Win

by Vera Nazarian

  One of them, in a green uniform, sprints away, onward into the arena.

  The other, in red, turns toward me.

  I don’t think—I run!

  Run, Gwen, run! Xelio’s frequent advice rings in my ears, as I make my own split-second decision and head for the closest structures before me, following all my trainers’ three-step advice, while the first zing-zing sounds of gunfire start from all directions in the huge arena.

  Look for shelter—or as many walls as possible—even if it’s just one wall to put behind your back.

  Keep moving.

  Avoid others.

  I pay attention to my surroundings with razor-sharp focus, see a sudden melee ahead as uniforms of several colors mingle, and Contenders with suddenly revealed bladed weapons engage each other. There’s a violent clash of metal, screams, and various explosions accompanied by billowing colored smoke and more zing-zing of firearms, coming from all locations in the arena—all accompanied by the roar of the spectator crowds.

  The nearest shelter I’ve set my sights on is part of a complicated structure that includes one of the four great thick “corner” posts of the arena—the blue one.

  It’s only about a hundred feet ahead, but before I can reach it, I must cross a moat—a weird barrier of unknown depth and about five feet across that’s apparently filled with water. This bizarre moat circles the entirety of the arena, as far as the eye can see, and serves as the outer barrier enclosing all the equipment and structures that make up this insane playground.

  But before I can even get to the moat, I need to deal with at least half a dozen people. Contenders are scattering in every direction, some engaging each other in fierce combat, others playing the avoidance game, similar to my own strategy.

  The nearest one, a large man in a blue uniform, runs toward me, cutting me off, and I can barely see the Technician logo on his shirt, before he flings something in my direction.

  Fortunately I react with a well-practiced move of my own. . . . I go into a running slide, turning myself sideways so that I am low to the ground, with one foot extended, my head lowered protectively to the floor, so that whatever he throws at me ends up striking the person behind me—the Contender in red, my cell neighbor, who’s been pursuing me from the beginning. The Red goes down, as a metallic projectile hits him high in the chest.

  I recover from my slide and spring back up and around, while the Technician is now going after someone else, a wiry woman Entertainer in green who’s come at us from the other side. . . . I let them engage each other, and I run. . . .

  Seconds later I feel a sharp, hard tingle in my upper back, then another lower down. Without stopping I realize I’ve been shot. . . . Holy crap, but I’m somehow unharmed! I’m fortunate to be wearing that amazing high-end armor, because whatever impact I’ve taken has been stopped by the body vest underneath. . . . Had it been only a few inches higher, near my head, I’d be dead right now.

  My temples pounding, breath coming short, I continue running in the general direction of my designated shelter, in wildly erratic steps, as I’ve been taught by my trainers, to create a pattern of unpredictability with my motion.

  One Athlete girl in red is directly ahead, another man in green, and another in white, who’s also running at a diagonal in the same general direction as I am. In seconds, we’ll all collide near the moat barrier. . . . No! Damn! I need to stay away from all these people!

  So I change direction, lengthen my diagonal trajectory, while I hear the screams of the Green and the White, while the Red Athlete passes them both and takes an amazing running leap, sailing over the five feet of moat as if it’s only a minor hurdle. And she keeps going.

  I have only a second to blink. But when I open my eyes, the same Athlete goes down, struck by a flung machete-like knife from the hands of another Red. Blood, the same color as her uniform, is pouring into the nearby moat which she just cleared. . . . Meanwhile the Red Warrior who’s just scored a Kill, glances around at me, a deadly look in his dark eyes. He moves swiftly to retrieve his terrifying machete, but I’m not waiting around for him. . . . Not even my fancy body armor can protect me from that blade!

  I swerve and run like hell, angling away from the massive blue structure, still following the general curve of the moat—which I still haven’t crossed or even know how to attempt to cross, since I can’t clear five feet even with my best running leap, especially not in this gravity—and head for the next closest walled structure. This one’s painted yellow, and located deeper in the playground. Yes, I’ll have to cross the moat to get to it (I still don’t know how!) but first, must get away from the machete guy. My choice of direction is based on the fact that there are fewer Contenders in my path, here.

  But, sights are deceptive.

  As I sprint parallel to the moat, I hear various audience roars, muted voices of various commentators coming from the giant stadium video screens, and more dramatic explosions. And in the next instant there’s an explosion directly in my path. An impressively loud but harmless blast releases an immense white camouflage cloud which consumes everything in my vicinity, and suddenly visibility is nil.

  Immediately I stop in my tracks.

  And then, remembering my training for low-visibility circumstances, I take three quick steps backward and drop to the floor. Yes, it’s crazy and counter-intuitive, but instead of moving, I am now lying flat on my belly, holding my arms and hands close to my head to protect my vulnerable neck and skull.

  In seconds, I can just barely make out several pairs of feet pounding near me, only visible when inches away. Then someone almost steps on me—but I’m ready, and I twist out of their way, and I trip them with a violent sweep of my arm.

  The Contender goes down with a small stifled sound of breath . . . a faint blotch of green uniform shows through the milky white fog . . . while I roll out of the way, just as the white cloud around us starts clearing.

  I end my roll in a practiced crouch, ready to stand up again, but as the artificial cloud dissipates, I can now see I’m surrounded. Three Contenders are down on the arena floor next to me, two of them severely wounded, and the third—the one I’ve tripped, a skinny, wiry teen boy with bronze skin and curly brown hair, barely gilded—is getting back up, also in an effortless crouch, a mere two feet away from me. His green uniform has an Animal Handler logo, and his dark eyes are focused on me, cool and unreadable. I can see he has short knives in both hands, and both the blades are bloodied.

  Oh, crap. . . .

  Did I mention the two running Contenders, a Blue and a Red, who are converging on us from both sides?

  That’s it, I’m about to die . . . only a few minutes into the competition.

  The Animal Handler’s eyes shift rapidly to note the arrivals. He then stares hard at me, as we face off in our crouch. There’s a one-second pause. Then the boy mutters to me in Atlanteo: “I’ll kill you later. . . . For now—work together?”

  My mind processes this opportunity. I nod at once. I don’t know or trust him, but what else can I do?

  “I’ll take the Blue,” I mouth quietly, having made my choice of adversary based on simple proximity. I reach in an outer pocket of my equipment bag and grab my most comfortable weapon of choice—a small electroshock gun.

  It does not kill, only temporarily incapacitates, and I find I’m more willing to fire this kind of gun. Any hesitation on my part can critically affect my chances of survival, so Aeson had me train hard with it, until I’ve become proficient. Obviously I have other lethal guns with me, but I try to think of them as backup—it’s the only way I can deal with the idea of having to kill. . . .

  Meanwhile the boy nods at me and his gaze flits to the Red Contender. Oh no, it’s that same machete guy. Can this boy take him?

  I have no time to worry, because my own Blue adversary is here, an older balding man with scraps of white hair and leathery red skin. He wears the Scientist logo and carefully aims a small gun at me.

  But I’m quicker.
. . . I fire my stun weapon at the same time as I reach in my bag and grab something that looks like a folded hand fan. The “ribs” of the fan, made of transparent bulletproof material, are stacked together to form a long, skinny wedge, with a metal grip attached to the narrow end. It resembles the handle of a hand iron, and folds shut like a switchblade.

  I slide my fingers into the inch-wide gap between the ribs and the handle, grasp the metal handle, and press a spring-action button with my thumb. The fan wedge unfolds into a perfect circle—a transparent round shield with a diameter of about twenty-five inches, enough to cover my head and vulnerable neck area. I position it close to my face, just in time to deflect a volley of projectiles.

  My stun weapon discharge connects with the Scientist, but equally harmlessly—it appears he’s also protected against gunfire and electroshock with some kind of armor vest underneath, similar to my own.

  We face off, I in my low balanced crouch, he taking a similar Er-Du stance, but not bothering to fire again at me.

  Meanwhile, with my peripheral vision, I note the Animal Handler kid taunting and circling the machete-wielding Warrior who periodically lunges at him and misses. . . .

  The Scientist looks at me, and for one weird moment I recognize a kind of world-weary resignation in his expression. It occurs to me, I don’t think he wants to kill me. How do I know this? Maybe because, as we circle, he keeps glancing wistfully to the inner area beyond the moat. Likely, he was heading there too before being confronted with the white-out cloud and all of us gathered in this spot. . . . Which means, he wasn’t actually running at me, but toward the moat.

  So I take a risk.

  “Truce?” I say in Atlanteo (having memorized this crucial word together with several key others, just for the Games).

  There’s a long second that feels like eternity, while he considers.

  And then . . . the Scientist blinks with relief and nods. “Truce,” he replies, lowering his gun and easing the combat stance. “Must get over the ditch.”

  “Agreed,” I say, straightening also, lowering my own weapon, but still keeping the clear shield protectively near my face.

  There’s an angry yell, and we both glance to see the Red Warrior scramble after the Animal Handler, striking the ground hard with his machete, after missing yet again. The kid is quick! But now the machete appears to be stuck in the floor of the arena.

  While the Warrior tries to dislodge it, the Animal Handler turns and comes back around, then suddenly jumps the Warrior from behind, legs circling the enemy’s back, as though riding a saddled beast. In seconds, the Animal Handler plunges both his short knives into his neck, and the Warrior gurgles, going down on top of his own machete. . . .

  I try to look away from the details of the carnage, but the kid retrieves his knives and turns back to me and the Scientist. His expression is hard and calm as he flicks excess blood off the blades.

  There’s a moment when it likely occurs to both of us that he’s about to kill us also. But the wiry Animal Handler nods at me, then glances at the Scientist. “I’ll kill you later,” he repeats the same phrase he used with me earlier. “Now, we go together, all right?” and he points with one blade beyond the moat.

  We have no time to ponder, because several other Contenders are converging in our direction.

  “Okay, let’s go!” I say. “But how do we cross?”

  “We jump!” the Animal Handler says. And then he takes a running leap, and clears the five feet of moat like an agile monkey.

  The Scientist and I look at each other. “That’s not gonna work for me,” I mutter.

  “Not for me either,” the Scientist says calmly, with a hint of sad humor. However, he observes the ground and points to several fallen bodies. “So we build a bridge.”

  I bite my lip at the unpleasant task, but he’s right.

  “All right, hurry!” the kid says on the other side of the water ditch, watching us and the approaching Contenders.

  The Scientist and I quickly drag three heavy dead bodies and position them over the water, piling one on top of the other in a makeshift bridge. My mind refuses to process what it is I’m doing, but the weight in my hands is very real. . . .

  Seconds later, we run over the crossing, stepping on the dead, jumping part of the way, and then we’re on the other side.

  “Slow, too slow,” the Animal Handler says. “You two will both die too quickly.”

  “Thanks for the insight,” I say with a snort.

  But the Scientist points to the structures ahead of us. “There,” he says. “Good shelter.”

  We sprint toward the nearby structures painted yellow, which would take us deeper inside the arena.

  From behind come cries of other Contenders, who are probably using our bridge of bodies to cross, but there’s no time to look back.

  Gunfire hisses and zing-zing volleys come at our backs as we run.

  Up-close, the yellow structure reveals itself to be several connected rectangle box shelters, barely a foot above the height of an average person, with doorless openings leading into a shadowed interior. The roofs of the boxes support complex and incomprehensible metal scaffolding that rises like trees and has multiple levels or shelves.

  Just as we approach the structure, three Contenders show up around the corner, fighting each other. A Yellow man with the Artist logo is throwing darts and gloved fistfuls of some kind of noxious orange sand at two women—another Yellow who is an Inventor, and a White Entrepreneur.

  The Inventor is using a net of metallic fish-scale armor to protect herself, spinning it skillfully to deflect the sand that appears to be corrosive, because the ground hisses where the sand granules land. The two women show multiple burn holes in their uniforms where the chemical powder has made contact and scalded the fabric down to their body armor underneath. Meanwhile the Entrepreneur is using a clear shield similar to mine but larger in diameter, so that it covers most of her torso and lower body.

  Seeing us approach, the Artist increases the speed and force of his attack, pelting the two women with the corrosive powder that he handles with one gloved hand. Meanwhile, he stops throwing darts with the other, and now reaches for a lethal handgun.

  Next to me the Animal Handler cusses in Atlanteo. We’re all directly in the Artist’s line of fire, and while the Scientist and I seem to have excellent body armor, the same may not apply to this kid. I’m guessing he doesn’t have the means to own “the best that Imperial money can buy”—such as my own high-end gear. . . .

  “Get behind us!” I tell the boy, raising my clear shield over my face, just as the Artist begins to fire at us.

  The Scientist unfolds a visor of similar clear bulletproof material and puts it on his head, lowering an extension over his face like a welder’s helmet, leaving his hands free.

  Zing-zing-zing!

  I feel the stinging impact in my chest, but my wonderful body armor keeps me safe.

  The Scientist and I fire back. This time I flick my wrist and reach for a lightweight needle-gun in my sleeve—thinking of Aeson as I do this—and I aim for the Artist’s vulnerable exposed areas. Next to me, the Scientist is firing his own gun, methodically and somewhat slowly, and not sure which one of us ultimately earns the Kill, but the Artist is hit.

  He goes down, but not before he discharges his own gun directly into the head of the woman Entrepreneur, who does not pull up her long shield in time. . . . She falls down in an ugly red mess, staining her white uniform. I avoid looking at what’s left of her face.

  The Yellow Inventor with the awesome fish-scale net skills immediately puts up one hand to gesture to us her peaceful intent. “Stop, don’t fire! Truce!” she says, staring at us with wide green eyes. She’s lean, of middle height, and probably young, but as with most Atlanteans I’m not entirely sure of her age. Her hair is short and wavy gold, and she appears very nervous.

  In that moment somewhere in a different part of the arena there’s a series of explosions, and the audience
roars. . . .

  The Scientist pauses just for a second, and the Animal Handler steps around from behind us to stare at the woman with hard-eyed appraisal.

  But I don’t hesitate. “Okay, truce,” I say with relief. “Work together?”

  “Yes, yes!” the Yellow immediately nods, taking a step closer to us and winding her net over one hand like a spool. “I’m Larahat Sei, we can be allies.”

  “I’m Gwen Lark,” I say.

  “Yes, I know. You’re the Imperial Bride!” Larahat the Inventor responds with a faint nervous smile, then glances back and forth at the two others—who both look at me, possibly only now recognizing my infamous persona.

  Apparently in this weird moment of pause, introductions are in order.

  “Chihar Agwath,” says the Scientist at my side. I notice the interesting way he pronounces his name, chee-har, very sing-song and tonal. He glances at me calmly, showing little reaction to my identity.

  The Animal Handler also stares at me sharply for a moment, evaluating me all over again, then pauses before speaking in a serious tone. “Zaap . . . I am Zaap Guvai.”

  “Okay, great, Larahat, Chihar, Zap—good to work with you,” I say.

  “Not Zap,” the Animal Handler says at once, frowning.

  I glance at him. “What?”

  “My name is Zaap, not ‘Zap.’”

  “Oh, sorry,” I mutter.

  There’s another very loud explosion, this time closer to the center of the arena. We look up to see a thick dark smokestack rising like a miniature mushroom cloud, to obscure the central Red post structure, including the uppermost platform that holds the Red Grail. At the same time the stadium begins to chant, “Sar-pa-nit! Sar-pa-nit!”

  “No! Did someone already get close to the Grail?” Zaap complains sullenly, forgetting both my unintentional insult and my apology. “It’s not even half an hour into the First Stage!”