Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators) (21 page)

“
Here you are. Hiding in the background like a coward, the way you do in our own body.” Not-Vol smiles, and Vol thinks, with a shudder,
Do I really look like that?
And then the meaning of the not-Vol's words sinks in and she says, “Our body?” Or tries to. She doesn't have enough air to manage more than a squeak. But not-Vol nods sagely, as if she can read Vol's mind. And Vol supposes in a way, she can.

“
Haven't you figured it out yet, Vol? I'm you. The better you. I truly am the voluntary eradicator.” She laughs cruelly. “I'm better at sex, too. Better enough to make Catan think real hard about any interest he has in you — hard being the operative word, of course.” She leans in, and Vol can smell the metal on her breath. “Does he gasp when he kisses you, too, as if every breath is his last? Does he scream for you?”

Stop it
, Vol thinks.
Stop it. Don't talk about him that way. Don't talk about
me
that way.

Not Vol's nails break through her skin and the pain sears a ring of fire around her throat. She chokes and the not-Vol laughs again as she wrestles Vol to the ground. “You're weak,” she says. “Human. Just as human as they are. You could have been a goddess, and instead you chose to be a slave.”

Her fingers gouge deeper, tearing into her throat. Vol feels a bubble of blood form and burst from her lips, spattering both their faces with garnet beads. She lashes out and broken glass from the mirror slices into her palms. She closes her spasming fingers around it, trying to ignore the liquid trickling out of her closed fist.
One shot
, she thinks.
That's all I have.

“
Any last words before I rip out your larynx?” the not-Vol says pleasantly. “A few words for Lover Boy, perhaps?”

“
Fuck you,” Vol mouths. The not-Vol's brow wrinkles and whatever she is about to say next turns into a piercing scream as Vol plunges the point of the glass all the way into the not-Vol's right eye.

12.

The only thing worse than hell is oblivion. An eternity of nothingness, of being perpetually in-between, of never knowing if one is dead or alive. That sounds like hell. When Vol opens her eyes and finds herself in a white room in a white bed, she panics because, for her, it is.

She hops out of bed and feels the burn of cold tiles on her bare feet. Hands close around her shoulders, holding her place and keeping her from falling down. “No!” she moans. “Leave me alone.”

“
Vol, no — it's all right.”

“
No…”

“
Vol!” and through the haze of fear, she recognizes the voice, though it doesn't bring her much solace. After everything she has learned about Catan — about
them —
knowing that he sold her out, that he betrayed her — she feels overwhelmed. And looking at his face and the amber eyes that glimmer with trapped bubbles of topaz makes her feel weak. She lets him walk her back to her bed because she has no choice.

“
Where am I?”

“
The infirmary.”

His eyes are watchful but he relaxes a little when she makes no move to jump out of bed and run. He still hasn't let go of her, though. “You've been given a mild tranquilizer. Your brain was sick.”

“
Are you saying that this — that everything was in my head?” It's like something out of a holladrama. A bad one.

“
No. It would be easier if it was.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What do you remember about your life before you came to Karagh?”

“
Don't you know that already? You know everything.” Her voice is flat.

“
Humor me. Please.”

“
You want a recap?” She glares at him, hating him in that instant. “You found me. You slept with me, stringing me along until you could figure out what to do with your big prize. And then you, — ” his eyes are too sharp, too hot. Like twin suns, she has to look away from his gaze or risk being blinded, — “your father screwed up your plans. So you screwed up mine. And you sold me to a Gaming Coliseum where I was forced to battle for my life.”

She pauses. Catan is leaning forward, chin in hand. “No, go on,” he says. “This is fascinating.”

“
They were going to cut me. To cut into me. To blind me. Somehow — somehow I managed to escape, I think — by killing — and there was blood, and screaming — and — ” She stares down at her hands. They look so innocent. So incapable of evil. “I came here. And then you found me. And all those dreams I had, with the blood, and the screams — they were real.”

“
Whose blood?”

“
Scientists. Civilians.”

Catan looks furious — but for once, it isn't directed at her. This surprises her. She thought her claims would throw him into a rage, the way she had lost all control when confronted in the gamescape.

“
Volera, you are a genetically engineered human being.”

“
I know,” she says.

He pauses, then continues, “Your eyes were designed to see on a wavelength ordinary humans cannot see. You can read emotions and even some thoughts, picking them up like a transistor radio.”

“
I know.”

Catan studies her. “Yes. Well. Not everything apparently. The Regency did commission the Bastani to design their toys, that much is true. I've been doing some research of my own, and all my father's talk about hubris is bullshit. He learned about an ancient civilization that pitted soldiers against soldiers, other animals, and death traps meant to inflict agonizing pain upon failure. All for the entertainment of an audience of thousands. We already had the Gaming Coliseum. Someone came up with the brilliant idea of designing a new race — one with the intellect and the rights of animals — for military men to fight and slaughter in the arenas. The most dangerous game, in all senses of the word.

“
It worked, but too well. Once set into action, the new race was difficult to stop. They almost never lost. They could anticipate actions well before they were even attempted once their nascent genes were activated through epigenetic manipulation — injections,” he adds, at her blank look. “Luckily, the new race happened to be just as vulnerable to weapons as the old. The Regent, my father, ordered five thousand tons of explosives to be dropped on the Eastern Bastani regions, wiping out all the laboratories with creators and creations both trapped inside.”

“
Why?” she rasps.

“
Easier to silence a man with a bomb than a bribe.”

“
But I remember the smoke and the fire. I remember killing innocent civilians — ”

“
No. You killed Xylepti soldiers. The Regent's men.”

“
No! There was a boy. There were people in white, watching — ”

“
Volera — ”

“
He was so young. Why that poor little boy?” Her face pales. “Oh gods — the other Players — Tash — what happened to them?” She grabs his wrists. “Are they all right? Are they — ”

“
I'm getting to that,” he says, patiently. “You need to hear this.”

“
I don't want to!” she cries. “Tell me — ”

“
Vol
.” He silences her with a look. After a pause, he says, “The Regent didn't want to destroy all of the new race. Just the ones that weren't already in his possession. However, they were all prototypes and had a rather severe drawback. Nobody took into account that the ultimate killing machines would have little use for a conscience. But they did, because they had been cloned — and their genetic template had been taken from — humans.

“
Even if the Bastani hadn't been killed, the new race would have eventually destroyed itself. Not from killing each other, but by killing themselves. The killing drove them mad. The ones who didn't commit suicide managed to dissociate from their lives, which would result in fugue states, where they would then engage in all kinds of illicit acts that their 'human' side wouldn't know about. It was driven purely by emotion and self-preservation. When not engaged in fights to the death, they had a penchant for debauchery, and an innate hatred of their weak, core personality. The killing fractured the new race's personalities, forcing them to create a self that could handle the destruction, the pain, the cold-blooded murder.”

He strokes her wrists, directly over her pulse points, making her relax against her will. “Those people you remember, the people in white — they implanted you with false memories. I'm not sure if the boy you remember killing was real or not, but to be honest, neither would surprise me. It was emotional blackmail. Yes, we were lovers, but I never sold you as a slave. That was all my father's doing. Nor did you willingly betray me. My father found you, raped you, and destroyed more of your personality by forcing you to do what you hated most. He gave you a false reason to be angry, a false need for revenge. He wanted you to kill me — and you almost did.

“
When I saw you next, I couldn't believe my eyes. I well and truly believed you were dead. I thought you were an escort girl with an uncanny resemblance. It wasn't until you led me to the Tower that I realized you probably weren't — they don't let their Players imbibe alcohol — and it wasn't until I saw your eyes that I truly realized it was you. When we got to your room, you attacked me. I couldn't have gotten away — even if I wanted to.”

It feels like she is hearing about an entirely different person from herself. A wild, savage person mindless with fear and sorrow and anger and undirected hate. A person with the deadly grace of an animal. A person who has no qualms about sleeping with — or killing — a stranger.

“
You can imagine my surprise when you pretended not to know me.”

“
I wasn't pretending,” she whispers.

“
I know that now. But I thought it was part of the same cycle my father created. We meet, we fall in love, and then you try to destroy me.” He lets go of her hands and they immediately feel too cold. “There's also the matter of your name. Volera.”

“
You knew it without me telling you.”

“
Oh, you told it to me within seconds of our meeting. And you made it pretty clear why you wanted me to know it.” He pauses. “I'm not sure where Magray comes from, but Volera is what gave me my suspicions. I thought it was a stage name at first, an attempt to inspire danger and controversy, because Volera was the name Bastani scientists used to describe the new race.”

“
The Volera,” she repeats, tasting the words.

“
It's short for Voluntary Eradicators,” he says, and she stiffens in recognition. “Killing machines with free will. The Regent's greatest atrocity and his most tragic.”

“
But the others — ”

“
Rest. I've told you too much for your state of mind as is.”

Vol isn't tired and begins to say so, except she is strangled by sleep, and she dreams —

Catan is above her. They grasp at each other like drowning sailors seeking purchase. He tears at the buttons of her clothing, and she laughs, delighted that he'd bothered. “What's so funny?” he demands.

“
You're being so careful this time.”

She rolls her eyes. “It wasn't that bad.”

With a growl, he grabs both her wrists and pins them above her head. “Then why were you playing coy with me? Why did you pretend not to know me?”

“
That's life. Life is the ultimate game, and its rules were made to be broken.”

She types 'Ariel Sirelle' where it asks for user data. She types 'TashIsSexy' where it asks for password, and her lips curve in a cruel smile.'Add new user data?' the screen queries. She hits 'yes,' and perhaps she isn't as nihilistic as she thinks, because the computer bleeps at her in protest and says, 'tactile selection error.' She presses 'yes,' more gently this time. She types 'Volera Magray' where it asks for user data. She types 'endgame' where it asks for password. And then she begins to program as only Bastani Weavers knew how to do.

Half their clothes are on the floor. He toys with what little remains, his rough, callused fingers chafing her skin so sweetly that she really thinks she might die.

“
Life isn't a game until you make it one,” he corrects.

She doesn't have the breath to argue.

“
You must remember.”

She stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about the horrors. Tries to remember this life he spoke of, living in fantasy, acting out games.…. “I remember nothing,” she says. “Only you.”

But you will remember now, she told herself. We all will.

The games appear on the queue for the runs, all in a neat little column. Nobody will be any wiser—except for her. And Catan, of course. The bastard. She adds the final game, and she bares her teeth in satisfaction. Yes, they will all know, even if they have to die for it.