by Sloan, David
“I don’t want to interrupt you too much. Where are you now?” He took an empty chair while an imposing assistant placed a metal briefcase in front of him on the table.
“In the Montezuma,” the General said, faltering a little at the nervous glances of his two officers. “We’d normally be, you know, patrolling our territory, but this is kind of a recon op.”
“Excellent,” Noh said, removing an interface that was more advanced than anything they had ever seen. “The tournament of Maak Suun is today. Who is playing now?”
The General drew a blank. Killergremlin spoke up just in time.
“Uh, the Dead Scourge just beat the Hobo Lobos. Really good game.”
“That is unfortunate,” replied Noh, “I had money placed on the Lobos.” He donned his mask without another word, and the four descended back into the throbbing chaos of the virtual super-arena. Eight minutes until noon.
“Did you know our designers spent more time on Montezuma Arena than on any other aspect of the City?” Noh commented with some pride, his avatar standing beside the General and gazing out at the two teams that had just begun the next match. The General actually had known that. “It is designed to hold millions of people at a time, to host the largest worldwide gatherings in history. And this is just the beginning, what you see. I am proud of many things in Kaah Mukul, but I am most pleased that the arena has become a reality.”
The General’s mind raced back to Noh’s interview and his own conversation with Killergremlin. “When you say that, do you mean like, it’s a reality like how reality and Kaah Mukul interact? I heard the interview you gave in London. You were saying that about reality and art, right? Or about life and art? I was talking about that with Killergremlin, and we were trying to figure out if you were saying that stuff that happens in Kaah Mukul really happens in real life, like if this arena is a reality somewhere else?” By the time he had finished the sentence, he could tell that he sounded like an idiot, and he let his voice descend to an imperceptible mumble. Noh looked at him blankly for a solid ten seconds, then turned back to the Ullamaball game.
“I merely meant that I was pleased that we had executed the design for this arena. But I know what you are referring to. The real-world manifestations of what the Montezuma represents have yet to be seen, but they will appear, soon I hope. In that interview, I was speculating about cases in Kaah Mukul that have interesting analogues with real life. You, for example.” The General felt a sudden flush of self-consciousness. Fortunately, the faces of avatars didn’t turn red. “You have been a tribal general for eighteen months, during which time you have won an impressive number of battles and earned a top five dominance ranking. I do not yet know if you carried that capacity with you into the city, or if you developed it because the city impelled you to develop it. More likely, the process is reciprocal. That is why I’ve taken such an interest in you, and why I believe that your remarkable basketball tournament picks are not entirely disconnected from your work in the Tribal Wars. There may be something special about you…” Noh’s voice seemed to recede as the speech progressed deeper into his own thoughts, but he quickly reacquired his focus.
“Well, General Studblood, at the moment I have some things to do inside the arena for a project that I’m planning. If I could leave you for a time, I will take care of my affairs and return to you later to finish our conversation. If you will excuse me…”
“Sure,” said the General, flattered, confused, and relieved. He dwelt for a moment on the idea that the Great Ahau thought he was special, until he noticed the time. Three more minutes.
“Everyone set? It’s almost time. Any minute now,” the General broadcast to his officers.
“Where’s Noh?” asked Killergremlin anxiously.
“He had to go do something. We’re clear. Now we just have to find Tula. If you see her, get her to me.”
Noon.
The General was approached from behind by a figure. He was surprised to see Tula dressed exactly as she had been at the Café. He gripped the holster of his gun and turned off his comm link to make sure no one else could hear what he was about to do.
“We are pleased that you are here for the demonstration, General Studblood. Have you and your tribe decided on membership with our organization?”
The General drew his weapon quickly and whispered harshly. “You have to answer one thing first. Did you promise leadership of the alliance to the Scarmada? Tell me now or I blow your head off.”
Tula laughed, entirely undaunted. “Of course not. We have made no offers to anyone nor received any promises of allegiance prior to today.” She stood close to him as he felt his real face go red. “Are you interested in leadership positions within the Mascaab? Opportunities exist, and we reward loyalty and effectiveness.”
The General hesitated and felt himself sweating within his mask. Then he made a decision: a rash and potentially costly decision, but one that thrilled him. This was what great leaders did, he told himself. They decided.
“Yes, the Warriors of Tsepes will join the Mascaab alliance of tribes.” The General remotely accessed the money from his personal account, drained it, and handed it over to Tula’s outstretched hand.
Tula smiled. “Excellent. The rules are these. The Mascaab will begin an attack on all of the Ahtzon patrols in the arena simultaneously. You will be in position to attack the ones that are two tiers below. You will use this.” From apparently nowhere, she produced a spear-like weapon, as long as a rifle, with a trigger button in the handle and an elaborate tip that looked like the open jaws of a beetle. “In one minute, go down to that patrol beneath us. We will have people watching you. If you attempt to betray us, or run away without fulfilling your duty, we will destroy your tribe. Understood?”
The General didn’t appreciate the threat, but nodded that he understood. Tula nodded back before disappearing into the crowd. The General opened a channel to his officers and took a deep breath to fortify his resolve.
“Listen up, change of plans. I just made a deal to join us up to the Mascaab, and they gave us our first new weapon. Our assignment is to…”
“What?!” Killergremlin screamed into the headset. “Why? We decided not to do that, remember?”
“I changed my decision,” said the General in as commanding a bellow as he could muster. His tolerance for insolence from Killergremlin was at an all-time low. “This is the best move. Now shut up and calm down.” Without allowing for further argument, and there was definitely one coming, he opened a channel to the whole tribe.
“Listen up, everyone converge on my position right now. We’re going to take out this entire squadron of Ahtzon on my mark.” There was cheering and whooping from the warriors, and the General felt a surge of ambitious joy as he charged down to the Ahtzon contingent, his men behind him.
Some of the Ahtzon turned to look at him as he ran down, including Halley. He gave them no chance to pull out their weapons. With a wild yell, he raised the spear and activated it. Instantly, dozens of flaming blue darts shot out of the tip and sliced into the entire mass of Ahtzon like a swarm of steak knives, tracing curved, glowing paths in the air as they flew through and circled back in a frenzy. Everyone in the patrol was dead in a matter of seconds.
At that moment, the General knew he had been right. This weapon was for real, a treasure worth the price. He heard cries from the bewildered crowds as similar weapons were released on patrols throughout the arena. The game on the court stopped. The recruits of the Warriors of Tsepes let out a whoop and began to hunt down anyone that looked like a foe. Many in the stands began to flee while others cheered the unexpected spectacle of carnage.
The General felt an exhilaration he’d all but forgotten. He ran through the tiers, his spear burning in his hand as he sought single-mindedly for more Ahtzon to eliminate or Scarmada to punish. He relished every kill. There was no doubt that he had delivered, that this was his great moment. His mind raced through his ascension to the top of the alliance, a move t
hat would dramatically change the balance of power between Atzon and Tribe forever. He thought of the look Ohmen would have on his face when he realized that his attempted threat had badly backfired. He thought of Myung-Ki Noh, wherever he was, who now had the assurance that the General was as unique as he had hoped. He thought of the morons at the clerk’s office who would have been shocked to see him in his element, not the lazy, unproductive sloth—their words—that they had unfairly accused him of being. Maybe he would tell them.
A warning from Killergremlin snapped him out of his emotional high.
“The doors are closing! Everyone out of the building!” he yelled. The General spun around and saw that the tunnel doors were indeed being sealed.
“Everybody out! Fall back!” ordered the General as he scrambled to the closest doors. But it was too late. The lighted symbol in his viewer made clear that everyone was marked; there could be no escape to reality. They had to stay and fight what was coming. “All Tsepsians, rally to me!” he called out. Raising his spear, he let loose his war cry. “No fear!”
The arena went silent. The lights and music stopped, the flash and pop of the Montezuma’s special ambience disappeared. The Warriors of Tsepes rushed to consolidate themselves, using corpses to form makeshift trenches in the stands.
The sound of large, grinding machinery filled the arena. The hoops on the court retracted, the stone walls gave way, and the entire floor split in half. From underneath rose a platform the size of the court, covered with Ahtzon, more than the General had ever seen together. In the center of the army were four large artillery turrets, all pointed at the pockets of tribal warriors around them. The barrels of the turrets began to glow and seemed to release steady beams of light that joined in the center, becoming a blinding, ethereal pillar like some violent tear in the fabric of space. Standing transfixed, the General knew he had seen the light before. He couldn’t remember where, but he felt intuitively that this light signaled something awful about to happen. He ordered himself to run, but found he was completely immobilized.
From below, the command came: “Fire!”
The turrets unleashed their barrage into the stands, four streams of instant death streaked with yellow flares. The legions of Ahtzon were unleashed into the stands under the cover of the guns and began to clear each tier. Those tribes that tried to wield their new spears against the onslaught were quickly mowed down.
The General found himself powerless. The Ahtzon were just one tier away, and there was no place to run. He called for a final attack, but no one answered. He crouched alone behind a stack of Ahtzon bodies, clutching the worthless spear. Things had gone so horribly wrong so quickly.
The Ahtzon came into view on his tier. He rallied himself for one final attack, raising the spear and knowing that as soon as he fired, he would be shot at. But there was nothing left to do. He ran at full speed toward the army. Then without warning, he was on the ground, shot from behind and above. His arms and legs no longer functioned. He lay still, alive but helpless as the squadron of Ahtzon passed behind him.
They were no sooner gone than someone came and turned his body over. Into his view came the face of a warrior wearing a Scarmada uniform. Ohmen. His voice sneered in glee.
“You made a choice. And it was bad. Now you have to pay for that.”
As he spoke, two Ahtzon officers and the bearded face of the Scarmada leader also came into view. The General opened his mouth to yell, but the Ahtzon grabbed his body by the shoulders and dragged him away. From his earpiece, he could hear as the final shouts of Killergremlin and Psychopedia pronounced the end of the Warriors of Tsepes.
It was an act of utter, humiliating surrender for Perry to stay in his mask and watch as his broken body was solemnly dragged down to the floor of the court and through the tunnel that led to a columned walkway. From his compromised vantage point, the General could see the city of Kaah Mukul appearing between the columns, its metal, glass, and stone facades gleaming in the daylight. Then they were in an elevator, ascending to a platform high atop the Central Temple under an elaborately carved roof. Cameras were set up on either side to broadcast the proceedings to the viewing screens outside of the Montezuma, where people applauded the spectacular capture of those who had so vainly disturbed the tournament. The General’s body was dropped onto a massive altar, facing up, and his chest armor was stripped off. A solemn, diabolical figure, an older man in a business suit, apron, and feathered headdress, approached the altar and looked down piteously. He spoke the name of General Studblood, accused him of sedition, pronounced him guilty, and plunged a shiny black dagger into his chest. The image around him began to lose clarity, and the last thing the General saw was his beating, disembodied heart held out for the entire city to see, and then his body being thrown off the altar and down the long, long steps of the temple to a pit under the sidewalk.
General Studblood was dead.
Perry removed the mask. He still felt immobilized, a passive observer to the destruction of what was, to him, his greatest achievement. Very slowly, he stood up from his chair and placed his gear in his duffel bag, beginning with the red and black bandana from his arm. Behind him, Killergremlin and Psychopedia pushed back from the table, both livid.
“Nice call, Stud. Really nice call. Why didn’t you just do what we agreed to? We lost everything because of you. Now we have to start almost from scratch...” Perry ignored them and finished packing. Without a word, he walked out of the room with his head bent down and closed the door behind him.
He was passing the small Ullamaball amphitheater when he remembered Noh. He hadn’t been in the room when Perry had left. He looked around for some sign of him, saw none, and ran out to the clerk.
“Went out that way fifteen seconds ago,” the clerk said, not even looking up. Perry dropped his bag and ran out into the parking lot. Noh was getting into a sedan.
“Wait, wait. Wait,” he puffed, jogging over to hold the door open. Mr. Noh seemed impatient.
“I’m sorry for your loss today, Mr. Lynwood,” Mr. Noh responded. “But since there is nothing more to observe, I have to move on to other engagements.”
“Wait, that’s it? You come all the way over from Korea to watch me, and you take off after fifteen minutes without saying anything? You don’t even want to ask me about basketball, like you were saying…?”
“Mr. Lynwood,” Noh said abruptly, looking at him full in the face. “I came here because of curiosity and hope. I wanted to make sure that I did not exclude the possibility that you were the legitimate product of the city that I have been hoping for. But you are not. That was not entirely unexpected, but it was still disappointing. And now I must get to my plane.”
“Wait, wait!” Perry was reeling so hard that he didn’t know how to put his words together. “You’re going to judge me on one bad call? That’s not fair, Mr. Noh, totally not fair. You yourself said that I had potential. What about that speech you gave me a few minutes ago? I’m not dead, not in real life, and I’m still the same man I was before that happened. What about my bracket?”
“Is that really your bracket?” Noh asked, raising his eyebrows. Perry froze, then knew that he had waited too long to lie.
Noh sighed. “I thought not. I knew about that possibility when I came, but I had to be sure. Your record in the Tribal Wars, until today, had been impressive. You aspired to be a General, and to your credit, you became one. But from what I observed today, you are rather a pawn than a king.”
“Now hold on,” exclaimed Perry, his hands shaking. “I have been a great leader, you said so yourself, and you can’t judge me based on one bad mistake. I still have a future.”
Noh shrugged. “We are not guaranteed a future in life, Mr. Lynwood, we are just guaranteed a fate.”
“How is that any different?”
“Fate is not in our hands. Time can be managed, inevitability cannot. My time is precious, your inevitability is…unfortunate. The city has shown us that.”
“Come
on, that art-in-life-in-whatever stuff doesn’t apply to this. What just happened won’t happen again. It’s not like I’m going to get shot at the Montezuma a second time.”
“Perhaps not,” Noh shrugged. “I must go now. I wish you good luck with your bracket, Mr. Lynwood. You will need it, I suspect. I can think of no more visible hand of fate than a bracket, especially one that you didn’t choose yourself.” With that, Mr. Noh closed the door of the car and was driven off, leaving Perry in the parking lot alone.
* * * *
That evening, after some driving, some drinking, and some taxi riding, Perry arrived home. He stood for a minute in the middle of the sparse and unkempt living room, then moved on to see the pile of dishes in his sink. He sat at his table and stared at a knife laden with a sticky skin of strawberry jam. Absently, he held the knife so that the tip was pointed into the table and let the handle swivel back and forth between his fingers. He thought about all the people and ideas he hated. He needed to go to sleep.
He retreated to his bedroom. His computer was still on. By force of habit and against the wishes of his exhausted body, he opened his e-mail and scanned his messages. He instantly wished he hadn’t.
There, at the top of the list, was an invitation to an all-expenses-paid trip to Washington DC, to attend, by virtue of his miraculous bracket, a ball game in an arena.
[West Division: Final Four]
[Saturday, April 4]
Perry sat in his seat high up in the Verizon Center, wedged between the self-important CEO and the floppy-haired guy, and anxiously considered his situation.
He hadn’t so much agreed to come as he felt compelled to come. In his darkest moments, he acknowledged that his life had imploded over the course of three weeks, and he had no reasonable explanation why. The border between fantasy and reality, it seemed to him, had become dangerously porous. It could be no coincidence that his final Kaah Mukul error had been to go to a sports arena and tempt fate, and in the same day, within mere hours, he was summoned to a sports arena to do the same thing in reality. He was sure that the resolution of his catastrophe would somehow occur over the course of this game. Why this was happening to him, he couldn’t say. Noh’s final words, like a curse on his soul, continuously echoed back to him. He realized how insane he would sound if he were to try and explain it. But a good leader…no, he was not a leader anymore. He wasn’t anything anymore. All he had left was his name and, of course, his bracket.
