by Sloan, David
The arena was an impressive sight. The dark emerald glass that formed the oblong dome seemed to vibrate like the membrane of a tight drum, refracting the image of the surrounding colors like a prism. Crowds of people were streaming from the several entrances. Scoreboards and viewing screens were placed between doors to allow a view of the action inside. From where he stood, the General could see the long black tunnel of stone and cement that connected the arena to the Central Temple. The altar on top of the temple, bathed as always in red light, beckoned his mind momentarily into second guessing his decision.
His contemplation was interrupted by a voice from behind that was familiar in a surreal way.
“General Studblood. Thank you for coming.”
The General whirled around and saw, to his astonishment, a slightly digitized version of a face that he had only ever seen in videos and pictures. The figure was shorter than him, young, Asian, with lightly bleached hair that flailed out in all directions. Around his neck he wore a round stone calendar medallion embedded with gold and emeralds, a symbolic accessory worn by only one person in Kaah Mukul. If it was the person Studblood suspected, he was the only one in the entire city who chose to resemble his real self.
“Are you Myung-Ki Noh?” the General asked in disbelief.
“Yes,” replied the figure. The voice really did sound like him. But appearances were deceiving in the city.
“Prove it.”
The figure that resembled Noh smiled briefly, then looked around and pointed to a tree that was planted next to the wide sidewalk leading up to the arena’s entrance. The General heard a low rumbling sound. The tree began to wobble back and forth as the vibrations in the ground became violently localized around it. The top of the tree burst into a bright blaze of yellowish-orange light. It was transfixing, and then it was instantly over. The tree was exactly as it had been before, and all was quiet.
For a long moment the General stared, unmoving, then finally gushed, “Mr. Noh, it is so cool to meet you! It is such an honor. I’ve been the biggest Kaah Mukul fan since the beginning and I think you are a genius.”
“Thank you, General. I am also an admirer of your recent work,” Noh said gracefully.
“Really? I mean, I’m surprised that you know who I am,” said the General, now very flattered as he remembered what Halley had told him about Noh’s secret files. He thought of calling over the rest of the council, but that somehow felt impolite. He was there, in the moment, with the god of his favorite place standing there in the virtual flesh.
“How do you feel about your progress as a tribe?” asked Noh in his even tone. “Your ranking has been steadily increasing.”
“We’re doing awesome,” the General blurted, eager to keep the conversation going. “We were actually going to do some recruiting this week but never got around to it, but we got some good fighters, and some rookies that, oh, and we have the best code breakers of all the Tribes, but you probably knew that. It is such an awesome pleasure. I mean, to meet you.”
Polite enough not to note the General’s fluster, Noh continued on with deliberate stride. “I’m glad you are doing well. I would expect nothing less from someone with your predictive abilities.”
That was interesting. And confusing. “My predictive abilities?”
“Yes. Do not think that your bracket has gone unnoticed, even in the world of Kaah Mukul. You are on a very impressive streak. Still perfect as of ten minutes ago.”
What? The General couldn’t believe it. Does everyone know about this but me?
“You know about the bracket thing? Do they do that in South Korea, too?”
Noh answered, “I am very interested in discussing your selection method when we meet in person. I have learned enough about basketball to know that choosing winners with such precision requires insights into the complexities of the game that I am anxious to discover. As you can imagine, I am most curious about how such skills could translate to success in the City.”
“Oh,” the General exhaled, internally panicked. “I don’t know that I can, you know, explain—wait, in person? We’re going to meet in person?”
“Yes, forgive me, I am ahead of myself. It happens that I will be flying out to the United States this weekend. I don’t have to be on the eastern coast until later that night, so I set up a connection through Seattle so that I might stop in for a time at your KM Center. I had hoped that I could meet you and your tribal officers and witness your process in your own Tribal Room. I presume you will be there.”
The General had to quickly suppress some shocked words. Instead, he said, “Oh, of course, absolutely. We’re always here. Come by any time.”
“I will be there at the Center at 11:50 AM, Seattle time. I look forward to it. For now, I have some things to attend to before I travel, so if you will excuse me…”
“Sure, yeah, I’ll excuse—” and Noh shot straight up into the air like a comet and disappeared.
Perry stared silently into space for a while. He was replaying the scene in his head, and important details began to occur to him in reverse order. First, he realized that he had said, “I’ll excuse you,” which was moronic. Second, he wrapped his head around the idea that he had been noticed by the most powerful virtual environment designer on the planet for sports tournament guesses that weren’t even meant to be real guesses. After two full minutes, the facts about Saturday’s schedule clicked into place.
“Oh no,” he whispered out loud to no one that could hear him. Noh’s visit would change everything; all their plans for Saturday would need to be rethought. But the General didn’t want to make an emotional decision. Good leaders didn’t make emotional decisions. He was tempted to hold onto the news until he had a good plan, but he knew that he couldn’t keep it to himself. He activated his comm link and summoned his officers back to reality.
When the General informed them that Noh was coming to visit. “Woah” was the least among a long series of exclamations from the group.
“So, I guess we’re siding with the Ahtzon, then, right?” Killergremlin concluded.
“Why? I mean, not necessarily,” said the General, slowly coming back around mentally to his long-term ambitions.
“Stud, we can’t go in with an illegal alliance, in public, with the freakin’ Great Ahau literally looking over our necks. How would we do that?”
“Noh wouldn’t stop us. I think he would let us do what we want. It’s not like he’s going to go report us to the Ahtzon.”
“He wouldn’t have to. Kaah Mukul is his city, and we still don’t know anything about the Mascaab. We don’t know if they’re even in the city legally, and if they’re not, then Noh could kick us all out without even thinking about it. He could ban us for life for no reason at all, and we wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”
“Oh, please.” The General was getting frustrated with his second-in-command’s overreaction to the situation. “Look, I have it on good authority that Noh isn’t going to interfere with the Mascaab situation. Besides—”
“Wait, what authority?” asked Killergremlin.
“A source,” the General sneered. “He’ll let us make our own decisions. And besides, he isn’t coming because of what we’re doing. He’s coming because of my bracket.”
“Huh?” said both of his officers.
“Typhoon150 said he had a line of contact to a deep Ahtzon source through these basketball brackets online. I told him what to write and he posted it under my name. Nothing happened with the code, and Typhoon is obviously MIA now, but the picks that were supposed to be part of the code turned out to guess all of the winning teams. It’s all a big fluke, but Noh kind of thinks I’m a prediction genius now or something.” He said the last part somewhat self-consciously, although he wondered if he shouldn’t at least portray more pride. The officers seemed unimpressed.
“It doesn’t matter,” the General concluded. “For now, we have to focus on what to do about the Mascaab.”
“Well,” Killerg
remlin folded his arms, “I know you’re the genius and all, but telling the Ahtzon is still the safer play. We get a reward, and we don’t risk getting banned from Kaah Mukul.”
Psychopedia nodded. “I agree. Going with the Ahtzon is better.”
The General turned red, the corners of his mouth curving down as he exhaled through his nose. After some reflection, he had to agree that they were right: telling the Ahtzon was the safer play. But he didn’t like doing the safe thing for safety’s sake, and he really didn’t like doing the safe thing under pressure. Nevertheless…
“OK,” he said at last. “But we should wait to do it until just before the demonstration on Saturday.”
“Why not just go now, save ourselves the time?” asked Killergremlin with an edge to his voice that the General didn’t appreciate.
“Because,” the General explained through gritted teeth, “we wouldn’t get the reward unless it led to an arrest, and if the Ahtzon know about it too soon, they might move too quickly, the Mascaab might notice and cancel, and then we wouldn’t have anything. We have to do it when we know that they can be caught, with them right in front of us.” They all agreed. The discussion was over.
As Psychopedia began to categorically list all the questions that he had always wanted to ask Noh, the General’s mind dwelt on how much he didn’t like their situation. He continued thinking about tribes, alliances, dominance, and surprises for the rest of the meeting, on the way home, and while lying in bed. He finally drifted off to sleep having reached only two conclusions. First, he needed to exercise more authority within. Too many people were making decisions for him, and too many factors were forcing his hand. Killergremlin was getting out of line. He had to maintain control.
Second, he needed to do some research on college basketball.
.
[West Division: Elite Eight]
[Saturday, March 28]
Very early on Saturday morning, the General sat alone at the Tribal Room table, studying the dynamic table map. What they were planning to do, he now realized, was cowardly. It was the smart and logical move, but they were giving in to pressure when a bolder choice was on the table. It didn’t sit right with him. Nevertheless, he had made his decision, and a good leader stuck to his decisions. Wasn’t that right?
The chime from his e-mail box sounded. He glanced at his personal monitor. Really? he thought. After reading the message a few times, he slowly donned his mask and controls and descended into the northeast end of the city for an unexpected meeting.
On the outskirts of the walls of the Old City was an amateur Ullamaball court, a dusty, miniature street version of the big professional courts like the one in the Montezuma Arena. A few players were tossing the ball back and forth around the hoops, not very well, and they paid no attention either to him or the person he was meeting as they approached each other near a clump of palm trees just outside the tall, grey wall.
“Hey, Ohmen,” the General greeted his old teammate cautiously. He stopped short when he noted that his former teammate was wearing red and white armor.
“You traitor! You joined the Scarmada?” He whipped out his gun to shoot Ohmen on the spot when four other Scarmada warriors surrounded him, gun barrels pointed at his head. The General kept his weapon up but didn’t fire. He couldn’t believe he had fallen into such a simple trap.
“Sorry for the ruse, Studblood,” Ohmen said coldly. “I guessed that you wouldn’t show up unless you thought I was still on your side. I have a message for you.”
“OK,” said the General, calculating the ways that he might be able to shoot, run, and survive.
“You aren’t welcome in the Mascaab Alliance. We know you’re interested, but don’t bother. You can’t join.”
“Says who?” the General asked resentfully.
“Says the Scarmada. We’re in, we’re running it, and we’ve united enough tribes that we can be choosy about who else joins.”
“I thought the Mascaab ran the Mascaab,” said the General.
Ohmen scoffed. “The Mascaab leadership isn’t interested in leading battles and coordinating alliances. They’re in this for the money, not the power. The real leadership goes to whoever can actually unite the tribes in purpose. We’re it. We’ve chosen who gets in, and we’ve chosen who stays out. You’re out. You have no say in it.”
The General stood there contemplating his former subordinate, desperately wanting to shoot him.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Of course not. You’ve never listened to me before. But the Scarmada wanted to warn you as a sign of respect to your seniority, so you wouldn’t have to lose face later on. Someone of your experience could do well as one of the second-tier tribes in the city. You might even keep your DR in the top twenty.”
The General opened his mouth to argue back, but stopped himself. This was a trick—a very obvious, uncreative trick—to keep him away from the Mascaab, but he wasn’t exactly sure what was and was not true. Getting into a yelling match wouldn’t do any good.
“So why go through with this thing at the Montezuma if the tribes are already picked?”
“The introduction to the city is still necessary for establishing the superiority of our alliance and the inferiority of the rest of you. The whole city will be able to tell the difference by the end of the day.”
“Then what’s stopping us from going to the Ahtzon and telling them about you? You know they have a reward out.”
Ohmen shrugged. “We know. Feel free to tell them what you want. We will allow you,” he said, as aloof as a king granting a peasant’s request. He turned away. “That’s all. Have a good weekend, General.”
The other four lowered their weapons and followed, leaving the General to think alone, bristling.
* * * *
The Montezuma Arena was one of the must-see sites for first-time visitors to Kaah Mukul. The glistening exterior of the dome was stunning, but the best word that the General had for describing the interior was seismic.
The inside of the arena was much bigger than the outside—a little physics mischief by the game programmers—and entirely dazzling. The professional Ullamaball court itself was rectangular, surrounded by a high stone wall that slanted out at an angle on all sides, with two thick-rimmed hoops that jutted out vertically toward the center court. At one end was a pair of doors from which the players entered for the game. At the other end was a single door, which opened into the tunnel that led up to the altar of the Central Temple. All of the big Ullamaball tournaments were single elimination. Many of the pro players had death tallies in the hundreds, which wasn’t a big deal since that was the price they paid to be there. For the General and his tribe, the stakes of death were much higher, a fact which lingered in his mind.
The stands overlooking the court were formed by a long, single walkway that coiled along the elliptical interior, forming continuous tiers that were connected at regular intervals by long vertical stairways that sprouted from the center like spokes and ascended on all sides to the highest levels. Because no one ever needs to sit in a virtual world, there were no seats; the pathway allowed fans to move around the arena at will, or as much as the density of the crowds allowed. Fan bases established themselves in clumps of flags and team colors. Ahtzon officers wandered sporadically throughout the spectators. At this game, the crowds were unusually large, and the General noted a sizeable contingent of Ahtzon standing together in a section close to the floor, not far below where he stood. Halley was present in the platoon, just as the General had requested. At any time, the General could make his way down, report to Halley, and it would all be over. Maybe.
The General hadn’t told anyone yet, but his meeting with Ohmen had prompted some internal debate about what had, just yesterday, been a final decision. He knew that he couldn’t take Ohmen’s threats at face value. The Scarmada were trying to play him, obviously. They didn’t want him near the Mascaab. Why? Did they want him away from the arena altogether? Was it a power thing? We
re they afraid he’d split the alliance, or worse, cut them out? He absolutely would, given the chance, and regardless of what happened in the arena that day, his second highest priority was making sure to put as many bullets as possible into as many Scarmada as possible. He was uneasy about not having the answers he wanted, but he was sure that he could outmaneuver anyone in the game. No, not a game, he corrected himself.
“Everybody in position?” the General called over his comm link, suddenly full of fire for things to get started. They had mustered every one of their tribesmen, all twenty-four of them, and had recruited a good deal more from across the arena for the hour. The possibility of fighting in a place like the Montezuma had made the request an easy sell, and he would see to it that they were all rewarded for their obedience. A good leader knew how to take care of those who fought for him.
“Everyone, we have less than sixteen…uh, fifteen minutes, so listen carefully,” the General articulated dramatically. “Things will be happening quickly, and we need to strike fast and strike together when the time comes. Stay close to the officers at all times. Got that? You all ready to make this day go down in history?” He heard cheering through his headset, and then he felt a tap on his shoulder. His real shoulder. He jumped out of the city and removed his interface mask. The clerk was standing there.
“Stud, you have a visitor,” the clerk announced. “Some Asian guy in a suit.”
He’s here. “Send him in!” The General cleared his throat and tapped on the shoulders of his counselors. It felt right, somehow, the creator of his whole world about to witness his greatest moment as a leader.
Myung-Ki Noh strode in with subdued ease, his hair looking slightly less wild than it appeared in his pictures, his body more compact and muscular than might be expected from a world-class software engineer. The General bowed slightly as Noh walked directly up to him and shook his hand. His officers handled the meeting with somewhat less poise. Noh graciously accepted all accolades, then addressed them smoothly and authoritatively.
