He strokes her wrists, directly over her pulse points, making her relax against her will. “Those people you remember, the people in white — they implanted you with false memories. I'm not sure if the boy you remember killing was real or not, but to be honest, neither would surprise me. It was emotional blackmail. Yes, we were lovers, but I never sold you as a slave. That was all my father's doing. Nor did you willingly betray me. My father found you, raped you, and destroyed more of your personality by forcing you to do what you hated most. He gave you a false reason to be angry, a false need for revenge. He wanted you to kill me — and you almost did.
“When I saw you next, I couldn't believe my eyes. I well and truly believed you were dead. I thought you were an escort girl with an uncanny resemblance. It wasn't until you led me to the Tower that I realized you probably weren't — they don't let their Players imbibe alcohol — and it wasn't until I saw your eyes that I truly realized it was you. When we got to your room, you attacked me. I couldn't have gotten away — even if I wanted to.”
It feels like she is hearing about an entirely different person from herself. A wild, savage person mindless with fear and sorrow and anger and undirected hate. A person with the deadly grace of an animal. A person who has no qualms about sleeping with — or killing — a stranger.
“You can imagine my surprise when you pretended not to know me.”
“I wasn't pretending,” she whispers.
“I know that now. But I thought it was part of the same cycle my father created. We meet, we fall in love, and then you try to destroy me.” He lets go of her hands and they immediately feel too cold. “There's also the matter of your name. Volera.”
“You knew it without me telling you.”
“Oh, you told it to me within seconds of our meeting. And you made it pretty clear why you wanted me to know it.” He pauses. “I'm not sure where Magray comes from, but Volera is what gave me my suspicions. I thought it was a stage name at first, an attempt to inspire danger and controversy, because Volera was the name Bastani scientists used to describe the new race.”
“The Volera,” she repeats, tasting the words.
“It's short for Voluntary Eradicators,” he says, and she stiffens in recognition. “Killing machines with free will. The Regent's greatest atrocity and his most tragic.”
“But the others — ”
“Rest. I've told you too much for your state of mind as is.”
Vol isn't tired and begins to say so, except she is strangled by sleep, and she dreams —
Catan is above her. They grasp at each other like drowning sailors seeking purchase. He tears at the buttons of her clothing, and she laughs, delighted that he'd bothered. “What's so funny?” he demands.
“You're being so careful this time.”
She rolls her eyes. “It wasn't that bad.”
With a growl, he grabs both her wrists and pins them above her head. “Then why were you playing coy with me? Why did you pretend not to know me?”
“That's life. Life is the ultimate game, and its rules were made to be broken.”
She types 'Ariel Sirelle' where it asks for user data. She types 'TashIsSexy' where it asks for password, and her lips curve in a cruel smile.'Add new user data?' the screen queries. She hits 'yes,' and perhaps she isn't as nihilistic as she thinks, because the computer bleeps at her in protest and says, 'tactile selection error.' She presses 'yes,' more gently this time. She types 'Volera Magray' where it asks for user data. She types 'endgame' where it asks for password. And then she begins to program as only Bastani Weavers knew how to do.
Half their clothes are on the floor. He toys with what little remains, his rough, callused fingers chafing her skin so sweetly that she really thinks she might die.
“Life isn't a game until you make it one,” he corrects.
She doesn't have the breath to argue.
“You must remember.”
She stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about the horrors. Tries to remember this life he spoke of, living in fantasy, acting out games.…. “I remember nothing,” she says. “Only you.”
But you will remember now, she told herself. We all will.
The games appear on the queue for the runs, all in a neat little column. Nobody will be any wiser—except for her. And Catan, of course. The bastard. She adds the final game, and she bares her teeth in satisfaction. Yes, they will all know, even if they have to die for it.
And Vol remembers.
She remembers everything. Everything. It slams down on her in a dizzying rush of information, data, memories, dreams, hopes, fears, loves, horrors, and aliveness.
She is the Weaver who created the games.
She is the last voluntary eradicator.
The games tell her story, for they are all she knows
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Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators) Page 15
