Drugs and Organized Crime.” Bryan Cutler, an African-American community organizer, was elected to the Baltimore City Council three years ago on the People’s Party ticket. He was a rabble rouser on the council and the major parties wanted him out. He was feuding with MediaCorp too, pressing for public media and free Comnet access.
Shakti screeched and pointed at the wall screen. “What’s that?” She was Cutler’s last campaign manager, and they were still pretty tight.
“Just another hit piece,” Waylee said. “The Party raises most of its funds growing pot at Friendship Farm, but it’s perfectly legal. As for organized crime, they’re probably talking about the gang truces he and M-pat coordinated.”
“Well, let’s see what they’re spinning.”
“Later.” The news site’s “Corrections Center Breakout” banner flashed red, indicating an update. Waylee tapped the on-demand link, taking her to the top of the story.
An immaculate woman sat behind a news desk. I wonder if she’s real, or an avatar? To the right, windows revealed seven faces overlaid by green check marks, and below these, four faces inside red boxes. One of these was Charles.
“This update on the corrections center breakout,” the broadcaster said. “Police have captured most of the escapees. Four are still at large.” She went into details about the manhunt and how police caught the seven, none of whom showed much imagination after their unexpected release. Then she described the four remaining.
“Yesterday,” she continued, “the Department of Homeland Security began assisting the investigation. Their main focus is Charles Marvin Lee.”
Charles’s face rotated slowly in the center of the screen. Text appeared alongside, listing details of his crimes and identifying features, with links to more inf
ormation. No link to his actual hack of MediaCorp, which must have been deemed too embarrassing. “Lee is a convicted cyberterrorist—”
Charles jumped out of his seat. “What? It was just a prank! No harm done.”
“—who fled alone in a van driven by the instigators of the breakout…” The woman recapped earlier coverage of their operation. Links to prior broadcasts appeared on the right, along with simulations of M-pat’s and Dingo’s masks.
“Thanks to descriptions from captured inmates, we now have these images of the getaway drivers.” Recreations of Storm and Pel’s quasi-Prince Harry rotated on the screen.
Dingo pumped a fist. “Woo-ee, kiddees! They’re chasing a superhero and don’t even know it.”
The news broadcaster reappeared. “Corrections officers exchanged gunfire with the culprits—”
M-pat pointed at the wall skin. “That’s a lie! We didn’t shoot back.”
Waylee tapped the pause icon. “You expect accurate reporting? This is a MediaCorpse outlet.”
“Aren’t they all?” Kiyoko said.
“Pretty much.” Waylee looked at M-pat and the others. “And since when are we the culprits?”
Pel shrugged. “Well you know, breaking someone out of jail is against the law.”
Waylee resumed the feed. “It isn’t known if any of the culprits were hit,” the broadcaster said. A simulation followed of their second van’s escape down Greenmount and onto Madison.
“Baltimore police say the breakout was meticulously planned. And federal authorities say Lee’s accomplices may be terrorists.”
The main window switched to a middle-aged man wearing a generic suit. Text beneath stated Dennis Fecthammer, U.S. Department of Homeland Security. “Lee’s accomplices set up miniature surveillance cameras outside the detention center. And they set off an electromagnetic pulse bomb to disable cameras, communications, and other electronics in the area.”
Footage of the van interior appeared, followed by a short animation of how EMP bombs work. “In this case, massive capacitors released current into insulated copper wires coiled around an iron core. This created a powerful electromagnetic pulse that fried nearby electronics, much like a bolt of lightning. On a larger scale, such a weapon could paralyze an entire city.”
