Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators)

by Campbell, Nenia

  Program: The_Dying_Moon_1.exe

  Class: Bandit

  Dolorian is the eighth moon of a planet in the Delassian galaxy. For years, miners have been harvesting Ephemerium, a rare metal, from the moon's crust. But this mining has caused the core to grow unstable dooming both the planet and its inhabitants.

  Mission objectives: Steal a shuttle craft before the core ruptures. Try to remain unseen — points will be detracted for casualties. The more people you help escape, the more points you will collect. But be cautious. Time is running out, and the soldiers are ordered to halt all evacuees.

  A time limit is not provided, but Vol guesses it isn't long.

  And she is a bandit. Again. Of course. Steal a shuttle craft. The desert is the only thing around for miles. Where is she supposed to get one of those? The desert shuttle craft outpost?

  Fuck this game, she thinks, drawing in a deep breath. Another tremor causes the planet to shudder and quake, as if reflecting her violent hostility. The sour tang of liquid metals stings Vol's nose and eyes. Pulling the kerchief tightly around her mouth, she heads in the direction of the dead trees. Something once kept them alive, and that was most likely water. And where best to build a city than a water source?

  The heat is merciless, though. The moon doesn't have much of an atmosphere left, and the sun's days skewer it with hot golden beams. If water flowed here once, it has long since boiled away. Vol makes a face of disgust and pulls her shirt away from her sticky skin for the tenth time.

  If that creep shows his face to her in this level, she will shoot him with her pistol.

  But so far she has seen nobody, and no sign of a city.

  Did she go the wrong way? She hopes she didn't go the wrong way.

  Her hair feels matted to the back of her neck.; The heat is suffocating; it's like trying to breathe through a scratchy woolen blanket. Vol makes it over the hills and is dismayed to see that the sand spans all the way over to the next stretch of dun-colored hills.

  Not more dunes.

  Her mouth is turning into a desert of its own. Her legs are beginning to falter. What now? Turn back? The smoke twisters are even more numerous in the other direction and Vol doesn't care to try her luck with them. She's wasted enough time already — turning back will waste even more.

  The next set of dunes offers some respite. Vol encounters the remains of an oasis — white palms and crumbling earth only slightly less powdery than the surrounding sand. She slides against the trunk of the tree to catch her breath and cries out as she falls, as the tree is pulverized. Once again, she finds herself in close contact with the ground, covered with the white and brown powder that used to be the tree.

  Klutz, she thinks, picking up one of the stones near her face. It has been rendered smooth by water. She pops it past her lips to suck on. It is black and burns, and sends unpleasant tingles rippling through her tongue and gums. But it keeps her mouth salivated.

  The pain threshold is tuned low for this game. Good to know. If she fails, she doesn't want to find out what being burned alive feels like.

  Vol tilts her head, trying to capture a breeze, and glimpses mirrored spires in the distance. Castles in the sky. She wonders if it's an illusion. She blinks, several times. The spires remain, only a few shades lighter than the surrounding sky. The sharp points gleam white-hot in the sunshine.

  Looks like she found the city.

  The less stable buildings have collapsed from the tremors. Cracks jag through the streets like monstrous spiderwebs with vehicles caught in them like large, metallic flies. High-tech vehicles. Strange, and fantastical. She edges around the cracks, heading into the plaza. She is no longer alone.

  People are screaming inside the buildings that were once homes and offices and are now ticking death traps. She slows, holding her breath, but sees no way to free them. Even though this is a sim, and she knows they are in no real danger, she feels so guilty that it seems she might be struck dead. Because the screams…

  She recognizes something horribly familiar about them.

  (I killed them all.)

  Gunfire erupts from behind. Vol whirls, her hand diving to her own pistol. It's Bastien and Ginsen. Bastien is wearing a singularly futuristic suit of armor and trading rounds with Ginsen who is dressed in a patchwork of salvaged clothes not much different from her own ragtag appearance.

  Bastien has the better gun. Ginsen puts up a good fight but his cheap gun is quick to run out of ammo. The moment he hears the click, Bastien drops his shield and shoots Ginsen right in the middle of his forehead. The Meridian's eyes open wide, his mouth an O of surprise. His body disappears before it even hits the ground.

  Vol dives behind one of the vehicles before Bastien can spot her and decide to add another body to his count. He's clearly one of the soldiers she's supposed to avoid. Where to hide? And how to get hold of a craft now?

  Another bandit runs past. One she doesn't recognize. A web-like tattoo spans across his right cheek. A Mark, probably. His skin is dark, made darker still by the pale desert linens. Bastien spots him and opens fire. The Mark runs faster. Bastien pursues. Vol waits until their footsteps have faded back into the screams and tremors before scrambling out from behind the collapsed truck. She needs to pick a building and get out of the open. If the two boys don't come back this way, someone else soon will.

  This time she sees the ripple as the tremor passes through the earth, rendering rock as malleable and liquid as water. Vol drops down and covers her head as the windows of a nearby complex smash. A shower of glass pummels her back like deadly rain. One of the cracks gapes open and fire spews out, liquefying one of the trapped cars.

  Glass falls to the concrete as Vol gets up. She looks left and right and comes face-to-face with a large gleaming monolith protruding from the ground like a multifaceted crystal of purple quartz. Vol marvels that it hasn't fractured like its counterparts, with such a delicate-looking facade. It isn't quite as tall as the spired buildings in the distance, but makes up for height in sheer opulence.

  (Only the Regent is allowed to wear purple.)

  Vol frowns. Regent? Where did that come from?

  She shrugs away the seemingly irrelevant thought. What matters now is getting away from the lava. This building has survived the destruction thus far. It seems logical to assume that it will continue to do so for a while longer.

  Keeping clear of the windows of buildings and cars, she jogs up to the skyscraper. Vol encounters a new problem immediately — her position from further on down the street provided a cruel optical illusion. This building is not actually level with the ground. The tower rises above its neighbors, built on a foundation of sand that has been superheated to form a crystalline base.

  The building has no staircase. The front, or what she can see of it, is seamless. She can find nothing even vaguely reminiscent of a door. Is this that sadist's doing? Did he construct another scenario with her death in mind?

  Vol slams her fist against a nearby dome, in the same vivid purple as the tower. “Gods damn him!” Her fist bounces off the surface. She hears the sound reverberate inside.

  It's hollow.

  Curious, but wary, Vol circles around the dome to study it from the front. A curved groove cuts deeply into the hard surface. Almost like a hatch. She brushes it with her fingers and instead of being cold like she expects it's warm — almost hot — and pulsing.

  Vol yanks her hand back as if she's been bitten. Her fingers are tingling and her palm is red and blistered. She bends down to examine the base. She finds a box, with two buttons. The symbols on the buttons are perplexing but the arrows she understands. One points up, one points down.

  It's an elevator. Or at least, she thinks it is. With her luck, it might be an incinerator.

  Hoping it won't burn her as the dome did, Vol pushes the button with the upward arrow. The whole structure groans and Vol takes a startled step back as the hatch glows red. The carved-out panel slides back to reveal a small bubble-shaped enclosure just lar
ge enough for one full-grown adult to kneel down.

  It's a good thing I'm not claustrophobic, she thinks, as the hatch's door slams shut. What looks like solid metal from the outside is actually transparent on the inside. As the elevator raises her to the upper levels of the building, Vol sees the extent of the damage she could only feel before.

  Lakes of lava bubble up from the various cracks and craters, like filling in a hot pie. Volcanoes are forming, and geysers of molten rock, announcing their presence with fanfares of fire and smoky debris that look like ash but glint with mineral traces. Ephemerium perhaps.

  The moon is dying.

  The elevator stops about a fourth of the way from the tower's apex. Vol waits to see if it will take her the rest of the way up, but the bubble gives no sign of wanting to ascend further. End of the line. She hits the release button, looking around for survivors, shuttles, or shooters — not necessarily in that order.

  Vol draws her pistol and shoves open the door, which leads her from the balcony to the main building. She finds herself in an empty corridor not unlike that of the Tower. Doors line both walls, adding to this image, most of them closed. “Hello?” she says cautiously. “Anyone here?”

  Silence meets her query.

  “Hello? I'm not a soldier.”

  The polished floors throw her call back into her face.

  Then she hears a small voice say, “Is someone there?”

  It's such a small voice that Vol can't tell what direction it's from. But at least it's something.

  “Who's there? Where are you? I can barely hear you!”

  The voice speaks up again, louder and distinctly female. “In my room! Help!”

  Vol whips to the right, eying the series of closed doors. She raps on them, one at a time, her breath coming in shorter and shorter bursts as each is met with silence. The building shudders from another shockwave, forcing her to grab onto the nearest door handle as she waits for the shaking to abate. Wondering if she is too late. From deep within the building, she hears the scream of the structural supports bending and twisting. Then, suddenly, she hears, “I'm in here! For the love of the gods, help me!”

  It's coming from the next door over. Vol lets out a massive sigh of relief and gives the doorknob a hard yank. She gasps again, this time in pain, as it burns her fingers. The fingers already burned from touching the elevator dome earlier. “What the hell?”

  “One of the solar panels fell through the ceiling. It's blocking the door!”

  Now she tells me. Vol takes a deep, calming breath. “Is there another door?”

  “Yes, but it's locked! I tried it already!”

  Vol goes to the next door, ignoring the girl's cries, and jams her knife into the wooden door, wedging it back and forth until she breaks the locking mechanism. The door opens with a pop and she enters the room, yanking her knife free. “Stay back,” she shouts. “I'm opening it up with my knife.”

  She sees a desk, a bookshelf, and a hodgepodge of knickknacks she has no name for. It's some kind of business office, she thinks. All she's really interested in is the door. She plunges the blade into the frame, in the same spot as before, and twists the hilt. She hears a snap. Not the lock — the sound's all wrong. The knife. She is still holding the handle in her hand, but it is now bladeless.

  “Fuck,” she hisses, and the voice on the other side says, worriedly, “What happened?”

  “The knife broke.” She tosses the useless hilt aside and pulls out her pistol. “I've got another idea.” She looks around, grabs the desk, and drags it over with a hideous screech of metal. She forces the desk on its side with a grunt, so it forms a shield she can hide behind.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Stand back from the door,” Vol says. She takes aim from behind the corner of the desk and lets off several rounds. She hears the lock buckle and drop off, and the heavy clang as bullets ricochet off the hinges and the metal desk.

  The door bursts open and a small, dark-skinned girl runs out, bringing with her the scent of ozone and smoke. She looks about sixteen, and quite possibly Arbatian. Her eyes are wide with fear. Definitely a Mark. Vol eyes her apprehensively and says, “What exactly are you supposed to be?”

  “A civilian. My brother is a bandit, though.” And then, she says, “He was supposed to save me!”

  Someone's in trouble. She does not envy the brother's position. “What does he look like?”

  “Like me. Dark. Black hair.” She points to her temple. “He has a Chakti tattoo.”

  Vol feels a twinge of recognition. “Like a spiderweb?”

  “Uh-huh. It's supposed to symbolize strength.”

  How pretentious. “I don't think big brother's coming to save you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Oops. “Call it a hunch.”

  “Then we should look for him!”

  “Bad idea. This game's got a time limit. Stick with me, kiddo. I'll get you out.”

  The girl seems content enough with this outcome. At least she's stopped whining. “I'm Kavi Bardeen.”

  “Volera.” She scans the halls for open doors. “See anything resembling a shuttle, Kavi?”

  “What's a shuttle?”

  “A big metal object that can fly us the hell out of here.”

  “Oh, like an airship? Yeah, I think there's a funny-looking one on the roof.”

  “Which way is the roof?”

  “You have to take the stairs. It isn't accessible by elevator I don't think.”

  “You know the way?” Kavi nods. “Then you lead.”

  The girl makes a beeline for the next corridor. Vol hopes the girl is certain as she thinks she is. Otherwise, they're both toast.

  “Are you a M — a tourist?”

  Kavi nods. “You?”

  “I live here.”

  “Lucky. My family saved for six months to come to Karagh.”

  Lucky is not the word Vol would use to describe her situation. “Does your family play games, too?” She tries to sound off-hand.

  “No. Just me — and my brother.”

  Which means her parents are in the casinos, then, leaving this kid in a collapsing mine. Okay, a virtual one, but still. The Dying Moon game is darker than most. Not exactly one a minor should be playing unsupervised. Though at least she had her older brother with her…

  She remembers that girl in Bounty Strike and frowns.

  “Is it true that they record the games on the holladramas?”

  “The what? Oh, yes. Yes, they do.”

  “Cool! Do we get to watch them after?”

  “They don't usually air until the next week. You know, because of editing.” Kavi's crestfallen face makes Vol add, “But I'm sure if your parents spoke to the receptionist at your hotel they could arrange something.”

  Especially if it involves arranging tokens into the Tower's coffers.

  The two girls hike up the stairs. Both drop down, clinging to the rails when the building begins to sway like a serpent as the ground beneath t he building roils. Vol tries not to think about the moon's core bursting like an overfilled balloon. The metal continues to groan as it bends. Kavi's hands tighten on the metal bars until her knuckles are bone-white. “Volera?” she whimpers.

  “Yes?” Wary.

  “You're a Player, aren't you? Have you — have you ever died in a game before?”

  Vol bites her lip.

  (I'm afraid you've lost this round.)

  “A couple times,” she says.

  The girl stares up at her with huge eyes. “Did it hurt?”

  Oh, shit. “Not usually,” she says carefully, knowing her response will most likely be monitored. “Everything just kind of goes black. And then you wake up in your gaming cubicle, perfectly okay.”

  Kavi eyes her skeptically.

  “Sometimes,” Vol adds, “if the Weaver in question has a sense of humor, you find yourself in — well, it's almost like purgatory. They sometimes call it the Afterlife.”

  What Vol doesn
't say is that a few of them are called “hells” and filled with all kinds of tricks and traps meant to punish those who are eliminated early on. She also doesn't add that a game as dark and sadistic as this one will almost certainly be a member of the latter group.

  Kavi doesn't look particularly comforted. Vol doesn't blame her.

  “Come on. The building's stopped shaking. The sooner we get out of her, the better.”

  A draft blows through the stairwell but it's a hot, dead breeze and tinged with dust. Kavi covers her mouth with both hands and Vol tightens her hold on her kerchief. Through her stinging, watering eyes, Vol can make out the blurred form of a shuttle craft.

  Thank the gods.

  “Okay,” Vol says. “Let's see if I can fly this thing.”

  Kavi stays rooted to the spot.

  “Come on, Kavi — unless you want to see what dying feels like?”

  She regrets the words as soon as Kavi fixes her with a torn expression that she has seen more mornings than she can count in her own bathroom mirror.

  “Oh, I think that's going to happen anyway, morbid curiosity or no,” a drawling voice says. “Don't you agree, Cori? Our fellow Player seems a little outnumbered.”

  Cori grins, revealing even teeth, blindingly white against her tan skin. “Just a tad. Hello, Vol. It's been a while. You made quite an impression last night.”

  “Yeah,” says Bastien. “You almost looked hot for once.”

  Vol grits her teeth. “Can we skip the trash talk? There are children present. Stick to the script.”

  “I'm not a kid!” Kavi snaps from her daze. “I'm sixteen!”

  All three Players ignore her.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing?” Vol demands. “The moon is about to blow us all sky high. If it's about the shuttle, there's more than enough room to share. Or are you just posturing for the holladramas?”

  “I should think that's obvious,” Cori says, glancing at her male partner. And there is a touch of irony in her voice that casts the solidity of their alliance into doubt.

  Bastien doesn't catch it. Or pretends not to. “We're keeping you from leaving this planet, sweet cheeks.”