by Lee Bond
Chad suspected he was in the middle of something he could turn to his advantage, if given enough time.
A nasty little plan struck him right across the side of his head.
If the fellows with bags and whatnot were keen on causing a bit of mayhem, why not let them? Garth was the sort of ne’er-do-well who’d find some moral obligation to stop the troublemakers, showing off his amazing fighting skills in the process. All he’d have to do was step back out of the action, let the show go on and learn -first-hand- all of Garth’s secrets. That way, if during the assassination, it came down to a case of fisticuffs, he could kick The Job’s arse that much easier.
Chad contemplated the four-story mural of The Box in all its metallic, boxy glory. “Ain’t that a bit ‘o crap in a ‘andbag? ‘Oy, we don’t believe in god or magic or anyfing like that, we is proper finkin’ rational folks, we don’t worship nuffink’ my shiny arsehole. Fucking lunatics.” He marked the direction one of the bag carriers took and followed at a leisurely pace.
xxx
Trinity Enforcers.
Next to the Trinity Artificial Intelligence, they were the most powerful beings in the Universe.
They were the machine intellect’s attack dogs. Armed with thirty thousand years’ worth of outlawed technology, they dispensed heavy-handed justice at Trinity’s command.
Rule-by-AI detractors cried from rooftops and every available soapbox that this was unfair, that they should all be able to benefit from sciences thousands of years in advance of what was available, proclaiming that because of the Dark Ages, it was their right. They cited beliefs that the only reason the technology was dangerous was because of the uses It –and It’s Enforcers- put those sciences to.
Therefore, in the interests of supporting Mankind, Trinity relented from time to time. It would give a small test group access to weapons or other systems that the Enforcers used on a daily basis and let the scientists or governments or think tanks attempt to use them in ways not immediately destructive.
In preparation for what It knew would come, the AI also encouraged as many independent focus groups as possible to pay special attention to the planet where the ‘new’ ideas were being used. It often went out of It’s way to pay for Q-Tunnel access for as many vested interest groups as It could.
Knowledge was power, and in some cases, powerful.
The explosion -usually bright and colorful enough to make for really good viewing- usually also had the wonderful side-effect of taking away an entire planet, freeing Trinity from a goodly amount of pestering demands.
After the dust settled, a Trinity Enforcer issued a statement for the AI, citing that -once again- the only thing their glorious leader wanted was for Humanity to prosper and that everyone was really lucky It was looking out for everyone. Because given the power of a god, the first thing Humanity did after seeing how neat their newfound gadgets were was to start blowing stuff up. Inevitable, Enforcers said. It was always inevitable.
No one ever accused Trinity Itself of tampering with whatever It’d given to the now-dead –and sometimes missing- planets. That was almost as bad as demanding access to forbidden technologies and generally got Enforcers fairly riled up.
Griffin Jones was, depending on how you looked at it, the youngest and oldest Enforcer. In terms of ‘wearing the helmet’, he was just ten years into the gig while the Enforcer closest to him was just rounding her six hundredth year of duty and still kicking ass across a hundred million light-years.
Chronologically, he was slightly over thirty thousand twenty-two years and a few days, making him older than Trinity by a fair bit but younger than Garth Nickels.
Griffin reckoned that in the grand scheme of things, Trinity’s plans would mete out more than enough punishment for the no-good lying sonofabitch, but Griffin also reckoned he wasn’t much for looking beyond his own selfish nose. Given half an opportunity to kill Garth himself, Griffin would not only take it but also turn an entire city block into a radioactive pile of slag just to be sure that the bastard was dead.
He couldn’t, though. It wasn’t permitted. While he wore the suit –which was damned near all the time- he wasn’t entirely in control of himself. There were things he couldn’t do while operating as an Enforcer and that sorely rankled with Griffin Jones, so until he could figure out a way to be free of the suit, he’d do Trinity’s bidding. Sometimes he even looked forward to following those orders.
If only he’d known ten years ago what he’d learned a few minutes after agreeing to follow Trinity’s orders. If only he’d learned about Bravo sooner.
As his daddy had been prone to say when talking with his momma, "He's studyin' to be a half-wit, and I'm afraid he ain't gonna make it."
Still, things had gone too far to stop now. He couldn’t quit on account of what was waiting on the other side of the Cordon and dammit if he didn’t get angry every time he thought about Garth N’Chalez anyhow. Why couldn’t he be the one Trinity wanted to use?
Griffin Jones was afraid he knew the answer to that question as well, which was why he’d gone and agreed to put on the suit in the first place. He wanted to be on the winning side and from where he stood, Trinity’d been doing the winning for nigh on thirty-thousand years. Besides, in this particular game, there was every chance the quarterback was going to be flattened, meaning all he had to do was bide his time, do Trinity’s dirty work, wear the suit.
Luckily, Griffin loved the power of the suit even as he hated his lack of freedom. He had weapons at his control that made Hand of Glory missiles look like firecrackers and Gamma Plateaus look like cap guns. The suit of deep space armor he wore was nearly indestructible, self-repairing and carried tricks even he feared to test; bending a superstring to his whimsy sounded fun to try in an unpopulated sector of the Universe, but not before then. He had no idea what might happen because Trinity didn’t believe in leaving FAQs lying around.
Griffin Jones was tenacious, though. He’d fought in the Armies of Man alongside Garth and the others, and not once had any of them realized he loathed everything they stood for. He was a consummate liar and a spectacular turncoat. Since he neither had any plans on giving up the suit or dying in Trinity’s name –and also had no desire to alienate the other Enforcers- he was just going to have to play ‘git along little dowgie’ until Trinity’s scheme came to fruition or fell flat.
If only he could kill N’Chalez. That little act of homegrown revenge would be oh so sweet. Doing that might ruin everything, though, so he had to be patient.
Griffin coalesced just outside detection range of Hospitalis’ extra-planetary defense systems; for around about a second or so after rematerialization the suit was at its most vulnerable, and the Latelian rail-cannons were pretty powerful. The suit was capable of withstanding a hellacious amount of damage in that weakened state, but still … common sense. Griffin didn’t feel like being hit by duronium alloy slugs traveling faster than light. It’d put a cramp in the day, and he was already in a pissy mood at having to baby-sit Chadsik al-Taryin.
The Enforcer oriented himself on The Museum, and then activated the cloaking device. As an afterthought, he generated a shiny silver surfboard out of some available matter. Satisfied, he surfed on in to get a look-see at that the local yokels were getting themselves up to.
‘Save Chadsik al-Taryin’ indeed. Griffin was so excited he could puke out his eyeballs.
Everyone Starts Settling in
The amphitheater was just as noisy as Naoko remembered, and just as rambunctious. Although it was only half past ten in the morning, more than half of the fifteen thousand seats were already full and it wouldn’t take much longer than another hour for the rest to fill up. After that, the huge theater would remain a blur of noise and motion until eleven in the evening, when the aged curator kicked everyone out. From what Naoko recalled, the custodian resorted to some impolite methods of freeing himself from the burden of unwanted guests. The thought of that old man made her smile; if anyone on Hospitalis could act o
lder than her father, the curator was the one.
Beside her, Garth was laughing and pointing at everyone between the ages of eight and eighty, clearly enjoying the antics of the Gameheads. As feared, this was just the sort of place he’d love.
Four gigantic Sheet-screens dominated the center of the colossal amphitheater. Forming a forty-foot tall by eighty-foot wide cube, the screens delivered visually stunning super high-definition coverage of the Game only surpassed by actually being inside the Arena. Set into the arms of each seat was a smaller monitor showing statistics and other data that chronic Gameheads required. Vendors walked up and down the stairs, firing snacks at paying customers. If they were feeling particularly generous, the occasional freebie winged its way into greedy hands.
Ringed across the back at main entrance level were vending machines and beverage dispensers that sold everything except alcohol and messy goods. The curator tolerated all the antics a worked up crowd could get into, but absolutely loathed cleaning up foods that stuck or stained. Much to the dismay of the older crowd, the curator also patently refused to serve alcohol, even though The Museum could serve beer and weak spirits. Most of the people who came to The Museum had been doing so for years, and didn’t want to risk offending the ancient Latelian because he had no problems in shutting down the Room ‘for maintenance issues’, so they tolerated his mercurial whims with as much grace as possible.
“This,” Garth choked back a fake tear, “this is what I’m talking about.”
Every time he discovered something new about Latelyspace, the more the system began to feel like home. More than that, every second of exposure to the real Hospitalis –everything he’d experienced in Port City was tainted by harassment, bullying and by his own extremely bloody-minded behavior and therefore didn’t count- proved to him that Latelyspace wasn’t enslaved to the fear of a Dark Age. It was easy enough to doctor five thousand years of historical data, but you couldn’t fake everything.
It was impossible, yet he’d spent enough time around people who were, sometimes unconsciously -and sometimes not- terrified of the approaching Dark Age. There was a vibe, an indefinable smidgeon of emotion that screamed their worries to anyone who'd listen. That at any given moment, darkness would swallow the world and everything they held dear. Sometimes it was just a handful of people. Sometimes it was an entire planet, but everywhere else in Trinityspace, human beings suffered an inescapable toll the longer the darkness refused to show.
The Latelians suffered none of that. Oh, there was tightness in the eyes, a bit of long-held onto weariness, but those were fears of a different animal; the eldest Latelians weren’t fools. They saw easily enough that their system was in the final stages of dying. The death of a system was a hard thing.
It took a long time, and Garth –who’d engineered several during his time with SpecSer-, was confident he could do the opposite. All he had to do was survive Bravo, survive the Game, survive his own black moods.
Overall, there was a zest, an … exuberance you’d be hard put to find on any other planet anywhere else in the vastness of the Universe. These people were truly alive in ways that nobody from Trinity could mimic.
It was breathtaking, exhilarating, and wonderful.
Latelyspace needed preservation at all costs. There was no telling if the next Dark Age would be permanent, how long it would last, how terrible the toll. There never was. The crazy Latelians represented the only possible chance for the continuation of the species if an Age proved eternal.
Naoko stepped out of the way to avoid a young man bulling his way up the stairs, his destination evidently one of the many souvenir dispensers behind them. “What do you mean?”
“Where I come from, this is how people enjoy their sports.” Garth pointed to the boisterous crowd, who oohed, ahhed and groaned with every kick, punch, and crushing elbow to the throat flashing on the enormous screens. “The only thing missing are giant beach balls being thrown around.”
“That happens later on.” Naoko remembered the few times she’d come to The Museum with her father with fondness, but had, like most people her age, grown past the need to chant and cheer and carouse.
It was far better to sit at home so you could pay strict attention to what was happening. Naturally, the Final Game brought everyone to a public venue, but by that time, there was nothing else to learn, no other models to detail, so you could cheer and forget yourself.
“This is a blast.” Garth cheered noisily with the rest of the crowd as someone took a flying knee to the side of the head and collapsed to the mat with a sickening thud. He turned to Naoko, eyes gleaming. “Whee.”
“Would you like to find some seats and watch?” Naoko asked. “It is a good idea, since it’s possible you may have to fight one of the winners.”
Garth was about to answer resoundingly yes until he caught sight of a kid running around with a giant foam finger stuck on his hand. He looked around until he spotted the dispenser, raised an eyebrow at Naoko, and then hustled quickly over to it.
Naoko watched Garth leave, a mystified smile on her face. The abrupt transformations he went through were startling, but she was learning to cope quickly. Garth was obviously unaware, but much of the time, his face was full of dark storm clouds, as though he was fighting against some internal instinct every minute of the day. Then, just as easily, his face relaxed, a smile came over him, and his entire demeanor changed. It was clear Garth was desperate to veer away from the warrior that he’d become across The Cordon. It was a worthy goal.
She laughed aloud when roughly a dozen eager teens fell into line ahead of him; he started dancing back and forth from foot to foot and began comically urging everyone to hurry. A man capable of destroying entire planets and he was stuck in a lineup waiting to buy a foamy finger.
Her proteus rang. Naoko looked at the caller ID and frowned. She knew she shouldn’t take the call, but she’d been expecting it. She checked on Garth; her date was engaged in a rapt conversation with one of the young men in the line.
“Sa Morgan.” The greeting was as frosty as she could make it. Naoko tilted her prote so she could see her ex-‘benefactor’s’ face clearly.
“Lady Ha.” Morgan’s forced bonhomie was gone. In its place was a combination of regret and admiration. “I see you are at The Museum. Would you by chance be with the ‘young man’ from Trinity?”
“I am, sa. We are on a date.” Naoko flicked her eyes towards Garth. The line wasn’t moving very quickly, and it seemed that he was reenacting his fight in the Arena for the young men.
Morgan sighed. “I remember going on dates with such a fondness.” He sighed again. “I must congratulate you, Lady Ha. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined such … viciousness, such resolute … fortitude.”
A nervous smile twitched its way across Naoko’s lips. “It is the least you deserve, Sa Morgan. The pain and suffering, the villainy … it had to stop.”
“Indeed, Lady Ha, I suppose it had to.” Morgan tipped an invisible hat to his destroyer’s nobility. “I confess, though, I rather expected to be pulled out of my home by God soldiers or simply … vanished into The Peak. Imagine my surprise when I awoke to find everything I owned … gone. All my assets, all my data, all my … everything.”
She’d gotten the idea from what had happened to Ashok Guillfoyle. Unlike the Traitor’s punishment, though, too much of what Morgan had done and knew could’ve caused unnecessary pain and hurt to other people; rather than explode across the worldLINKs, Morgan’s primaries were empty as the day they’d been bought, his money spread across hundreds of charities worldwide, the vast majority of his data deleted. Some few of Morgan’s worst excesses had made their way to the appropriate authorities because it wasn’t merely enough for Morgan to be stripped clean of everything that made him what he was; he still needed punishment. Only a few of his deeds reached the proper eyes: some of the crimes perpetrated by Morgan were old, the people involved dead or too old for the wounds to be reopened. She nodded once, bru
squely. “I am surprised your jailors have permitted you to make a call.”
Morgan the Dead laughed uproariously. “Dear, dear child. I am not arrested, Lady Ha, I am fled. To the great sinkhole of reality called Trinityspace. I have friends beyond the borders of our tiny fiefdom, and I have much to offer.”
“You have nothing left to offer anyone, Morgan. I saw to that.”
Morgan waggled a finger before tapping his temple thoughtfully. “I have a single name. I have the name of the system’s greatest programmer, a woman so … divine … in her skills that she makes her closest competitor a buffoon. I have Naoko Kamagana.” He chuckled. “And the man who has offered me sanctuary will find your name of great interest. Of course, my gift is dependent on arriving safely in Trinityspace, so you have some time to put your affairs in order.”
Terror clenched Naoko’s throat shut. Morgan was talking about Jordan Bishop. The man who stole Latelian programmers from home so they could work on artificial intelligence.
“You … you can’t do that.” Naoko stammered, close to tears.
“Alas, Naoko Kamagana, the only woman I loved, I have no recourse. You destroyed me and so now I must do the same.” Morgan shrugged. “Once Jordan Bishop learns of your skills, he will stop at nothing to acquire you. Think on this; he has hundreds of your peers pocketed throughout Trinityspace. What will he do to them so that he might get you? Fare thee well, Lady Ha, for the nonce. We will see one another again, on the other side. Of that I am certain.”
Naoko watched Morgan’s smug face disappear from her prote screen, eyes wide, and face pale.
What had she done?
What was she going to do?
xxx
As Garth stood in line for a souvenir impatiently dancing from foot to foot, another layer of Naoko’s character revealed itself. The woman he suspected he loved was the sort of Gamehead who was really very serious about statistics and predicting the outcome of each match before it happened, and not the sort who sat in crowded arenas watching idiots bean themselves silly with foam fingers. The fact that she was enduring it now, for him, was … fantastic.
