by Brindi Quinn
I felt my fists ball. Prolonged tracking wasn’t something I ever wanted my Marker to earn; not that I was keen on having him learn any additional details about my life, either.
“How do we earn the points?” I asked.
The man moved around a table, over which a vacant-eyed girl was leaning. Judging by the blue glow on her hand and her lack of tattoos, she was a prag, but I didn’t recognize her. Someone from another class? I thought. There were thousands of people at the University. I couldn’t very well expect every prag I came across to be an ex-classmate. What was more, she looked . . . old. No, that wasn’t quite right. She merely looked older than me. How long, I wondered, had she been at this?
Dwelling on it was depressing, though.
“The implant monitors you. Your heart rate, your location, yada yada,” said the man. “Points are awarded to prags based on distance traveled, speed traveled, distance maintained from the Marker, and maintenance of heart rate. Travel quick, travel far, and remain calm. That’s how you earn the most points. Of course, there are other . . . tasks posted on bulletin screens like this one.” The man stopped at the back of the room beside a large touchscreen mounted to the wall and began paging through its menus, swiping his finger listlessly along the bottom of the screen. “Each waystation has one. To accept a task, select one from the screen, and then scan your hand. Once the task is completed, points will register on your account. As you can see, there’s everything from tracking down beasts to exploring ruins.”
The sick feeling I’d felt since entering the building intensified. “Y . . .” I swallowed my anger. “You’re saying prags have time to run errands?” I said.
The man chuckled. “The first day is always riveting with excitement. I’ve heard it gets easier, crumpet. Prags and Markers develop a rhythm. Keep in mind that he won’t always be chasing you, either. Sometimes, he’ll be in need of SPs, just as you will, and he might leave you be for a bitty bit.”
But I wasn’t calmed by mustached man’s words; I was fumed.
“Moreover, who are we supposedly running these errands for?” I asked through my teeth.
“The Directors. Requests come from both Eastern City and Western City.”
So the west had a Director too, one that watched over his ‘darlings’ and sent them out into the wilds when it was time? Or maybe theirs was a woman. Either way, it was sick and cruel. Since we were out here already, they may as well put us to work – was that what they figured?
Running dangerously out of patience, I squeezed the straps of my backpack with murderous intent. I wasn’t usually a hotheaded person, but something about the twentieth year markings had always rubbed me the wrong way. A black flower . . . a pink flower . . . playing sacrifice for the sake of the unholy ones’ pleasure . . . I needed this man to finish his spiel quickly, lest I act out and get kicked out of the first safehouse I’d found.
“Now, now, no need for that sour face, crumpet. You don’t have to take on a single task if you don’t want to. They’re simply there as a means to earn more SPs for those coming up short.” The man turned away from the screen and motioned for me to follow him to a door, which I did, loosing up the grip on my backpack strap only slightly. He placed his hand on the middle of the door, and it responded by letting out a hiss and sliding into a pocket in the ground.
I was angry, holding myself back from shouting at the apathetic man, but the sight of what lay beyond the door made those feelings fall.
“This is the watering hole,” the man explained.
The room was bright and white and without the obnoxious strobing of the adjacent hall. The door was heavy enough to block out much of the music too, which, though a welcome change, made everything now seem unnaturally quiet. The room was split into two equal parts by a short divider. In one section, a few spouts jutted from the wall.
“For now, you have limited water access, so you may only use that side,” said the man, gesturing to the spouts. “Swipe your hand beneath the scanner next to one of the spigots and water will pour from the tap. You may change the heat settings on the access pad above the spout. Fill whatever travel containers you have, and drink your fill while you’re here. Try it now.”
I was glad to do so. The last of my canteen water had diminished on the way to the safehouse. Shaking, I scanned my hand on the pad beside one of the stations. The screen above the faucet blinked. I selected ‘cold,’ and the spout instantly puttered with clean, cool water. I gulped it down until my stomach hurt, and when I was done, I filled my canteens before tapping the screen to shut it off.
The mustached man grinned at me. “Seems like you’ve got the hang of it. While it IS possible to find clean water in the outlands, the spots aren’t easy to get to. You may also drink the rain of the outlands. However, take heed: Though it’ll save you from dehydration, it’ll make your stomach reel. Of course, there are pills you may buy with your SPs to combat the sickness. That’s what many do.”
The system in place was more elaborate than I’d ever thought. And for what? So that Markers could have as long and fulfilling of a game as possible, I guessed.
I gritted my teeth. “What about those,” I asked, pointing to the opposite side of the room, where a few shower faucets hung over stalls circled by plastic sheeting.
“Unless you unlock full access, those are off-limits for you. Putting your hand under the scanner won’t do any good, either, crumpet. No cheating. And before you ask how to get access, I don’t know. Those things are rarely used. This way.” With a flick of his wrist, he ushered me back out into the loud strobe hall. He wasn’t one for lagging, apparently.
Down the wall, there was another door, beyond it a long stretch of hallway with sleek doors on either side. “These are resting chambers,” the man continued. “Each one has a pod. The moment you enter a pod, you’ll be put to restful sleep for a preset amount of time. These will allow you to restore stamina, fight fatigue, and recover from impending illness. However, I advise that you only use them when you’ve stored up at least five hours of rest time. When you entered Zelpha, you had just over two and a half, correct? And that number’s obviously ticked down since then.”
“Rest time is consumed just by being in here?” I asked, my stomach sinking disobediently. “What happens when I run out?”
“The mark will start to flash green, giving you a five-minute warning. If you don’t leave before then, you’ll be escorted from the premises. Now then, through here.” The man smiled and motioned me again into the hall.
I was mulling over all that he’d told me so far, attempting to grow accustomed to my new way of life as quickly as possible; the quicker the better, if I had any hope of winning this game – which I intended to do. “It doesn’t matter how far I get from my Marker,” I said aloud, as I worked through it. “Whenever I’m in a waystation, he’ll have all the opportunity to catch up to me.” That meant I’d never be able to get far from him unless I gave up waystations altogether.
I found it frustrating.
The man moved through the dancing lights. “That’s where SPs come in handy. Your tracker turns off when you’re in a waystation, and it remains off for at least a half hour after you leave, quintessentially giving you a headstart. However, you may use SPs to buy decoys that send off fake signals. That way, while you’re resting, your signal will move on to a spot of your choosing, tricking your Marker into thinking you’ve gone ahead. Keep in mind, though, that once the decoy wears off, your actual location will be shown again.” The man put his hand against the last door. “Through here.”
“There are many rules,” I muttered.
“Not really. But there are MANY tools available for purchase, both for prags and for Markers. There are even deactivators that can render a tracker useless for an entire day. It’s a good idea to have an arsenal of tricks up your sleeve. Whenever you find yourself with extra SPs, purchase something random. You never know when it might keep you from getting caught. Which brings us to this–”
/> The last room housed a neat row of boxy machines, ten in total.
“These are vendors,” the man said, stepping into the room. “The one on the end, the one painted different than the rest, is a meal wagon. You’ve got a meal ticket on your account. They start everyone off with one. The meal wagon has two or three meal options at any given time. The food comes frozen, but don’t worry, the machine will thaw it out for you. Again, it’s possible to find food in the outlands, but until you learn the lay of the land, work to stock up meal tickets. They’re earned based on performance, so keep your fighting neat, and so on.” The man patted the front of one of the machines. “The rest sell different things, so look through them when you’ve got time, but with only 26 SPs, there’s not much you can get today. I recommend saving your points and coming back in the future if you want to shop.”
I studied the machines. One sold gloves. Another sold something called ‘gambits.’
The man gave a hearty clap. “Well, that’s all I can tell you for now, crumpet. Have a meal, and use whatever rest time you’ve got left to plan your exit strategy. There are noise-cancelling headphones available for rent in the de-railing room if you need quiet to think, and there’s a clock scanner out there, too, if you’re curious about how much rest time you’ve got left. If you have questions, come find me or one of the others, but keep in mind that no one will give you more advice than I just did. You’re meant to figure out the rest on your own.” With that, the man gave his mustache a twiddle before stepping from the room.
In the aftermath, I stood and stared at the row of machines.
The world was much more complex of a place than I’d ever guessed. For the first time, I understood why this was called a game.
Chapter 8: Theo
The food wagon’s pickings were slim. I decided on a pocket of bread stuffed with meat product and something crunchy. Because I didn’t realize just how hungry I was until the warm slop filled my mouth, I scarfed it down and then wished I had another. True, I had a few rations stored in my backpack, taken with from Eastern City, but I intended to save those for as long as possible. I patted my stomach and allowed the last too-large bites to slide into place. Then, I browsed the other vendors. The man was right. 26 SP wasn’t much to speak of. The lowest gambit was 200 SPs, something called 5-Min Halt. I selected it from the touch screen.
“5 Minute Halt,” a robotic voice responded. “When in place, the target must not move from his or her position for five minutes. Penalty for disobedience: If disobeyed, a shock will be sent through the mark, rendering the target partially paralyzed for twice the duration of the gambit’s original length. Indicator: When in play, the target’s mark will flash the following sequence: Blue, Red, Red, Red, Red, Red.” An animated picture accompanied the voice, depicting a grisly example of the gambit, in which the ‘target’ disobeyed, lost control of his legs, and was made to crawl away from an incoming Marker.
Beside the vendor, there was a stack of pamphlets. I picked one up and leafed through – an informational glossary of gambits and their indicators. There were dozens of combinations, too many to memorize in my limited remaining rest time. If my hand started to blink, I’d need to know how to decipher the sequence, so I pocketed the brochure. “For now, let’s just hope the unholy one isn’t stocking up on SPs,” I muttered to myself.
I paged through the catalogues on the other machines’ screens. Some contained medical supplies, while others offered supplements of varying nature. With my limited SPs, I could choose from a second roll of gauze, a vitamin packet, or a TUM-EX – a pill to even the stomach after consumption of rainwater. That was the thing the mustached man had mentioned. I purchased one for 25 SP before settling in the corner of the room and hugging my knees to my chest.
I was strong, and I was fast, maybe even the fastest, but . . .
The reality of everything was sinking in. From now on, my life would be this. Constant movement, scrounging for supplies, never truly at ease . . . and it would only end in death, his or mine. I closed my eyes and pictured the icy stare of my predator searching for me through the darkness and wondered where he was now. If he’d traveled in the wrong direction after leaving the city, he’d surely corrected his path by now. That was the consequence of the tracker.
Running and hiding, that was easy, but having my location revealed to the enemy at random intervals was a devastating disadvantage, unfairly so. “Argh!” I kicked my heel into the ground. I needed a plan, and I needed one fast. I’d go back into the hall and see if any of the other prags were conscious enough lend their aid. If I knew where another waystation was, I could set that as my goal. I’d ask around, I’d barter if I had to, but first, I’d sit in thought for a just a few more minutes.
. . .
HISSSSSSSS. Those few minutes were nearly up when I heard the steaming sound of the door opening.
I looked up to find a grungy boy in a dark sweatshirt. “Oh,” he said when he saw me, “hey.” His eyes skimmed over me quickly before backtracking, and again he said, “Heeey! You’re REALLY clean! You wouldn’t, by any chance, happen to have full water access, would you?!”
The boy’s tone was perky. His eyes were, too. They were bright and large and a sweet, innocent shade of brown. His hair was dark, but I couldn’t tell if it was naturally that way or because of the dirt speckled over his body. I scrambled to my feet. “Are you–?” I started. He wasn’t wearing a black jumpsuit, but I’d already considered that it would be very easy for Markers to change their apparel after starting the chase. One of the vendor machines even offered clothing. I couldn’t detect any tattooed markings below the boy’s eyes, either, though it was hard to tell behind the dirt of his face. I flicked my eyes to his right hand, which was covered by a thick glove of hide.
He followed my eyes – “Oh!” – then pulled off the glove. A blue glow emitted from his hand.
“You’re like me,” I said, relieved.
“Yup, sure am. Doesn’t really matter in here, though. Markers can’t bother us prags in the waystations, and even if they could, they wouldn’t bother any prag but their own. Markers are that way, you know?” I didn’t know. The boy could tell. “Or maybe you don’t . . .” he said, voice trailing. Chin in hand, he squinted at me. “Wait a minute . . . you’re new, aren’t you?”
It was that obvious? I looked down at my own sand-stained clothing. By comparison, I supposed I did look very, very clean.
The boy went on, “You got the eyes of a fighter, and also the build, but you also have something–” He walked right up to me and tipped his head to the side. “Right there.” He put his finger squarely in the space between my eyes. I leaned away from it. I wasn’t one to welcome the touch of a stranger. Regardless, the boy left his finger there and proclaimed, “You’re lost.”
I was lost? Yes, I was directionless, but even if it was true, pride wouldn’t let me admit it. Still, my rest time was quickly dwindling away, and I’d been hoping to find someone to milk for information. I dipped around his hand, which remained there, pointing at the corner, and brushed myself off, before starting in: “How long have you been at this? Do you know where the other waystations are? What about food and water? The man at the front said it’s possible to find resources in the wilds, but he didn’t say where. Also, how is the quickest, most efficient way to earn SPs? And how many of us are out here? I always assumed there wouldn’t be many. I thought people died right away, but judging from that room out there, some people have been at it for a long time, maybe even months.”
The boy finally moved his point from the corner and to his own mouth. Again, he tipped his head to the side and tapped his bottom lip twice, before bursting out in laughter. “Months?” he said. “Try years. Some of the longest-running people even have agreements set up with their Markers, that they’ll only participate on certain days of the week.”
“. . . Honestly?” I asked.
I couldn’t tell if he was kidding.
The boy nodded. “Yup, yup.
Those are the pairs that are so evenly matched it’s laughable. They can’t keep it up constantly for all that time, so they both come to an understanding. Of course, cases like those are mondo rare. Most people would give up and surrender themselves before getting to that point, and lots of people don’t last more than a few months, some as few as weeks, and every now and then, there’s a poor sap that putters out in the first few days and doesn’t even make it to their first waystation. Hey, at least you’ve got those guys beat!”
I didn’t see that as cause for celebration.
The boy glanced at my hand. “How long you got left in here?”
Not very.
The boy read my expression. “I see,” he said. “I’ll hurry. You’re new, but HOW new?”
I swallowed. I found it embarrassing to admit that it was only my first day.
The boy squinted. “Fiiiifth day?” he said delicately.
I said nothing.
“Siiiixth?” he guessed.
I shook my head, cleared my throat and very quietly said, “First.”
“No way.”
“It is.”
“Get out.”
His disbelief got to me quickly. It made me feel even more self-conscious than I already did. I showed him my teeth. “It’s my first day. I left the city this afternoon.”
He blinked at me, as belief dawned over his grubby face. “And you made it all the way HERE?! Hell! You must be fast as fuck, but why’d you come this way? The easiest way out of the city is to the east. That’s where most people go.”
“I didn’t want the easiest way. I wanted the one with the biggest advantage,” I said.
“Dang. You’re all tactical and stuff, too? Well, if you’d gone the other way, there are loads of symbols left to help out newbies. Must’ve been hard for you out this way.”
It had been. And now I felt foolish. If I’d taken an easy, obvious route, my journey might not have been so perilous.
