by Hugo Huesca
“Cole. Hey, man. What’s up?” He sounded out of breath.
“Are you alright, Officer Harrison? I didn’t interrupt you chasing a murderer or something—”
“Not at all,” he said, “in fact, it’s my day off.”
“That’s great,” I said. I have to admit, I had no idea how to talk to a cop. “Err…”
“Anything I can do for you?”
“Now that you mention it, yeah, there is.”
“So, let’s hear it.”
It made me feel vaguely guilty talking to a cop out of hours. I wasn’t snitching on anyone or stuff like that, though. I drew breath. “You know The Ferals?”
Of course he knew them, the Department must’ve arrested them a dozen times.
“Yeah, an interesting crowd. Friends of yours, right? I thought you stopped hanging around them.”
I just don’t know how to quit them, Officer, they are so sexy with their chains and spikes and their three functioning brain-cells. “Not my friends. But I was checking up on them. I’d hoped you could tell me if they have been in any trouble lately. Say, last weekend?”
“Cole, you must be some kind of sage,” he said. I tried not to audibly cringe. “Yes, as a matter of fact, some of them got into trouble Saturday night.”
Oh, boy.
“What kind of trouble?” Please, Officer, my ass is on the line here.
“Let’s see. I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation, though. We got an anonymous call that some of our guys —by that I mean, Lower Cañitas guys— were planning to cause some trouble in some club downtown. The Department over there waited for them inside the club and caught them red-handed. We have them right now in a cell. They tried to go for the City’s leadership, so they are going to get a live trial with a real judge. Probably going to spend a couple years in a correctional facility, those two.”
Those two?
“Oh. That sucks.” The words I was thinking were like two orders of magnitude nastier. “You know who they caught?”
“Yeah. First one is this lanky guy, Benjamin Cengic.” That’s Ghoul’s real name. “The second was this girl—”
Please, say Bliss. Please, say Bliss. C’mon…
“Magda Libermann. Let me tell you, she’s in trouble. She’s twenty-one, no more Strikes for her. She’s probably going to get sent to real jail for a while.”
“Ah. Bummer, that.” Again, what I was thinking was more nasty-sounding. They had caught Chimera. They had caught Darren’s girlfriend while Darren had managed to get away.
It was the worst possible scenario.
“Yeah, right? You should be thankful you got out of that scene, Cole. You could be keeping Benjamin company right now. And he hasn’t stopped sobbing since Saturday.”
Sounds like Ghoul alright. “Thanks for the info, detective. I have to go now.”
“Sure, Cole. Remember, stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll say no to drugs, too.” I ended the call and dropped the phone on the table.
Cole, let’s keep calm. There’s a good chance a gigantic bag of muscles and roid-rage is trying to kill you. What are we going to do about this? Good question, myself. Panic was my first option, but surely there was something more useful I could do.
Officer Harrison had said, “police got an anonymous call.” They had been lying in wait for The Ferals all night, but to Darren, they got jumped just about the time I went to the hospital.
It looked bad. No chance he was easily going to buy it had been mere coincidence. And he knew I was trying to “get straight.”
If the police had caught him too, I may have been safe. But they had caught Chimera, his girl, and he had escaped.
Remember that guy he killed for stealing his last girlfriend? I found out, years later, how he had done it. First, he intimidated all the poor sob’s gang friends into staying away. Then, one night the guy was coming back home, Darren jumped at him from behind a parked truck where Darren had waited for six hours. He grabbed the guy’s entire head on his chemically engorged hand, lifted him up like a toddler would to a toy soldier, then smashed the man’s head against a wall. Over. And over. And over. Until the police came.
Nowadays, medicine has advanced a lot. If you have enough money to pay for it, of course. Medics can easily heal —the term “resurrect” is more fitting— people from bullet wounds, car accidents, and chainsaw dismemberments. Things doctors can’t do: bring you back after an incurable genetic disease has had your way on your brain and body… and bring you back from your head being made into jelly.
Yeah, first of all, no way I was meeting Darren anywhere. He had an ambush all set up and I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
I carefully crafted a message and sent it to Darren.
Sorry bro :S I can’t right now. Gotta work from home >,< another day.
It had to sound like I wasn’t scared for my life and actively trying to avoid him, or else he’d try something crazy like coming to my house and try to break in. But, how do you give your text a “just chilling, I’m really not suspicious you want to punch my brains in” tone?
I thought it over and then changed “right” to “rite” in the message. Everyone could read and write except for the poorest families in San Mabrada, the ones who lived at the edge of the city, over the vast expanses of the Dumpster Ring. After all, most people spent a good chunk of the day over the Internet. Eventually, you learned decent grammar. Lower Cañitas folks and the like just chose not to use it.
As a way to identify each other, sure, and to have some semblance of unity. But also to know if someone was getting airs of grandeur, trying to court the rich and powerful.
If that sounds bitter to you, well, it probably is. But to be fair, in this district “rich and powerful” usually involves either cops or organized crime.
Form, meet function. She’s here to replace you. Your things are waiting for you on your desk.
Darren never answered back.
All the better for me. That bought me a second or two. Next thing on the list was getting Van on the level and Mom reasonably guarded. Second thing on the list…
I have to get the hell out of here. Otherwise, I was going to get killed. Or worse. But how? Moving was expensive and we lived week to week. If I had more time, I may be able to save enough from my Xanz’s paychecks. But I didn’t have time.
Need to get Van on her guard. Darren and his group had never messed with someone’s families before, but I’d rather be ready for anything.
I went to her room trying real hard not to panic. I opened the door and barged inside. She was streaming some classic first person shooter on her stream, barking commands to her team. She was wearing some kind of bathing suit.
“Yo, sis, we have a problem—” wait a second. “What the hell are you wearing?”
The next seconds involved a lot of yelling and confused movement. I tried to reach the computer, screaming at her incoherently. She shut down the stream and the game in one single motion and turned back, screaming at me, furious for making a scene on her channel.
“Have you gone nuts? Are you trying to make me go viral?” she yelled over me as she pushed me away from the computer. “Van Dorsett’s retarded brother assaults her in her room! That’s what the videos are going to say, you maniac!”
“I wouldn’t have to make a scene,” I growled, “if my sixteen-year-old sister wasn’t playing in a bathing suit for god knows how many strangers!”
“Bathing suit? What do you—”
“I have a job, god-sake, you don’t have to cam to get extra money—”
Her open hand flew towards my face at such a speed I’d swear it made a “whoosh” sound. I deflected it with my arm and pushed hers backwards.
“That’s what you think I’m doing, asshole? Camming? I’m wearing a uniform, Cole.”
“That’s a hell of a thing to call a bathing suit.” But now I could see it was less a bathing suit than a tank-top. Still very much smaller than it should have be
en, but I could see the names of some sponsors. Some of them were even local businesses.
“Camming? If you had said that over the stream…” she was trembling with rage. “I’m building a team, you—” she said many things here to which there is no point repeating. “—We want to play games professionally. This is our uniform. We are streaming in our uniform to show support to our sponsors.”
I took a very deep breath. Okay. It made sense. She was good at games. She wanted to go pro. She needed sponsors for that. I made a genuine effort to relax. “Can’t you support your sponsors in less skimpy outfits?”
She stopped her litany of insults and faltered for a moment. “Well, see, the top does attract more viewers—”
I lunged for the computer, fully intending to throw it out of the window.
Van lunged for me.
Now, I have to say, I taught Van how to defend herself in a fight. That’s my big brother’s duty after all. And it’s a rough world out there. I could handle my way around a brawl. Not win, probably, but get enough distance between me and the other person so I could run away.
Van had been in a couple fights, too. High-school in Lower Cañitas was that kind of high-school, for both boys and girls. But Van didn’t run away at the first chance she got. She won her fights. Against stronger, heavier, older opponents. Every time.
She did this in two ways. The first was, she didn’t let you know you were in a fight with her until she had already started it. Second one was, she started a fight by going straight for either the groin or the neck. I was stronger than Van. I was heavier. I was older.
Van’s tackle caught me in mid-air, a meter before my extended arm could reach her computer chasis. We fell to the floor, with her roaring like a rabid animal all the while. The fall knocked the wind out of me and stunned me for half a second. I instinctively tried to roll away to buy me the time I needed to gather my bearings. Her hand caught me by my work shirt and pulled me in.
Then she kicked me in the groin. I doubled over, groaning in pain. She immediately punched me in the neck, as merciless as Genghis Frickin’ Khan.
Good game. Lights out.
We were in the kitchen five minutes later, after the mood had cleared a bit. Van got herself some soup.
“So, a pro gamer,” I said, extending her an olive branch. Metaphorically speaking, I mean. I was actually holding an ice bag over my neck, which had taken the most direct hit of her wombo-combo. Luckily. “You think you can make it? It’s a competitive scene.”
I saw some of the tournaments, but I was no fan. Watching them mostly felt like watching a kid play with an awesome toy he was never going to lend to you.
“I know I can. I may need some practice and a better hardware set-up, but I’ve been climbing the leaderboards of my games for a while. Sponsors are local, but they are interested.”
She took a sip of soup and made a face she instantly tried to hide. I decided to let that one pass.
“There have to be better ways to get sponsored than pretending you’re playing beach volleyball, Van.”
“If we lived in Korea and could spend the whole day practicing, that may do the trick.”
“You can’t spend the whole day practicing. You need to prepare for college admissions.”
Van moved the plate to one side, still half full. “You sure? About college, I mean. There’s no career where I can make half as much as going pro if I make it big.”
I didn’t like the path this conversation was taking. “If you make it big, sis. Pro gaming is the new Hollywood dream. Tens of thousands are trying their best and most of them fail.”
“I already have a fanbase,” she said. “That helps more than you imagine. Not all games out there demand perfect reflexes. Some are about the choices you make. Or about the strategy you use in your army. There’s one where you have to solve a randomly generated crime-scene and capture the bad guy. I can find my niche.”
“I’m not sure most of those have a competitive scene.” I was doubting myself, though. Van saw that and went for the kill.
In this case, the kill meant to fake contrition.
“Look, I’m still planning to attend college. If I start to out-earn my professors then we’ll have another chat.”
She paused for effect.
“Also, I’m sorry about punching you, Cole. But if you go caveman again, then I’ll knock you out.”
She tried to pout. The amateur forgot that didn’t work on family. I wasn’t ready to let go of this discussion, but—
But I had bad news of my own. Perhaps it was time for an exchange. “Let’s talk about your career prospects later, although I’d be happier if you got this new team some jerseys or something.”
“I’ll talk to the stream, run some opinion polls.”
I rolled my eyes. “Look, Van, remember The Ferals?”
“Yeah, the punk wannabes, with that girl… Blessed or something? You tried to make a pass on her on the couch, just as Mom got back from shopping. Man, me and like two hundred Internet strangers heard the scream—”
“Ugh. Shut up.” Let’s not remember that. “Yes, those guys. We had a misunderstanding. If you, um, hear about them or see them getting close… yeah, you should kind of call the police.”
“Oh boy,” she whistled. “That bad?”
You don’t know the half of it. We may need to get out of Lower Cañitas if I can’t fix this before it escalates.
“Yup.”
She thought it over. “You’re not involved in something illegal again, are you?”
“Definitely not technically at all,” I mumbled in a hurry. “They are the ones in trouble, not me, that’s the problem.”
“You know what, maybe time in Xanz will do you some good. You need a break from Lower Cañitas. I’d like to help you with the bills sometime soon, but the pro gaming idea is still a bit far away…”
“I’m fine, sis,” I lied, “Just keep an eye open. For Mom too.”
“Well, lucky we have Officer Harrison nearby, right?” she said, shrugging.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. Did she know I’d talked to him?
She made a blank face, which usually meant “Whoops, talked too much already.”
“Nothing. Cole, I’m sorry you’re going to get your ass beaten into Mars’ orbit, but I have to get back to the stream. My team is going to murder me already for skipping out on them.”
“Sure, sure,” I mumbled. She left before I even realized it. I was focused on something she had said earlier.
I needed money. To get out of Lower Cañitas before Darren did something drastic, but also to deal with Xanz. You could pay your way out of a five-year contract if you somehow managed to afford either the penalty fees or the bribes.
Pro gamers had the opportunity to earn a lot of money. Sponsors were happy to fork out the big bucks for a chance to carry their logos on the player’s chests.
We could not afford a modern computer. But I had a mindjack and a permanent subscription to one of the most famous games on the market…
Hell, I think I may log in again, after all. Now it was business, right?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Translight in a Bottle
That night, I spent a couple of hours researching Rune Universe. It was created by a company named Nordic Studios, launched only a couple of years ago and with an active population numbering in the hundred thousands.
The game had never had an expansion before, never a new patch of content, and only a couple of emergency bug-fixes released after launch. Yet, no player had claimed to reach the “end-game” section of Rune, even the ones who mainly focused on the Terran Federation Quest line. What’s more, many of the missions offered to players were one-time only. The vial Lance had brought back to the Earth’s research facility, for example, should help them exterminate the escaped mutants and after that, new players spawning there would receive an entirely new quest.
Part of Rune’s popularity came from its quest-generator. Other game
s in the market implemented similar strategies, but never to the depth Rune went. Its algorithm competed with hand-made storyline designs. Meaning, their computers designed quests just as well as humans did.
I wasn’t so sure. “Go to the woods and kill me a couple monsters, then come back,” didn’t sound to me like the most inspired quest. On the other hand, the Grandmaster ranked players that agreed to share their on-going quests showed story-lines that rivaled any summer movie release.
I spent hours reading about professions and skills, but it only helped me to confirm what I read about the random nature of the game. A player who spent all his time honing his piloting skills could get an entirely different profession than another who did exactly the same. The only pattern I identified was, players who focused on combat oriented skills got combat-oriented professions.
And combat was where the money was at. Alliances spent hundreds of millions of in-game currency (databytes) on huge space-fleet battles to vie for dominion of key strategic sectors and systems. It often, but not always, involved just as complex land battles, where armies fought to secure planetary defenses, databases (run entirely by humans), and rare resources.
If I wanted to have a chance of making it in the pro-scene, I needed to focus on combat. I decided I’d become the most feared warrior in the galaxy.
I went to sleep, exhausted and with only four hours left on my clock before I had to get up to catch the bus. I didn’t dream of war, or smoke, or artillery. I dreamt of a lonely man in a spacesuit, wandering on his own over the surface of a ravaged planet with golden seas. He walked slowly with a limp as his life-support systems depleted from a million tiny failures. In front of him, the horizon extended. Its pinkish mist wasn’t strong enough to hide the universe behind.
An infinity of planets and stars just beyond his reach.
I left to catch the bus as early as I could. Better chances that way of avoiding Darren if he had somehow found out my route and the hour I got up. Still, I spent the day at the office like a fly who ran into a cloud of insecticide. Stunned, confused, and hoping for the end to arrive soon.
