by J Bennett
“Like an alliance?”
“Yeah, maybe. We can watch each other’s back.” His voice is growing softer, as if his courage is quickly running out.
Thwack! Mermaid delivers another blow to the unfortunate tree. I study Sequoia. Alliances are treacherous, dangerous things, but they can also be useful… as long as you trust the right person.
I hold out my hand to Sequoia. “An alliance,” I say.
It’s a risk. A big one. But I recognize that he’s taking a risk, too, as he envelopes my hand in his own. We shake on it just as the clock ticks down to the last 30 seconds. The contestants crowd near the holo-screen, Mermaid and her big stick in front. I notice that Lysee and her new friend now also wield smaller sticks.
The last second slips away. The screen shines white for a moment, and then a code appears.
MRT GO!
We glance around, searching for the unfortunate bearer of that code. I catch movement, and Gold moves through the crowd toward the path. A slight expression of concern ripples across his face. It’s never a good thing to go first. You become the guinea pig. A few other contestants smile, relieved that they weren’t chosen.
Gold lifts his head and puts a breezy expression on his face. His code blinks on the holo-screen now, the background red. I notice that his Band is also blinking.
“First to start, first to finish,” he says as he makes it to the front. As soon as he jogs past the Pod and hits the path, his code disappears from the screen, replaced by a clock counting down from five minutes.
Sequoia and I look at each other as we come to the same conclusion: We’re starting individually, and whoever starts first won’t know how far back the second one is.
So much for our little alliance.
“We can keep an eye out for each other,” I say to him.
He nods.
The clock ticks down again and again. As I watch each new contestant sprint down the path and out of sight, my own impatience climbs. At least the day’s warming up, and I’m not shivering anymore. More contestants tromp into the woods and find sticks to whack against trees. I stretch my muscles, trying to stay limber, trying not to think too much about what’s on the trail.
Sequoia’s code comes up fifth.
“It’s a good position,” I tell him as we walk toward the path. “There won’t be a lot of others on the trail to get in your way.” His name is beginning to blink. “Don’t go out too hot,” I remind him. “Be aware of your surroundings.”
He nods and gives me a wan smile. The sun is already beginning to cook his skin, turning it pink.
“Shining luck,” I say, and surprise myself by actually meaning it.
He looks back at me, his blue eyes sincere. “You, too.”
And then he’s off, disappearing around the curve with a measured, loping gate. We decided that his strategy would be a steady pace with a focus on overcoming obstacles quickly and cleanly. He won’t win any foot races with the other competitors, but if he can make it through the course without any major slowdowns, that should keep him in contention.
Ten minutes later, Lysee’s friend with the pink pigtails is called. She, like many of the others, takes off at a sprint, pigtails bouncing, canteen thumping against her hip.
Lysee and I wait together. She bobs from foot to foot, glaring suspiciously at the trees and leaves. “You don’t think there are wolves out there, do you?” she whispers to me as another competitor races away.
I shake my head as I bend down to touch my toes. The crippling heatwaves that swamp the Midwest every few years have stripped our forests of larger wild animals. “All we need to contend with are squirrels and raccoons,” I tell my roommate. “Unless they ship wolves in, but I doubt they have the budget for that.”
Lysee nods but doesn’t seem soothed.
Five minutes later, I’m in the middle of yet another quad stretch, when my code appears on the screen.
I blow out a long breath as my heart begins to pound. I’m the ninth competitor. Still in the top third of the pack. This is a good spot. And I’m only 20 minutes behind Sequoia.
Lysee’s expression pinches in frustration when she sees my code appear on the holo-screen. I know she doesn’t want to be left behind, but she grabs my hands in hers and squeezes tight.
“I told the Universe that you are iconic,” she tells me. “Shining luck!”
I nod and give her an encouraging smile. “Shining luck to you, too.”
As I walk to the path, I keep my head held high, shoulders back. I want the others to see that I’m not afraid, not nervous, but I especially want the cams to record this. In the end, the only opinions that matter are those of the conniving, soulless producers watching from the other side of the lenses.
I pass my code. A timer appears on my Band’s screen, counting up. I pull in one more deep breath and take off down the path at a brisk jog.
Chapter 10
Just moisturizer every night and eight hours of sleep. Fighting for justice is the only anti-aging intervention I need.
Beacon, Interview with Reena Masterson
The trail winds gently through the forest. My legs warm with each step, and I fall into a comfortable gait, only hampered by the canteen banging against my leg. The protein bar is safely stored down the front of my sports bra.
The Band on my wrist emits a small holo-screen that switches between the stopwatch and a number: 0.
What does the number mean? Is it a score? Even as I pon this, my ears and eyes strain to catch any signs of danger. The producers could have concocted just about anything out here. Will some robo-demon come bursting out of the woods?
“They don’t have the budget for that,” I mutter to myself.
I hear only the sounds of my shoes thudding on the trail, the steady whoosh of my breath. A glint in the trees makes me tense in anticipation, but it’s only a cam strapped to a limb, partially concealed by the leaves.
You are always being watched, I remind myself, and make sure my game face is still on. Stoic, I chant silently. Show them you are strong, fearless, and smart. You are the everyday girl hero… er, henchman.
The path takes me down a steep embankment. I think of Lysee and her tall boots as I scramble among clods of rock and dirt. Just past the embankment, I encounter the first obstacle. A short wall, around hip height, sits squarely in the middle of the path. Its mottled gray color and flaky exterior clearly show that it was 3D printed from one of those cheapo cartridges of rough, recycled plastic.
I could simply go around the wall, but I know that’s not the point. Without breaking my stride, I plant my hands on top of the wall and swing my legs over.
My Band vibrates. The number 0 changes to 1.
It is a point system. My mind works through the possibilities as I jog forward down the path. Do we get extra points for clearing the obstacle on the first try? What would have happened if I’d tried to go around the wall? Does the point tally change based on how well we get through the obstacles?
I don’t even have time to guess at answers before another wall stands in my path. This one rises noticeably taller than the first, reaching just above my head. I pause this time to study it and then look around, noting the small cam affixed to a nearby tree limb. There’s prob a cam at each obstacle to record our triumphs and our highly amusing flops.
No viral fail here, I think to the cam.
I tilt my chin up, smile a little, and then run at the wall. Planting my steps purposefully, I reach the wall, leap, and grasp the edge. Using my momentum, I swing my leg up and over. I dangle like that for an uncomfortable second before I manage to shimmy my body up and over, sliding down the other side and landing, more or less steadily.
My Band vibrates. Six points. Canny.
I’m starting to download the situation — we earn a different point tally for each obstacle. Must be based on the difficulty.
My fingers throb from clinging to the ledge, but I feel myself smiling. My adrenaline is up as I press my pace a little
harder. The air is warm, and a bead of sweat trickles down my back. I run through bands of shade, feel the wind touch my cheek, and hear a pretty birdsong in the distance. Ironic how people pay good Loons for VR environments just like this when it’s right here.
The path curves, and all my nature zen goes belly up. A wall looms square in the middle of the path, rising high over my head, probably seven feet tall. For someone like Sequoia, this wouldn’t present much of a challenge. For me, it might as well be Mt. Everest.
I’m not the only one who could use a pair of hover boots right about now.
Lysee’s friend with the pink pigtails stands in front of the wall, a pout souring her pretty face. A smear of blood dries around a gash in her knee.
“It’s really tall,” Pigtails complains as I step up next to her and take a swig from my canteen.
“Yup,” I answer as I clap the lid back on the canteen. Then I sprint at the wall, pumping my arms, pressing each step into the ground as I pick up speed. As I reach the monster, I leap for all I’m worth. My fingertips brush the top, and then I’m sliding back down, stumbling to catch myself so that I don’t end up on my ass.
I gulp in air and turn to Pigtails. One of the press-on gems beneath her lips is peeling off.
“Have you tried to go around?” I ask.
She nods. “The Band lights up and all my points go away. They came back when I went back behind the wall.”
Blight! Does that mean game over, or can we begin accumulating points again by clearing future obstacles? How much longer is the path? What if these are the only three obstacles? I glance down at my Band and watch the seconds tick away.
I take another deep breath and charge at the wall again. I time my run just right and plant my foot on the wall, but instead of launching myself up as planned, I somehow end up pushing myself backwards and sprawling out on the dirt.
Pigtails makes a clucking sound. “That didn’t work,” she helpfully informs me.
Without betraying my frustration, I slowly stand, trying to manage a modicum of dignity. I walk close to the wall and study it. With enough practice, I’m sure I could hone my technique and get over it. But time is a resource I can’t afford to waste. It might be smarter to just cut my losses and go around. Hopefully I’ll be able to recoup the points on later obstacles.
The sound of fast-approaching steps breaks the stream of my thoughts. In a blur of bright pink, Mermaid flies past Pigtails. She doesn’t even stop to study the wall, but plunges ahead, arms pumping hard. I involuntarily flinch back from the wall as Mermaid charges at it, rivulets of blonde and blue hair flying behind her.
Like me, she plants a foot on the wall to give herself extra height. Unlike me, she doesn’t royally screw it up. She grabs the ledge with one hand, hefts her stick over to the other side, and then smoothly rolls over the ledge. I hear her land softly on the other side followed by the fast cadence of her retreating gait.
Damn. “You don’t think she’s a robo, do you?” I joke to Pigtails.
“She didn’t even let go of her stick,” Pigtails says, forlorn. I notice that her own makeshift weapon is nowhere to be found.
“Is it even legal for her to use that?” I ask, and kick at a tuft of dirt. A thought strikes me. They never said we couldn’t use sticks or rocks… or each other. I look at Pigtails.
“Help me get over the wall,” I tell her.
“What?”
“Then I’ll come back around and help you.”
I can almost see the chips firing in her brain as competing expressions of hope and doubt cross her face. “Will it work?”
“Why not?” I shrug. “And if it doesn’t, is it any worse than missing the obstacle, which we’re both going to do anyway?” I motion her to the wall. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”
She’s silent for a moment, and then her big brown eyes take on a cunning gleam.
“Boost me over first,” she says.
“Sure, you go first,” I agree, not missing a beat. She smiles and walks over. As soon as she turns to face me, I put my hands on her shoulders and bend my leg.
“Put your hands under my foot,” I instruct.
She automatically starts to follow my instructions. Gen 1 brain, this one.
“Wait, no, that’s not fair,” she stammers, but it’s too late. I shove my foot into her laced hands.
“Push up!” I call. She doesn’t really give me a good boost, but it’s enough for me to grip the edge of the wall. With a lot of desperate scrambling and a few unladylike grunts, I manage to roll over and drop heavily onto the other side. No glam in that, but my Band vibrates, giving me 15 fresh points.
“You’d better come back around,” Pigtails calls, her voice squeaking with worry. I glance down the trail as it continues forward through the trees. It would be so easy to leave Pigtails behind, but that doesn’t fit the character I’m going for. More importantly, it doesn’t fit me.
I hold my breath as I walk back around the wall, my eyes on my Band, silently praying that my points don’t evaporate. My score doesn’t change. The producers won’t penalize us for helping each other, at least not at this stage of the tryouts. Good to know.
As soon as I’m in place, Pigtails clamps her hands onto my shoulders as if to weld me in place so I won’t run away. I web my hands together and give her a boost. It takes her two slow and sloppy tries to make it over. I get a nice kick to the head in the process, but eventually she flops over and falls into a heap on the other side.
“Get your points?” I ask her as I stroll around the wall.
She looks at her Band and nods. “Thanks.” She slowly climbs to her feet, wiping at the dirt smeared on her skirt, then looks at me uncertainly, as if she can’t quite fathom why I didn’t cut and run.
“We might have to help each other again,” I explain, and take off down the path.
Over the next few kilometers, I clear obstacles with only minor difficulties. The rope swing from one platform to the next is a breeze. After one mishap, I realize the key to the laser field is to crawl under the web of rotating lasers. The mud pit is the worst. The wet earth grips my legs, sucking me down with each step.
Behind me, Pigtails curses as she slips. After I drag myself out of the mud and swipe thick, smelly glops of it off my legs, I notice an abandoned golden sneaker a few yards ahead.
Behind me, Pigtails emerges looking like a swamp monster. I bet the producers are grinning at the sight. She’s not exactly the happy girl-next-door type anymore, as a stream of profanities pours out of her mouth.
On we go. The sun sits high in the sky now, and sweat beads on my forehead. It’s difficult to judge the distance. Must be at least five kilometers by now. The lanky guy with the metal spike jutting out of his chin passes us, his long legs eating the distance with ease. He doesn’t acknowledge us as he lopes onward. I watch him grow smaller in the distance and focus on maintaining a steady pace, only taking short walking breaks to grab a sip from my canteen. Pigtails periodically sprints pass me, arms swinging, panting like a Gen 1 Anders 3D. Inevitably, I pass her a min later as she clutches her side and gasps for breath.
As I feel the drying mud tighten across my calves, the trail leads into a patch of brambles and disappears. My Band purrs with an incoming message. I tap the icon and stare at the roughly drawn map on the holo-screen.
“What is this?” Pigtails has made her way into the brambles and now stares at the glowing holo-map in confusion.
I glance up at the sky. First thing I need to do is fig what direction we’re moving so I can orient myself on the map.
“Sun rises in the east,” I tell Pigtails. I trace the path of the sun and then look down at the map again. It’s been years since I’ve done this. “According to this, we need to go southeast.” I turn myself in that direction.
Pigtails stares at me like I’ve performed sorcery. She probably doesn’t remember a day without a Band on her wrist or a cheerful Totem pointing the way to her destination with big, glowing arrows
.
“How do you know about directions and stuff?” she asks.
“I had to learn to read a map for a semi-reality show once.”
“Oh, really!” She steps closer to me. “Which one?”
I ignore her question and start moving, but my thoughts cast back ten years ago. The producers took our Bands and gave us a map made of thick paper. I can remember how it felt to hold, the smell of it. Alby and I would unfurl it a dozen times each day, our grubby fingers tracing the faint roads and trails through vast, empty stretches of land. And then came the desert, a place of no roads and ever-shifting landmarks; a place where no map could guide us.
“Look!” Pigtails is behind me, gesturing at something I’ve missed. Carved into the base of a large tree, a faint arrow points at a small opening through the thick branches. A hint from the producers for those who were paying attention?
I glance at the map, then at the arrow. They don’t match up. Pigtails is already moving through the opening in the trees. I take a few steps to follow her, then pause and consult the map again. The arrow is wrong. I’m sure of it.
I move closer to the tree and study the arrow. It’s crudely carved. Scratched in a hurry. I think of Mermaid and the sharpened stick she carried. Could a stick like that make this arrow?
I bet it could. That crafty bitch.
“I’m going to follow the map,” I announce. Pigtails is already out of sight. She didn’t notice or didn’t care that I’d stopped.
“Hey, uh, Pigtails!” I call, but she doesn’t respond. I bet she took off at a sprint the moment she realized she didn’t need to follow me anymore. I consider going after her, but then dismiss the idea. We never formalized an alliance, and something tells me that even if we did, I’d eventually find a metaphorical knife sticking out of my back.
I turn away from the arrow and focus on the map. I move slowly, constantly checking my orientation. The map includes a dotted line and simple drawings of landmarks. I find the half-moon boulder, but miss the creek, and have to double back until I hear it burbling in the distance. It takes me a while, tepidly pushing in one direction, only to turn around and return to the last landmark, but I begin to grow more confident with my map reading skills.
