Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators)

by Campbell, Nenia

  “Yes, I did. Only a couple hundred times.” The girl says it with a laugh, and Vol feels a bolt of something akin to jealousy as she watches their easy, joking manner with each other. “Pay attention.”

  Tash points at Vol. “This is the girl I told you about, the one who helped me kick that one guy's ass. Vol, this is Ariel. She moved in on the same day as me. We're neighbors.”

  Ariel is a strikingly pretty girl with the ruddy complexion and fawn-colored hair typical of Meridians. She smiles and shakes Vol's hand. “Hello. I apologize in advance if I do anything atypical. The crowd is so pushy and rambunctious — and this is my first night on the job.”

  “You're doing great,” says Vol.

  “That's kind of you,” Ariel says dryly. “Especially considering the fact that Jillain could only afford to give me four hours' worth of training.”

  “Is there a run starting soon?” Tash asks. “Like, now-ish?”

  “Tash, you saw the line out there. Lynchings will begin to occur if I allow people to cut.”

  “Pleeeeease? They'll be fine. I promise. A little bit of patience will do them good. Besides, there's nothing out there to hang rope from. I checked.”

  Ariel says. “Oh, all right. Go find a cubicle before I find something to hang you from.”

  “It's a date,” Tash says, and bounds down the hallway like an oversized puppy.

  “That girl is a walking advert for headache medicine,” Ariel comments. She smiles as she says it, though her smile dims as she turns to Vol. “There's an available cubicle down the next hall. I just checked the equipment. It should be good to go, and I presume you know how to get yourself hooked in. Summon me if there's a problem.”

  Vol gets the feeling Ariel doesn't like her much for some reason. She forces some extra friendliness into her voice. “I don't know what you're worried about. You seem pretty on top of things to me.”

  Ariel shakes her head. “Like I said, they crammed all my training into one day. I haven't slept for — I don't even know. At least a day. Maybe more, between tutorials and unpacking. Tash has been bringing me coffee nonstop. If it weren't for her, I'd probably be hugging the carpet right now.”

  “I'd tell you it's going to get better, but…” Vol shrugs. “Shouldn't Suryan be helping you? They usually have two God Mods on duty for events as big as these.”

  “That would be amazing, but I'm signed up to work alone.” Ariel glances at her virtusketch. “Wait. No, apparently another Master of Games — God Mod — is supposed to arrive in about fifteen minutes. I didn't see that before.” She squints at the screen. “Oh, I see.” She looks at Vol. “They've been doing things like this to me all day, modifying the schedule constantly. I figured it was a hazing ritual, but it appears to be disorganization. Anyway, it's a man. The Mod, I mean. I'm not sure what they've done with your Suryan but she's not here and from what I can tell, she's not going to be.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “Good luck.”

  Ariel returns to the reception area, leaving Vol alone, so she knows she's been dismissed. She walks to the cubicle Ariel pointed out and hesitates at the doorway. She thinks she hears a hushed sound. A footstep, maybe, muted by the carpet. Vol glances over her shoulder and then slams the doors hut behind her, walking over to the chair to submit herself once more to the machine-induced thrall.

  She is in the forest again. Green, still, and calm.

  Vol is crouched on her knees, the leather encasing her legs stretched so tautly across the knees that it creaks when she moves. A tattered bandeau is secured around her waist with three heavy buckled belts, and a cloak with a cowl completes the outfit.

  Was she dressed like this in the previous round? She didn't notice how revealing it is.

  She stands, drawing the hood over her face and the cloak over her body, and accesses the archives through the data-link.

  Program: Bounty_Strike_4.exe

  Class: Bandit

  The Empire's high taxes and oppressive reign have forced its inhabitants to take to the streets to survive. Bandits have overrun the countryside, holding up travelers and obstructing trade relations with neighboring kingdoms. Bounty hunters have been employed to detain and capture any highway men- and women- they find. Alive … or dead.

  Mission objectives: River

  River?

  Vol probes deeper into the archives, seeking more information. The archives flicker and abruptly disappear as her access to the data-link is cut. Well, crap. Does that mean she doesn't have a hunter this time around? No, she isn't that lucky. She probably has two.

  She bets that Kira heard gossip that Vol finished the game early, and made a few subsequent additions, because gods forbid anything around here ever be simple. That's okay, though, because Vol doesn't mind a good challenge. Provided she can win it, that is.

  The rules may have changed, but the gamescape hasn't. Vol still sort of resembles the route she took before. Since she isn't being chased, she has a chance to study her surroundings on a level less superficial than what kind of camouflage they are capable of providing. The scenery has definite aesthetic appeal. Kira's boyfriend Jade, a Weaver, outdid himself. Vol is sure that it can't be easy, keeping up with Kira's erratic and fanciful ideas.

  Jade is from Meridan, and she can see the influence of his native Helix Forest in everything from beech trees standing sentry like soldiers, to the rowans and the oaks, to the graceful ferns spreading their fronds like grasping hands, to the bluebells that seemed to reflect the sky — and the river. She is here.

  Vol steps over the slippery rocks with caution, grateful for her heavy boots and the traction they provide. Downstream the water flows faster, culminating in frothy whitecaps that churn up foam and debris. The rocks form a natural dam that keeps this upstream section somewhat tranquil. Vol doesn't like to think about what will happen if she slips and gets caught in the current.

  Keeping close to the river's edge, Vol walks against the flow of the water, following it to its source. Except for the burble of water, the forest is silent, and soon she finds herself growing relaxed. She wonders where the other Players and Marks are. The game arena isn't so big that sound couldn't carry. She heard that boy and girl fighting, after all.

  That makes her think of Tash and she smiles against her will. She pities the poor soul stuck with the fiery Arbatian as his or her partner this round.

  Once or twice an animal darts through the underbrush — something soft-pawed and curious, ducking out of sight just as quickly as it appears, leaving behind nothing more substantial than a glimpse of brown fur or lashing tail. Vol starts each time, thinking it's the danger awaiting her.

  Her game objective.

  That man.

  When Vol's purported assailant turns out to be a rabbit, she lets out a laugh that sounds too high and thin to really be hers. What has happened to that fearless girl running laughingly through the trees? Fake. Just like everything else around here. A paragon. An ideal.

  The rocks are larger now, more like boulders. The river is more violent now, too, resembling rapids more than a gentle stream. Long platforms of shale jut out over the riverbank, partially eroded where weathering has caused the brittle stone to break off and be carried downstream.

  Her side of the riverbank grows too steep and unstable to traverse. She's forced to retreat a little way back down the river and cross over to the other side via a fallen log. The log is partially rotted. Panic seizes her when her boot splinters through wood. Luckily, the log was being held in place between two large rocks, and she manages to grab onto one of them as she goes down. She scrapes both knees but manages to avoid being swept away.

  She tears her nails in an attempt to right herself. The stones are sharp and slick with algae, cutting and repelling at the same time.

  When she finally manages to get to dry land, her cloak is plastered to her body like a slimy second skin. She peels it off distastefully, slinging it over her arm to better assess the damage. She is cold, and bitterly s
o. Her entire body is tingling with the pins-and-needles sensation of simulated pain. Her knees have been injured worse than she thought; in keeping with the reality matrix of the game, she probably won't be able to run.

  Let's hope I won't need to.

  But what she sees an instant later changes her mind.

  Sprawled on one of the rock plateaus is a man. His eyes are closed, hands folded behind his head, one knee up as he basks in the sunshine. His long coat fans out behind him like the wings of a hawk. Beneath it is a pale green shirt, and fitted pants tucked into a pair of boots not unlike her own. A bow and arrow are propped against the bank of rocks beside him, and knives are strapped to his legs. Vol swallows hard.

  It's him.

  “Hmm. I was right. The bandit look suits you.”

  He hasn't opened his eyes, but the smile on his face wasn't there before.

  He has a bit of five-o'-clock shadow she didn't notice in the darkened ballroom. It gives him a half-tamed appearance that makes his harsh face look that much fiercer. Vol remembers the dagger at her hip and grips it. “Why are you following me?”

  He cracks open an eye and props himself up on his elbows. His eyes drop to the knife — she hopes it's the knife he's looking at — and he shakes his head. “Come here. Then we'll talk.”

  That sounds like a bad idea to her. “I can hear you fine right here.”

  “Is it the arrows?” He kicks bow and quiver into the stream and grins a grin that puts the devil to shame. “There. Now I'm harmless.”

  “No?” He tilts his head, shifting to his side so he can lean his stubbled chin on his hand. “Well, harmless enough. Don't you think?”

  “No.”

  He lifts his chin and half-sits up, spreading his empty hands. “I can't hurt you here.”

  He has a point. She's only making a fool of herself.

  Warily, keeping one eye trained on him the entire time, Vol climbs up the small pile of rocks and sits cross-legged near his feet, setting the soiled cloak beside her. “Don't get any ideas. I came here for answers.”

  “You have to ask a question first.” He smiles. “That's usually how it's done.”

  “You kissed me.”

  “Not exactly a question, Vol.”

  “Why did you do it?” she grates.

  “You say that as if it's the first time.”

  A chill goes through her. “With me, yes. I'm sure there were others.”

  Now he's laughing. “If I wasn't so sure that was an insult, I might feel flattered.”

  “Think what you want.”

  “Oh, believe me. I don't need your permission for that.”

  “You're a bastard.”

  He straightens from his lackadaisical sprawl, hanging his arms off his knees. His eyes are hooded by the shadows cast by the overhanging beeches and gleam with amusement. And something else. Something darker. “You don't know me, Vol. Or you claim not to. It's never a good idea to judge people you don't know.”

  “So you do know me.”

  “Once.” She is falling in those eyes. “Very well.”

  She folds her arms. The sunlight does nothing to warm her skin. “When?”

  “A gentleman never tells.”

  “I don't see a conflict of interest there.”

  “With a tongue like that, you have no need for a dagger.”

  Vol tightens her grip on it instead. “Why are you following me?”

  “Because you seem to be avoiding me.”

  “There's a reason for that.”

  His lips part into a slow and sensuous smile. “I know.”

  Vol leans away from him, wishing that all she felt for him was fear. “What do you want?”

  The smile turns slightly feral. “Is that an offer?”

  “No.”

  “Then you're baiting me.” He catches her by the waist then, and she tumbles into his lap. “Purposely.” The sensation of his gloved hands on her bare skin feels novel and strange. “And I don't like it.” She reaches for one of his knives and he shifts his legs away, tightening his hold on her little. “Don't.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it isn't very nice.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You didn't like the answer I gave you before. The truth may get me stabbed.”

  “Try me,” Vol says.

  And, lowering his voice, he does.

  Vol slaps him, hard.

  “Don't act so shocked. Half the men in that room were thinking the exact same thing.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You're right. That estimate is a bit high. Perhaps a fourth of them at most — and that queer little friend of yours.”

  The mention of Tash makes her feel ill. “I don't see how this concerns you. You don't own me.”

  “Not yet, little bandit. But I could. Then I could have your heart, if I wanted. Steal it clean away.”

  Lying here on this rock, surrounded by bluebells and sparkling water and dazzling sunlight, she feels as if she is playing keep-away on the edge of an abyss. On one side, safety. On the other side, danger. She knows which side she should choose but it's hard to escape from the rush of being perpetually on the edge, always ready to fall. “Don't,” she whispers, when he leans up to kiss her.

  When he laughs, she feels the rumble of it through his body. “This isn't even real.”

  “It's real enough.”

  A shadow crosses his face, as if a black cloud has blotted out the sun. His mercurial temperament is frightening. One minute he is mocking and making light of her. In the next, she finds herself dreading what he is going to do. “No, that's where you're wrong. It's nowhere even close.”

  “He leans closer.

  “Even so — what's one kiss?”

  “I'll stab you.” She has managed to free her dagger from the sheath at her thigh. She presses the blade against the hollow of his throat. She feels the muscles contract as he swallows and sighs.

  “That's very cold.”

  It isn't clear if he is referring to her, or the knife.

  “I feel sorry for that girl. She thinks you're just golden — and you're going to break her heart.”

  “Stay away from Tash.”

  “That will be difficult if she's always by your side.”

  “Then stay away from me,” she snarls.

  “Impossible.” She is tangled up in his coat.

  “I mean it. I'll cut you.” She presses down harder on the hilt. A bead of blood wells up and drips down his golden skin.

  “But Vol, all I want to do is keep you warm.”

  Her breathing falters at his quiet insistence. “You—” She can't come up with a good enough set of nouns and adjectives.

  He just watches her, silent, waiting. The blood soaks into his collar, like a tear. It makes him look vulnerable. He is human, if nothing else. Like her, he can bleed. She growls and re-sheathes the dagger. He isn't worth the reprimand, she tells herself.

  “Thank you,” he says, and closes his eyes.

  She hates that he can look so relaxed and sound so confident while she feels so very unnerved. And she is starting to feel warm, curse him. Between the thick, warm coat and his own body heat, she is quickly losing the chill from the river.

  “Any more questions?” he asks, after a pause.

  “What's your name?”

  “Ahh. That is a bonus question. And I'm afraid that you will have to wait until next time to unlock it.”

  “There won't be a next time. Tell me now.”

  “I bet to differ.” She feels his hand drop to her hip and jerks when she realizes he's taken her dagger. “There is definitely going to be a next time because” — he lunges. Her back hits the ground and so does her head, and suddenly her wrists are above her, pinned and useless. His smiling face appears above hers and he continues, “Because I'm afraid you've lost this round.”

  The dagger is poised at her breast, just above her pounding heart. The bite of it is icy against his skin in spite of the sun's war
m yellow glow.

  “Hmm,” he says. “Now this is an interesting position.”

  Vol spits in his face For tricking her, for touching her, for making her feel anything but good, healthy, self-preserving emotions like hatred and fear. For about a million other reasons, as well, and none of them even remotely close to accurate. The force of rage and betrayal inside her body surprises her, like a wave at high-tide. If she held the dagger in her hand she would plunge it into him.

  No question.

  And he knows this. She is sure he does, just by looking into the abyssal pupils of his golden eyes. Sometimes the eyes speak far more truthfully than the mouth is ever capable of; the eyes are windows into the soul. For a moment, his narrow. Not in anger, not exactly, but something else. Concentration. Appraisal.

  Then he smiles, and she feels another shiver coming on, that he can smile at all with eyes like that. “Until next time, then.” And he drives the dagger through the slats of her ribs, straight into her heart. She feels the vibration of it in her chest as dagger hits bone and her vision goes white, — black, and then — blue — and she wakes up in the gaming cubicle, shivering, and sweaty, and very much afraid.

  5.

  Vol walks out of her cubicle on shaking legs.

  She can still feel the blade. It seems to protrude from her body like a phantom limb.

  Tash is already back in the reception area, sitting on Ariel's desk and swinging her legs back and forth as she chats with the God Mod. The shorter girl is leaning against the same surface in close proximity to Tash's swinging leg left leg, chatting back with the same amount of ease.

  She seems oblivious to Vol's presence, though this seems impossible considering that Ariel is looking in Vol's direction. Tash has seen her, has, in fact, already inclined her head and started to wave, but her hand stills in mid-air and she glances curiously at Ariel. And distantly, in spite of the mixed emotions swirling through her like spilled paints, part of her finds room to be bitterly amused and think, Oh, so it's like that, is it?

  “Are you okay?” Tash's eyes crease in concern. “Did you find out what you needed?”