Decimation Island

by Damien Boyes

  “Then why come?” she asks. “I drew the short straw and I have to be here, but I don’t see a gun to your head.”

  “You know Dub, right?”

  She wiggles her head, noncommittal. “Only a little.”

  “Once you do, you’ll understand. I met him in restoration counseling, back before the Gladiators, when he was fighting in unsanctioned basement matches. I was in a bad place, and he helped me out, so when he asked me to do him a favor and come tonight in his place, I couldn’t say no. And believe me, I tried.”

  The anxiety’s got me talking fast. I haven’t said that much all at once since I can’t remember when.

  “And why was he so insistent?”

  “Two reasons,” I say, my lips working on their own. “He thinks I spend too much time in my head, hiding away from the world, and thought a little forced socialization would do me some good—like immunotherapy for the soul.”

  She shakes her head. “You do everything you’re told?”

  “Not usually,” I say. “But that brings me to the second reason.”

  “Which is?”

  I hesitate, then just go for it. “You.”

  Her face hardens as she steps back, putting distance between us. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  I raise my hands in immediate submission. “Only that Dub said you’d be here by yourself, and that you’d be miserable, and he figured we could be miserable together. He felt guilty, you being here on your own.”

  I know Dub wanted his name kept out of it, but at this point I’ve got no other cards to play. Besides, a half truth is better than any lie.

  “So this is, what? A setup? I don’t give a shit who he is, I don’t need Ari Dubecki playing matchmaker.”

  “No, no,” I shake my head. “It’s not like that. More like someone you could stand beside and scowl at all this nonsense in silence with.”

  “Well, thanks, but you can fuck off home now, and you can tell Dub to stay out of my business. I don’t need anyone to look out for me.” She looks up and out at the crowd. “Now it’s time for you to find somewhere else to stand.”

  Fine with me, I’m breathless and light headed as it is. Besides, I figure I’ve got what I came for. She’s miserable and pushing everyone away, but that doesn’t mean she’s up to something. It only means she’s broken, just like the rest of us. Dub should have sent Shelt instead. He’s the one she needs to talk to.

  “Fair enough,” I say, figuring we’re done here. “Nice to meet you—”

  I’m stepping away from the table when a sudden noise from outside on the patio stops me in my tracks. Then there’s a rattle of gunfire and the thunder of fast-moving fabric and three loud whomps like something hitting the ground at high speed.

  My stomach clenches as a black-clad figure strides in through the patio’s wide doors, a compact assault rifle in each hand, and fires them into the ceiling, drawing everyone’s attention. The bullets smack off the inside of the bulletproof glass and the room’s buzz shifts an octave toward panic as the band squeaks to a halt. The guests on the other side of the ballroom still don’t know what’s going on, but those closest are retreating, pushing back toward the lobby doors.

  “This,” he yells, “is a robbery!” His face is hidden behind a mirrored black visor and his accent is shaved flat. He could be anyone, but no doubt he’s reszo. Two more follow him in, just as anonymous, both strapped up and armored, guns raised, ready to rock. They’re each running double fisted, like the leader.

  There wasn’t much visible security earlier, but lawbots have already appeared and are stalking toward the intruders from the lobby, and a few grey-suited guests have drawn weapons and are swimming upstream against the crowd.

  The lead guy sees them coming. “Anyone allergic to high-speed tungsten should hit the deck in three…two…”

  I crouch even though the high table won’t be much cover, and glance up at Anika. She hasn’t budged. Doesn’t so much as flinch as the bullets fly, only lifts her glass and takes a sip of her drink, watching it all go down.

  The screams start the instant after the firing does, as the security and the invaders open up on each other. Half the crowd hits the floor while those nearest the doors surge harder toward the lobby. Even though most of the people in here are immortal and not in any real danger of dying—at most they’d lose any memories not secured at the brain bank—their bodies are super expensive, and getting shot still hurts.

  I glance back up at Anika again. What’s she waiting for? A gunfight’s popping off not twenty meters from us and she hasn’t moved, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Instead she just stands there and watches, ignoring the flying bullets like she’s certain nothing could ever hurt her.

  AniK@

  67:32:16 // 54 Players Remain.

  “You’re from Mississippi, yeah?” Linker’s voice whispers out of the darkness as you creep through the black jungle night. “Biloxi?”

  You’ve been moving for hours but haven’t gone far. Skipping though the jungle in careful spurts is the safest way to travel, but doesn’t cover much ground. The stars are bright powder across the sky when they peek through the canopy, but that doesn’t happen often, and there’s no moon. Fireflies flicker in the air and bioluminescent flowers glow on the jungle floor, but still you can barely see. A low-light perq would be useful right about now.

  “Alabama,” you correct him. “Mobile.”

  You and Linker don’t talk much, but you’re good with that. Mindless chitchat is the hardest part about teaming with randos. The kid’s cool though, not too annoying. You’d never be best friends but there’s a give and take. He knows the game and wants to win and you figure you can trust him, might even be able to keep together for a few games if you both survive this one.

  “Close though,” he says. “I had a cousin in Biloxi. Rachel. She came to live with us in Nashville after the floods got too bad down there. You remind me of her a little, your accent anyway.”

  Your throat catches in a momentary blaze of anxiety as Foster Mother’s face scowls at you from out of the darkness. The floods ruined your life too, left you in the care of the foster system. If only you’d had a cousin to live with, who knows what might have been different?

  Though, then you wouldn’t be here. As bad as it was, it made you who you are.

  “Were you close?” you ask after a moment, and you’re relieved when your voice sounds relatively normal. Even after all this time you still have the occasional nightmare where you’re sent back to the foster system.

  “Nah,” he replies. “She was older, ran away not too long after. Haven’t heard from her since.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Going on a decade now,” he says, his voice even softer.

  You both know what that means, most likely anyway, and the conversation dries up.

  A moment later a tropical bird squawks out a warning from the trees close by, and you both drop low, holding your breath, hearts racing and weapons ready, but nothing else follows but the nighttime quaver of jungle insects you pick yourselves up and resume walking.

  “You don’t sound like you’re from Tennessee,” you say a few minutes later. As much as you usually hate it, a little mindless convo doesn’t seem so bad right now, gives you something other than what’s going on back home to think about while you creep through the darkness.

  “Had it removed first chance I could,” he says. “I thought it made me sound like a hick, but I’m kinda regretting it now. At least I had some character, you know? Now I come off like a Canadian news reader.”

  You muffle a laugh, because that’s exactly what he sounds like—like he’s from nowhere in particular. “Nah,” you say, “give yourself a little credit—you could pass for a Californian math teacher, no problem.”

  “Oh thanks,” he replies, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Much better.”

  It’s a good thing you’re getting along, because you’ve still got thirty-two hours lef
t together, and who knows how many more after that. With a solid duo you could recruit a third and a fourth and stick together for a while. You don’t want to jinx it, but so far things are looking good.

  Now’s the time to start thinking about next moves. The zone is shrinking, seems to be collapsing toward Sky Temple Ruin. The question now is, should you abandon the protection of the bots and head deeper into the safe-zone, where you’re sure to run into more players but might find a compound to defend and turtle up in for the endgame, or keep with the plan and stick to the zone edge?

  “We could head down to the coast,” Linker says, almost as if he’s reading your mind. You’ve been keeping a low profile for a long time and you’re both getting antsy. “Troll through some of the trash spots and see if we can loot something good.”

  “Either we run a hotspot or we keep with what we’re doing. Not worth exposing ourselves for crap.”

  He’s itching for some action, and you know exactly how he feels. The constant desire for better gear is instinctual, one of the driving forces in Decimation Island. It’s hard to resist the urge to check one more hut, loot more crate, down one more bot. Maybe you’ll find a top-tier item, something to leverage for a deeper spot in the game.

  By the time hour eighty rolls around there are usually still forty or so players left standing, and most of them have found at least one legendary weapon like the Redeemer, or maybe a chameleon cloak or a full CEA suit, and some have two or three. Almost everyone has upgraded their skyn with muscle unlocks and tactical perqs. By hour ninety the remaining players are killing machines who can turn invisible and see through walls.

  The problem with getting geared so well so early is the mid-game drag. It’s necessary, you get that—the game skyns heal fast, but not instantly. Players need time to recover from their wounds between hitting hotspots and picking fights. And while the kill zone is always closing, pushing players toward each other, sometimes it feels like it takes forever. Sixty-seven hours and four kills in and you’re already jonesing for the end. But you’re in a good spot. No need to push it. This is only the beginning, there’s plenty of hours left ahead of you.

  You’ve taken turns cycling through your rest time so you don’t have that to worry about. One of the sneaky game rules is you can’t rest in the PVP-free areas—that’d be too easy, just close your eyes and power down where no one can hurt you. After all, the game wants sleep to be dangerous, and while having a partner makes resting more reliable, resting is a gamble, even when teamed.

  Linker could blow your head off while you’re unconscious—team killing is always a valid tactic—but he’d be marked hostile, and his position made visible on the game map for two hours. Anyone who wanted a free kill could come clean him up. It’s a play usually reserved for the last minute, when there are only a few players left and bots are closing in and you’ve got nothing left to lose. For now, you’re better off together, and you both know it.

  “Saigon Farm?” Linker suggests. “We can scout it out and if the coast is clear raid the stockades, load up on go juice. We’ve got good gear but our skyns are still stock.”

  Staying quiet has worked so far, but the tension is gnawing at you, and with your skyns beefed up with the muscle enhancers you’d have an edge once things get tight.

  Everything in you wants to fight. You didn’t come here to keep your head down, and so far you’ve only come across one team of four and a solo. You took out the solo, but she was playing the edge game too and didn’t have anything worth taking, and you shut your mouths and ran in the other direction when you spotted the four-man.

  Neither you or Linker were interested in a four-v-two fight in the middle of the jungle. Way too easy to get outflanked. But your audience has been dwindling over the past day, and keeping them on your side is the only way to get the good sponsored loot.

  “Saigon Farm,” you repeat, mulling the idea over. Might not be such a bad idea. It’s still in the safe-zone but won’t be for long. Down on the south coast the jungle gives way to grasslands for a short stretch before it hits the beach. The sightlines will be good, Linker could use the Redeemer to scan for hostiles, make sure the area is clear before you loot the outlying farms. And the movement speed increase you’ll get from the go juice will come in handy. “You’d finally get a chance to whip out that beast on your back.”

  “Oh God, I want to get a kill with it,” he purrs. “Hear it bark, just once.” Like everyone else who’s devoted their lives to this game, he’s got a thirst for violence, and not getting to use that one-shotter on his back is eating him alive.

  “Well, let’s go make that happen,” you say. “Then we can kill some time in the farm hub and decide on our next move.”

  “Fuck yes!” Linker says, and springs ahead with new purpose. You’ve got probably ten hours before things get spicy. Might as well make the most of them.

  GAGE, FINSBURY

  22:17:45 // 5-JUL-2059

  “Get down!” I hiss from under the table. My thoughts stutter as a spike of adrenaline batters against the brakes in my Cortex, but I’ve still got sense enough to duck when shooting starts.

  Anika glances down at me, as though she forgot I was even here, and rolls her eyes.

  “I want to see what happens,” she says. Is she so far gone she isn’t worried about catching a stray?

  “You can see from down here,” I say, jutting my hand out at the nearby female attacker just as she whips around and catches a charging bot with a long burst from her weapons.

  Anika rolls her eyes but crouches down beside me, still holding her champagne.

  “Better?” she asks.

  “Much,” I reply. “I just got this suit, I don’t need you bleeding all over it.”

  She flicks me an odd look but just takes another sip from her glass.

  After two more back and forth volleys of fire the shooting stops and a hush falls over the room. The fighting lasted only seconds. The internal security is down, and the attackers are barely breathing hard. Reinforcements will be here in moments, but for now we’re trapped.

  Why does this shit keep happening to me? I was in the middle of a gun fight just two days ago.

  Chaddah’s right, I’m a trouble magnet. I should have just stayed home.

  As I’m mulling my bad luck, the lead guy strides into the center of the room, waving his guns around. He’s putting on a show. He does a little twirl, then grabs one of the musician’s microphones.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he croons, “no cause for alarm. We’re here for the flesh, we intend you no harm.”

  “Nerd,” the other male attacker calls, and the female laughs.

  “For the loot,” the leader cries. “And the lulz!”

  “And the beerz!” the other male adds.

  The leader spins around. “What do you mean ‘beerz’?” he asks, the humor shaved from his voice. “Who said anything about beerz?”

  “Loot, lulz, and beerz,” the guy says, defensive. “Like you said.”

  “I didn’t say ‘beerz,’” the leader says, agitated, then spins back toward the crowd. “Loot and lulz,” he yells, as if trying to make sure everyone understands. “That’s it. No beerz. I don’t even like beerz.”

  “Would you two knock it off,” the female voice scolds. “Half the cops in the city will be here any second and you two are out here trolling.”

  “Okay, Mom,” the leader says, and they all laugh, just kids clowning, but then he flicks his head and they go to work, moving with purpose. The female heads straight toward the arena skyns while the male runs back outside and ferries in four bags they must have dropped in with, then joins the female at the platforms.

  The balls on these guys—they’re going for the arena skyns. I get why they’d want to, with the tech they’re packing, the Gladiator skyns are worth hundreds of millions on the black market. Each. Drop one into a country and kill the population of a small city kind of expensive. But how the hell do they plan on hauling those skyns back o
ut?

  The building is surrounded by well-armed bots and security, and they’ll all be rushing in here. The cops’ll be on their way, with TAC teams trained specifically to handle souped-up reszos. Even if these guys are running that Killr shyft, they’ll be way outnumbered.

  Plus, the overrides won’t even let the arena skyns off the platforms. Do they plan on hefting the skyns on their backs and running away with them? No way they get out of here.

  A moment later the woman stops in front of one of the platforms and points her thumb at a pale-skinned duo with ice-blond hair and crystal blue eyes that look like Nordic brother and sister twins. “These two.”

  “They sure are pretty,” the guy says, then they take seats in demo chairs and after a second their skyns go slack as they cast into the two arena upgrades.

  Up on the platform the female skyn rolls her new, slender shoulders then leaps up, clears two meters off the surface, and lands without a sound. Her face splits into a wide grin and she looks across at her partner. “Zeef!” she shouts, then jumps and flips twice in the air before landing in a splayed crouch like a dancer.

  The male seems just as happy. He’s running the skyn in circles, taking long, looping strides, like a caged tiger. Then he stops and she steps up to him and grabs him by the back of the head and pulls him into a long, wet-tongued kiss.

  Beside me Anika makes a little retching noise and I feel the same way.

  “And release,” the lead guy says, and the skyns break their kiss, grab each other’s hands, and leap off the platform.

  Oh, shit. That’s not supposed to happen.

  They suit up from the gear they carried in with them, zipping the near naked skyns into simple black jumpsuits and arming themselves with assault rifles, with extra ammo strapped on belts around their chests, then it’s the leader’s turn to pick.

  He heads straight for a pair of a densely muscled skyns with photoo-covered, light brown skin, dark wavy hair, yellow eyes, and perfect white teeth—like lab-grown Maori warriors. He sits in the demo unit and casts into the male, then spends a second up on the platform stroking his thick beard and gazing out over the crowd before jumping off.