by Lee Bond
“Yep.” Garth nodded. Time to make his way to the assassination chamber. “Busy night.”
“I take it you’re referring to our … watchdogs?”
Where was Wombag, Garth wondered. “You might say that, yeah.”
“I thought you were concerned about repercussions.”
“Yeah, well.” Garth shoved the door open and walked in. “It’s not like this guy is just, like, gonna fuck off or whatever. He’s dedicated his life to messing with mine, and we can’t just leave those assholes out there. Sooner or later they’re going to try and get in here, and I have to tell you …”
“Yes?”
Garth looked over the array of methods he’d designed for those times when he needed to take advantage of the Emperor’s ‘kindness’ in offering him a way to make a save point. It was a weird thing, sitting down, first designing, then creating different ways of taking your own life. Garth couldn’t put the feeling into words, but it’d … affected him.
Which was why, he supposed, he was moving against Cherry Cristal and her band of Zigg-heads sooner rather than later. They weren’t going to go away, Samiel wasn’t going to stop, the Emperor was waiting for him to fail.
Hell, for all he knew, Etienne was just waiting for things to get really hairy, all so he could change the rules or something.
There were just so many variables to juggle.
“If you thought the last guys were tough, think again. Cherry Cristal and her fiends are roughly three times meaner and that much harder to kill.” Garth closed his hands around the Self-Decapitator, bleakly grossed out by his own morbid creativity.
Your basic Self-Decapitator didn’t need to be fancy. All it needed was to be able to fit around your head snugly enough so that when it was fired, the blades –driven by gas cartridges so there’d be no chance of malfunction- sliced cleanly through your neck, severing the spinal column at the base of the neck and thus ending your life. The rest was up to the designer.
Garth had gone simple, though a part of him had wanted to pay homage to the Jigsaw Killer by working up a truly baroque piece of murder awesomeness, but he’d bailed after realizing that yeah, you really could take too much pride in your work.
“Really.”
“Yes, really.” Garth carried the Self-Decapitator over to the chair, still talking to Rommen. “So when things get weird tonight, stay out of it as much as possible, all right? No sense in getting your people hurt. Understand?”
“Roger.” The phone went dead.
Garth put his phone in a pocket, picked up the means of his own death, then sat his ass down in the chair. The lightweight-ish device slid cleanly over his head. Keeping it secure was a matter of tightening a few fly-wheel screws.
The Specter sighed. The Emperor’s requirements for this stank of psychosis. Of rotting, festering illness, deep inside the mind. Otherwise, why ask for it?
“I, Garth N’Chalez, do hereby announce that I am generating a save point.”
A quick tap with his chin on the firing button and …
***
“At least there weren’t any flashing lights this time.” Garth muttered groggily as he came to. Yet, he added silently. The upcoming dust-up between him and Samiel carried with it the possibility of many repeats, and it’d be there, in the tenth or fiftieth or hundredth effort to push Samiel back and away from the arcade that the lights would flash, and he’d find himself … somewhere else.
Talking to someone who was most likely dead.
“Beg pardon?” Etienne’s haughty voice called down from the balcony where he always sat.
Garth followed the voice to it’s owner and shook his head. “The fucking answering machine? Again?”
Spur, who stood by his master, took a step forward. “Mind your tone, Nickels. This is the Emperor-for-Life Etienne Marseilles.”
“And I say,” Garth quirked his lips at the small play on words, “that he’s nothing more than a very sophisticated program. Not as sophisticated as you, mind, ‘cuz I can’t imagine the Emp allowing anything in this place to be even close to the real meal deal. If I’m wrong,” Garth turned his attention to the glowering mockery of a monarch, “tell me to my face. Tell me it’s you and I’ll treat you as you require. I won’t fucking pander to a program, though.”
The illusion took some pains to pretend at being upset for being called out, but then laughingly gave way to the truth with raised spirits; the Emperor had prepared the spot of code for this moment when their little guest had figured it out last time around. “What of it?”
Garth shot Spur a smug look before continuing to speak with the simulacra. “I kind of think I’m kind of a big deal around these here parts, man. Don’t you think it’s a little on the rude side for the Main Man in this here sideshow gallery to spend his time elsewhere, doing … like … I dunno. Weird monarch shit? Like, I knew this one crazy old ruler out there past The Cordon, he was … well … he was stark bonkers mad. Like, so, so mad. He had every single person who needed to speak with him walk into the room backwards, on their hands and feet. And he had a really unhealthy fascination with assholes. Like, your actual … area. Like … official monarchly ordered paintings of … bits and … areas. Oh, and he also continually ordered the deaths of millions of his people, who were quickly and quietly replaced with clones grown from the tissues of those he murdered, but the butt stuff … that was super uncool.”
“As big a deal as you may imagine yourself to be, Nickels, the Emperor is bigger still.” The ghost of the Emperor reminded Garth firmly. “And you would do well to treat me as you would him. There will be no more anecdotes concerning the practices of other rulers, mad or otherwise. Here, in this place, there is only the Emperor. All praise his presence.”
“All hail the Emperor.” Spur intoned formally.
“So how are things?” Garth asked casually, crossing his legs and putting his hands ever so daintily atop a knee. “The Empire still swinging full force? Everyone all happy? Well, no, now I think about it, can’t be all that happy because a) there’s a Dark Age on the way, 2) it’s not ever going to get any better before the end, and pi) the man who’s supposed to be keeping the bad guys from winning is stuck here, in this fucking bullshit place doing fucking stupid bullshit.”
“Come now,” Etienne’s Face pouted fussily, “it is not our fault you came here. There was no cause nor reason for you to follow the coordinates given to you by the Platinum King, nor was there any reason for you rescue Spur, nor any reason whatsoever for you to come here, to this place. Yet you did all those things, even after Spur so mistakenly informed you as to what would come to pass. So here you are, and here you shall stay, until you succeed or you fail. Don’t you tire of trying to change our minds?”
“I spent ten years trying to recreate pizza, Emperor. In an increasingly bizarre and alien Universe, I devoted a considerable amount of my downtime to creating a delicious and amazing snack when I could’ve been doing anything else with my time. Anything at all.” Garth switched his hands from knees to the back of his head. “And yet, I did as I did. I can guarantee you, every time you decide to pull me back up here for one of these palavers, I’m going to bring it up. Because, y’see, I can’t forget what you said.”
“What I said?” Etienne put a hand to his chest.
“Well, no.” Garth waved a hand, frustrated. “Not you. The real you. Spur knows what I mean. The real you said you weren’t even interested in the outside Universe. That anyone residing within the influence of the temporal incongruity would remain safe from the destruction. And I can’t stop thinking about that.”
“And why not?”
“Well, Emperor, because. If you were truly disinterested, there is absolutely zero percentage in keeping me here. Assuming for the moment that I do fail, that failure will trigger whatever mechanisms are in place to do … whatever … with me. That leaves the Universe in a terribly precarious position, ‘cuz the shit I got in place to destroy everything will still exist. The wrong people
might find it, and fire. Pop goes the Universe anyways. Only thing is, is this is it. This is the last iteration of the Unreal Universe. The only way it comes back in the form of Reality 2.0 is if I am doing the thing. No one else. So, if you’re disinterested and you’re keeping me here anyways, you’re doing it because you’re a fucking dick who doesn’t really care at all about the outside Universe.”
“Mind your tone!” Spur barked, precise and ice cold words clattering through the Grand Meeting hall.
Just as icily, the Emperor’s Talking Clothes spoke. “There is more to this passionate little explanation, is there not?”
“’course there is, mon Empereur.” Garth dipped his head in recognition of the bogus Emperor’s calm. “The other possibility is that you are interested in the outside Universe after all. That by noodling around in my noggin, you’ve discovered that hey, you really do have an appetite for control and domination of an entirely new Reality and that, holy shit, you got the guy that could do it best completely and utterly in your control.”
“Does it matter?”
Garth grinned slyly. In order for it to speak on the Emperor’s behalf, this program knew much of what Etienne knew. Had to, to at least be cunning. And it’d dropped the ball.
Because the bored question, delivered so perfectly and so sweetly as any phenomenally powerful entity might, suggested that there was a change in attitude, that there very well could be plans in the works.
And that really did change the game.
“Time for you to go back into the game, Garth Nickels.” Spur snapped his fingers and Garth N’Chalez disappeared. “That could’ve gone a lot better.”
“I didn’t mean for that to slip out.” The ghost of the Emperor whined plaintively. “I … it’s just … my programming is … off kilter.”
“That shouldn’t be a thing.” Drake ground the words out. “You’re a goddamn program. All of this … you’re a program. Nothing coming out of your mouth should be accidental.”
The ghost looked around nervously. “I …”
“Where is he?” Drake demanded, seizing the illusion’s forearm roughly. “Is he in his little hidden workshop? Tell me where it is. I’ve been looking and I can’t find it.”
“I … I …” The Emperor’s Face didn’t know what to do. It’d never been warned against unexpected threats from the other master of the temporal incongruity.
It fled.
***
Rather than take the four murder drones to the top of the parkade –the last time had been more for show, and to reduce some of the festering heat coming from Rommen and his endless curiosity- Garth decided to simply pilot them out the doors. It was easier this way, and afforded him the luxury of getting accustomed to the controls.
Watching through four slightly different split-screen windows, the Specter deftly maneuvered the drones through the primary level of the arcade.
Things were really beginning to take shape up there, and though he’d been busy with … stuff … Garth had taken time out of his immensely busy schedule to congratulate everyone involved in turning the old, dilapidated school into the amazing thing it was becoming. He knew he deserved hardly any of the credit; promptly following the gutting of the school, squadrons of design monkeys had literally flung themselves at him on behalf of the companies he’d hired, demanding to know precisely what he wanted the arcade to look like.
His answer?
Flynn’s Arcade. Only more awesome.
Not the best of answers, Garth knew, but when you were trying to figure out a way to trap Baron Samiel while looking like you were more interested in eating your way into a cholesterol-borne coma, there was only so much you could spare in the way of being accommodating.
“Those guys did a really good job.” Garth took the drones for a spin through the lower level, resisting the urge to waste even more time by taking them up to the loft/offices he’d had them whip up as well; now he’d decided to get on Samiel’s bad side in a big way, the urge to see what’d happen when he iced the Zigg-heads lingering outside his property was a smoldering Quest icon in the back of his head.
The sooner he knew what kind of shit Samiel was going to start throwing at him in reprisal, the better.
The Arcade of Awesomeness –he still wasn’t sold on the name, but a few people he’d spoken to, Birchcreek included, seemed to believe the lumbering name would play well to the rich and idle youngsters of San Francisco- was a testament to what truly motivated people could accomplish so long as there was a hefty paycheck attached to their efforts.
For the time being, it was mostly empty; the original Flynn’s Arcade in that truly excellent film had been chock-a-block with all kinds of old-school video games and Garth intended on providing his customers with the same sort of experience, so a great deal of the floor space was set aside for row after row of arcade cabinets. Naturally, since most people these days didn’t carry change –everything was either put on the PID or, more frequently, tapped out via credit card- the new cabinets would afford everyone the same luxury.
Just as sadly, video game arcades weren’t really a thing any longer. No one had the time or the wherewithal to just … lounge around in a building full of strangers when you could sit in your underwear and yell at your best friends in Russia for failing to rush B properly, so when the time was there, Garth knew he was just going to have sit his ass down and create them all.
It wouldn’t be a big deal. With the EJ AI running full bore on creating the most realistic video game ever made – based loosely around what it was like to be in Special Services- it’d be a simple, simple chore to shoot it some commands to scan through recent video game history and basically re-code everything it could find.
Then he’d have to make some cabinets, wire up the payment methods, and Bob was not only your uncle, he was a faithful client, willing to come to AoA for upwards of nineteen hours a day.
“And the crowning glory of the whole thing?” Garth spun his drones towards the absolute epicenter of the AoA, where one of his better skilled carpenters had already blocked in a huge, circular cabinet fully fifteen feet in diameter.
Here was where –and why- people would come to AoA more than any other reason. Fifteen networked consoles, all running a full version of the game, all the time, day and night. The in-store version of the game would boast features not available to those who were playing from their homes, and it was that kind of incentive that’d lure people like Sparks and Drake from their comfortable man caves and right to his front door. Eager to acquire loot and other tasty drops that could then be transferred to their home accounts, hard-core game fans would find themselves outside, in the daylight, interacting with other people.
It was either going to be awesome, or it was going to be terrible.
Personally, Garth was hoping to see something very similar to either a full-blown Comicon kind of thing or, even more fitting –minus the violence and a permanent ban on wearing underwear on your head- the shenanigans that everyone’d gotten up to in the Museum of Latelian Natural History before the shit had hit the fan.
Thinking of his one and only date with Naoko Kamagana only served to remind him of how terribly things had gone following their first kiss, and of the fact that he’d failed her by sneaking off in the middle of the night to destroy all evidence that he’d hacked a proteus maker into making whatever he wanted. It’d needed doing, obviously, because the Latelians took that kind of thing so seriously that they might’ve gone to extreme ends to see him killed, but in so doing, he’d let an innocent young woman get kidnapped.
And that was terrible. It was a burden he’d carry with him for the rest of his life, and in time, it’d either circle ‘round to bite him in the ass or that guilt would grow to equal the guilt he was allegedly supposed to be feeling about ‘failing’ Drake Bishop and Sparks Dangerously.
Garth slapped himself gently on the side of the head.
He had more important things to deal with right then. Self-flagellation was some
thing better done with the lights off.
The drones continued moving smoothly through the AoA, invisible, unheard, unnoticed.
***
Cherry was beginning to hate waiting. Even with Zigg burning her veins until they gleamed under her skin like blood red neon tubes, waiting was beginning to wear her nerves thin, thin, thin. She hadn’t had a good and proper fight in an eternity now and her and the drug wanted to beat on someone until they bled. Or she bled. Or they both bled. It didn’t matter to her, so long as the violence breathing through every pore in her body had a chance to be displayed for the world to see.
Besides which, she was curious, oh so curious, to see how she’d fare now, against one of the more chronic users. Billy Bladebrains, maybe, or Sam the Ketchup. It was whispered that those two had been using Zigg for so long now that they could actually go days and days and days without needing to top up, that somehow, some strange way, they’d changed.
Cherry felt like she’d changed. She really did. But there was no way to know. Not really. Sure, the drug that appeared in her pockets every day felt stronger, left a strange … spicy taste in the back of her throat, and sure, the burning thoughts that raged in her for hours after each hit felt different…
There was no way of knowing if that just wasn’t the drug doing it’s thing or if she really was different until she got into a fight. Because that’s how things were measured when you took Ziggurat. No other way mattered.
But she was stuck here, on the streets, with Senator and the others. Wombag … none of them had seen Wombag since he’d managed to get onto the property. Cherry could feel him out there, skulking around, but that was it. She knew he was doing the right thing by staying hidden, because she’d learned from some of the workmen as they wandered around on their lunch breaks that they didn’t like all the new security measures.
Cherry had no idea what ‘biometric scanners’ meant beyond the fact that it didn’t sound like a good thing. It sounded like the sort of thing that’d make it super difficult for Wombag to get back out, to give them the kind of information they really needed in order to kill Garth Nickels that much sooner.
