Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators)

by Campbell, Nenia

  Vol rests her forehead against the full-length glass windows overhanging the plaza. Outside, Marks wander about as busily as ants, seeking oblivion in one form or another, or else selling it. In Vol's current state, the prospect of imminent satisfaction seems preposterous, mystical even.

  She watches a group of teenagers years younger than her, hating them, envying them, and yet feeling affectionate towards them all at the same time. Happiness is such a fragile thing, isn't it? So easily burst, like a bubble blown by a child, and always on the verge of being carried away.

  (All she can do now is pretend.)

  As she watches, two of the ant-sized teens peel away from the group. Vol straightens. She recognizes them. Ariel and Tash. They are walking up to the Tower, hand in hand.

  Vol dashes to the elevator, slamming the 'down' button so hard her palm stings. On some level, she is aware that her behavior is borderline-unacceptable. Never a social butterfly, Vol feels like what little social skills she possesses are rapidly deteriorating in a reverse-metamorphosis.

  To say that Ariel and Tash are surprised to see her is an understatement. As Vol spills out of the elevator in her haste to greet them, their faces are priceless. “Ariel,” Vol gasps, “I've been looking — all over — ”

  “For me?” the brown-haired girl asks incredulously.

  “I had — another run-in. I was wondering — if we could check — the algorithm?”

  “Um, sure, I guess.” Ariel glances at Tash. “Do you mind waiting in the cafe?”

  Tash shakes her head. “Nah. I'm still hungry, and I think Aron is working in the kitchen today.” She grins evilly. “He kicked my ass yesterday; and I'm feeling a bit like being a nasty customer.”

  Ariel sighs. “You're incorrigible.”

  “Good luck, you two. I hope you nail the bastard.”

  So does he, Vol thinks, before she can stop herself. A dark blush colors her cheeks. Oh, gods.

  Ariel raises her eyebrows. “I don't think that's quite what Tash meant, Vol.”

  Tash laughs, but has the grace to look embarrassed when Ariel shoots her a dirty look. “Nope, definitely not. What I meant. Not at all. Guess I'll be leaving now. Bye, Princess. Vol.”

  Princess? “I'm sorry.” Vol rubs at her forehead. It feels too hot. “I'm not myself.”

  Ariel's face thaws a little. “It's fine. Very convenient timing on your part, I must say.”

  “I was on the second floor and saw you from the window.”

  Ariel stiffens. Vol laughs a little, uncomfortably.

  “That totally makes me sound like a stalker. I'm not, really. I was pacing, and I guess I saw you — ” she breaks off. Ariel is blushing. “Are you and Tash … together?”

  “It's not official.” Ariel purses her lips. “Activate voice command. Second floor.”

  “I won't tell a soul.”

  “I'd appreciate that.”

  An awkward silence spans between them.

  “I finally found out his name,” Vol says.

  “Hmm?”

  “The name of the man who's following me.”

  “Oh.” Without looking at Vol, Ariel says, “What is it?”

  “Catan Vareth.” Ariel starts. “Isn't that the name of one of the new God Mods you mentioned?”

  Ariel turns, putting her hands on her hips. “Catan Vareth is your stalker?”

  “I'm pretty sure.”

  “I know him.” Before Vol can press her for details, she says, “He lives on my floor. I've spoken to him several times while we were filling out the forms for Suryan. He seems nice.”

  'Nice' is not the word that leaps to mind when Vol thinks of Catan Vareth. Dangerous, yes. Cunning, yes. Frustrating, yes. Nice, no. She speculates that there may perhaps be two of them, but the thought is too horrible for her to dwell upon. One is enough.

  “What do you talk about?”

  “Nothing about you, if that's what you're wondering.”

  That's exactly what she's wondering. Vol bristles at the shortness in her voice. “What, then?”

  “Work. The games. How crappy the food is. Nothing suspicious.”

  No, she doesn't suppose he would do anything so foolish. Catan doesn't strike her as a foolish man.

  They are almost at the reception desk. It occurs to Vol that if Ariel is on break and Suryan is no longer permitted to work independently, they run a risk of encountering Catan in the parlor. She opens her mouth and gets as far as the the first syllable of his name before Ariel stomps on her foot.

  “Ouch,” Vol finishes instead, hopping on the other foot. You bitch. You enjoyed that, didn't you?

  “Ariel? Now this is a surprise. I was under the impression that you were on break.”

  “I am.”

  Catan is regarding the two of them, one arm wrapped around the back of the chair he's sitting on. “I hope this visit isn't for my benefit.”

  You wish, you bastard. Ariel glances at Vol in warning. “Nope. Vol forgot something. She needed me to get it for her.” She pauses. “So I'm going to need the keys.”

  “I really shouldn't give them out to you when you're not on shift,” Catan says, sliding the keys from his belt. He jangles them, extending one finger to point at Ariel. “I'm surprised she asked you instead of coming to see me. I would have been delighted to help.”

  Sure. Right into the grave you'll help me.

  Ariel shrugs her shoulders. “She got to me first.”

  “Is that right? I wonder.” He props his feet up on the desk. “Well, make sure you return the keys.”

  And he tosses them at her in a neat, underhanded arc. Ariel catches them in midair. “Right,” she murmurs, sifting through the ring. “Let's get to the bottom of this.”

  They pass several cubicle doors. Ariel halts outside a door in the back, the other side of which Vol has never glimpsed. It is the God Mod cubicle, and has access to every single console in addition to the game code itself. Ariel unlocks it and walks up to a massive computer, which wraps around a single chair like a metal trifold.

  Vol looks away as she enters her password and then watches impatiently as the brown-haired girl scans through several pages' worth of code at a gruelingly slow pace. She knows better than to interrupt, though. Game codes are a labyrinth of addendum after addendum, with new additions frequently left hanging incomplete like a half-finished sentence ending on a preposition.

  “Hmm,” Ariel murmurs.

  Vol twitches and shoves her hands into her pockets. She looks around, trying to take an interest in the room. It is unlikely that she will ever be in here again, and it might be interesting to dispel some of the myths tower residents have about the enigmatic God Mods. But while studying the sensory equipment and additions that enable God Mods to contact all the players and teleport anywhere at will within the game, Vol can only dredge up mild curiosity at best. Her ear is turned to Ariel's vocalizations.

  “Now that's not right,” she mutters.

  Vol is at her side in an instant. “What is it? What's wrong?”

  Ariel gives her an annoyed glance. “Hush.” She turns back to the computer and hits a series of keys. The readout changes. “I don't get it. Hmm. I wonder …”

  Vol is ready to explode. She wonders if Ariel is torturing her.

  Ariel's frown deepens as she continues to process the data. “Hang on, Vol. It'll just take one more array. I've just about figured it out.” She hits more keys, and then her fingers freeze. “What?”

  “Did the tracing algorithm work?”

  Ariel hesitates. “Yes.”

  “Did Catan make any modifications?”

  “Only a bit of routine maintenance.” Ariel turns around. Her expression betrays nothing. “I'm not quite sure how to say this, so I'm going to be blunt. According to the tracer, Catan didn't make those additions.”

  Vol blinks. “He didn't?”

  “No.”

  “Who did?”

  “You.”

  Vol flinches as if she's been struck. “Wh
at? But that's impossible.”

  “That's not what the computer says, Vol.”

  “I couldn't have made those changes. I would have — ”

  I would have remembered is what she was going to say.

  “Look, I don't know what's going on. I don't want to know.” She shoos Vol out of the cubicle and locks the door carefully behind her. “But I must say, this doesn't look good for you.”

  “You think I set the whole thing up?” Vol demands.

  “It's a distinct possibility.”

  “Why? Why would I do that?”

  “I don't know. Attention?”

  Vol is now certain that Ariel doesn't like her. “But — ”

  “If you hadn't asked me to do the tracer in the first place, I'd turn you in. But since you did, I'm assuming that means you're telling the truth — or believe you are, anyway — and didn't actually modify the program. And that means someone around here is going about fiddling with things they shouldn't be, under a false name.” She sighs. “Which means I'm going to get my ass handed to me.”

  A sour taste coats the back of Vol's mouth. The tables have turned so fast that her head is spinning. “What are you doing to do? Am I going to be fired?”

  “No. I'm not going to do anything. I have no proof, one way or the other. And neither do you. After what happened to Suryan, I don't think pointing random fingers is going to do anybody any good, least of all you. In the meantime, I suggest you lay off Catan unless you not only catch him in the act of tampering with the code files, but also manage to catch it on film.”

  Yeah, and the odds of that happening are strictly zero. Vol is reading Ariel's message loud and clear. She is on her own now. Ariel isn't being mean about it, despite her ambivalence. In fact, she seems to be trying quite hard to be nice. But Vol can't help but wonder how far that niceness goes?

  “Thanks,” she says at last. At least she isn't fired.

  Ariel nods in a brisk, business-like way. “Tash thinks very highly of you, you know. For that reason alone, I hope you didn't do it.”

  Guilt pierces through Vol like an arrow, though she isn't sure why. “I didn't.”

  “Good,” Ariel says. Which isn't as comforting as an “I believe you,” but it's better than nothing.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” Catan asks idly as Ariel hands him back the keys. He's reading a book. A History of the Regency, it's called. Too bad it isn't A History of Hacking into Computers and Making People's Lives Miserable.

  “No. It appears someone ran off with it.”

  “How unfortunate.” Catan fixes the keys back to his belt and turns a page of his book. “Some people are so dishonest.”

  The irony of that statement. Vol wants to leap over the desk and strangle him. She forces herself to remain composed, politely dismisses both Gods Mods, and takes the elevator back to her room where she promptly begins to scream into her pillow.

  The man sitting at the bar possesses the same fierce countenance as a wolf. He has dressed himself like the others, in a casual display of unassuming wealth, but holds himself with the rigid discipline of a soldier. She can feel his eyes on her as she slips in and out of the crowd. Eyes the color of the drink he hasn't touched. She wonders what he is running away from.

  He raises an eyebrow when she sits on the empty stool beside him, but this is the only indication he gives of being aware of her presence. She pretends not to notice and orders a drink spiked with Bliss. Maybe happiness, like so much else, is something that can be mass-produced and bottled-up.

  She suspects not, though, and the drink confirms this.

  She is aware of the man watching her — staring at her, to be honest — and the patina of emotions surrounding him is headier than the stink of the bar. Disgust, curiosity, sadness, hatred, lust. Here, she thinks, is a man just as twisted as I am. Unexpectedly, her stomach begins to flutter with something too dark to be butterflies.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” she asks offhandedly, “Or are you alone?”

  “Alone.” His eyes lock with hers and she feels his emotions sharpen. “I enjoy my solitude.”

  “Liar,” she whispers. “Nobody enjoys being alone.”

  He stares at her incredulously — then laughs. It is a harsh laugh, devoid of any humor, but attractive all the same. “I don't know who you think you are, but you've just propositioned the most fucked-up man in this bar.”

  She stares at her drink. The rejection stings, though this isn't what she wants.

  As if sensing her conflict, he says, dryly, “That wasn't necessarily a 'no.'”

  She glances at him. “Then what was it?”

  “A warning. When mothers warn their daughters about all the cold, nasty men out there who will only break their tender little hearts, I'm the one they've got in mind because I'm the one who broke their hearts when their mothers were warning them.”

  “I don't have a mother,” she says. “And my heart's already broken.”

  “Then you're just as fucked-up as I am,” he says, taking a swig of his melted drink. “Go home.”

  “I don't have a home to go to.”

  “If you get me feeling sorry for you, darling, then neither of us has a chance tonight.” The man shakes his head, and she realizes he is younger than she thought. Maybe only a couple of years older than she is. “You're not exactly my type, you know,” he says after a moment. “I don't really have a thing for blondes.”

  She studies a strand of her hair. The fibers are yellow. This comes as a surprise. She has forgotten what she looks like. In her head, she is amorphous, shapeless — a haze of emotions and nightmares that happens to be self-conscious and bundled up in skin.

  She looks at the man. His hair is black and his dark skin is burnished to a resinous gold beneath the lights of the bar, just a few shades darker than the honeyed glow of his eyes. The collar of his shirt is unbuttoned, and she can see a crust of curly dark hair on his muscular chest. He catches her looking, and says, “I'm giving you until I finish my drink to change your mind.”

  “And then?”

  His smile, when it comes, is dark. “We see if your heart can stand to be broken a little more.”

  Nanobot handcuffs are locked around her wrists. They make her feel vulgar, like the prostitutes she has seen prowling the streets after dark. Except theirs are wrought from gold and other precious metals. Gifts from lovers. This lightweight metal with artificial intelligence is somehow worse.

  The guard's hand on her shoulder is no less formidable than her restraints. His grip is so tight that it hurts. She squirms, her eyes never leaving the glass panel where the creatures in white sit, watching her.

  She does not speak.

  “Outside these walls, people are less understanding of your kind. You might be killed.”

  “Or worse,” one of the other creatures interjects. “A quick death is the best-case scenario.”

  “And the least likely,” another says, just as fluidly. “You do horrible things — ”

  “ — abominable things — ”

  “ — monstrous things — ”

  “And people will wish to do horrible things to you.”

  “I'd rather take my chances out there,” she hisses. “I'd rather die.”

  “We are very sorry to hear that,” the creatures say, all as one. “We are sorry to hear that you put such a low value on life.”

  The door opens. A child is brought in. Grubby. Tow-headed. She recognizes him from the compound. Erran, she thinks his name is. He is the son of one of the cooks.

  “We understand that you have a softness for children.”

  Coldness fills her gut as she meet's the child's wide, fearful eyes.

  “What are you going to do?” she says, her voice high and thin. “What are you going to do?” The child begins to cry and her heart aches. She can see his fear, buzzing around his head like a swarm of angry wasps.

  “Sometimes it is necessary to be cruel to be kind,” one of the creatures says
, “to teach a lesson.”

  “Leave him alone,” she whispers. At their silence, her voice grows louder. “Leave him alone! Do what you want with me, just leave him alone!”

  “We will not harm the child.”

  But she knows better than to feel relief. They have brought this child here and show no signs of wanting to let him go. She knows secrets about the Regency that can never afford to get out. And now, whether he understands them or not, so does the boy.

  Her handcuffs are deactivated. She feels the creatures' intent a heartbeat before she catches the silver gleam of a needle, feels the sting of it in her throat. She hits the guard, knocking him to the ground several feet away, but it is already too late. She can feel the drug filling her body, consuming everything that is her in a violent fire.

  “We will not harm the child,” the voices say, distantly.

  “You will.”

  From a cavern deep inside her head, a woman screams.

  She has sunken into a deep depression. The creatures have been injecting her on a daily basis, and she is theirs for as long as the monster plays in her veins. But when it is gone, she hides, locking herself up deep inside, in a shadowed place where they cannot steal the precious little that remains of herself.

  Two creatures watch her: one in white, and one is purple.

  She has not washed in days. She has not eaten. She is a collection of bones and rancid flesh and greasy hair held together by a blanket. They are letting her sulk as if doing her a favor. She hates them. She hates them all.

  “A team of biologists are evaluating her, to see if her brain can be rewired without incurring death. One suggested the possibility of a frontal lobotomy. A touch invasive, but not fatal.”

  She does not completely understand the words, but she understands the intent behind them. They want to cut into her. Carve pieces out of her body as if she were nothing more than a hollow gourd. Her eyes stare into the ceiling impassively, but inside, she is seething. As if she weren't human.