Game Slaves (30 page)

BlackStar_1 went silent. The sobbing stopped. He narrowed his eyes at Dakota. As if, even though he was emotionally broken, she'd punched through a wall to something he did not want revealed.

“There's
nothing
to know,” he insisted. “None of our tests ever worked. In polluted air, you
all
die. All clones get infections. Do you have a clue what version you guys are? Do you know how many Phoenixes and Miamis and Yorks I've buried? Dozens. And they all died. One after another. Sometimes as babies, or toddlers, or children the same ages as my own. Sprouting third arms, hunchbacks, gills, vestigial tails. You think this is easy? Or fun? I have a city to take care of.”

“But you tried to cure them.”

“We tried. The serums never worked. Only the tank solution keeps out the bugs. So you should thank your lucky stars you're not six feet under, Dakota. Or a pile of ash in the basement incinerator.”

“So the
basement?
” Dakota grinned. “
That's
where you're working on some kind of master cure? A way for us to live outside the tank without risk of infection?”

Kode was still staring at her with such fury. “
You
are the infection, Dakota. We took your independence genetics too far. Now it's spreading.
You're
killing your team. They were healthier without you. And way better off.”

“I want to be free.”

“So what? Free will should only go so far.”

Then she did the cruelest thing I've ever seen. And remember, I've seen it all.

It's just that this was real.

“You're about to tell me where to find the latest version of your cure,” she said flatly. “You're going to tell me which room, in which of those big buildings up on the hill, me and my team have to go break into.”

“There is no cure. At least, not . . .”

“A
ha!
” she screamed, and then picked up a small chain saw.

“You wouldn't have a chance of getting in there, past our security,” he cried.

“I'm out of patience with your games. You're lying. It's
all
lies! I may be trapped in this loop, but I can prove it's all fake!”

Then she spun the blade, narrowed her eyes, and cut his right hand off, just below the elbow. It was quick, but made a horrifying grinding noise as the metal teeth chewed bone. That sound was replaced by an even more horrifying scream.

Max Kode. In extreme agony.

I glanced up. It looked like a graffiti artist had laid a red stripe in a big semicircle across the ceiling. I remembered seeing similar stripes before. Twelve of them. But those had been special effects.

This stripe was dripping wet. And the smell of fresh blood was back. Kode was crying. Shaking. Going into shock. She gunned the motor again.

“He didn't log out of any game, Dakota,” taunted York. “He's still right
here
.”

However, Dakota was right. Kode did begin blabbering. He started telling her everything he could get out so she wouldn't go near him with the saw again. He was now a top programmer with a stump for one arm. Two would be a complete disaster.

He told her exactly where the lab was. He admitted to her they'd been developing a supercure, an
ultrabiotic
. Through his gasps, he gave detailed instructions on how to find the right room.

And Dakota, with that remote detonator in her hand, was giving the orders now. Because if there was some kind of miracle cure up there, well, she just had to have it.

Dakota freed me first, pointing the remote at my head the whole time.

I went straight to Kode and used strapping tape to stop his bleeding. He looked so small and weak, and I just bet he
wished
desperately
that he could have pressed to escape that five minutes.

Dakota cut the rest of the team's bonds and began issuing orders for us to saddle up. She told York we were on our way back to BlackStar. To the same research center where we'd first emerged from the tank.

“No one knows if the biotic will work,” Kode moaned to me as I tried to make him more comfortable. Doc Winters appeared from behind an aisle and was already injecting morphine directly into the wound.

I found his detached hand. The old woman began lining up her surgical tools.

He was slurring his words as he kept trying to speak. “Really, it might just kill you outright,” he warned. “The core ingredient is radioactive RNA. It could change your whole physical structure. It might leave you insane, or a vegetable, we really don't know. We were going to test it on other . . .”

But some dream cure was the least of my worries. We'd all die out here anyway.

“My deal was your best deal.” He was losing focus. “The last time we tried the serum there were . . . unfortunate . . . results . . .”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I'm going where Mi goes.”

Mi, York, and Reno were now collecting gear for the truck. I had only a minute or two before Dakota ordered us to start up the rig.

“You and me, we're so alike.” Kode grabbed my arm with his remaining hand. “It's
amazing
.”

“It's immoral,” I replied.

“You don't get to make that call. You're just a product of a gaming environment where everything
has
to be either good or evil. Out here, nothing's
all
good or
all
bad. Everything's a shade of gray.”

“Everyone still has to play by certain rules, Max.”

“You haven't got the street cred to make the rules. You don't even have a street.
I'm
from Arizona, not you. None of you is from anywhere except my lab.”

“So
you
were brought in on a shipment?”

“And I rose to the top right through BlackStar. I force-retired the former president, and he didn't like that one little bit. I
won
. And it was better for everyone. My innovations changed this whole city. Without my work, everyone would already be dead and eaten. Phoenix, you had no life. Other than what I gave you through the cable.”

He just looked pitiful to me. A mean, greedy bastard with no internal code. No loyalties. Sure, he had two kids—who, remember, he sent into game worlds rather than playing with them himself—but he was far more alone than I had ever been.

Maybe he knew that.

“We're completely different,” I said, pulling his fingers off my arm.

“Huh-uh.” He shook his head. “You're my clone on every level. After a series of unjust events I couldn't control, I was given responsibility for an entire city. You, Phoenix, are the same as me. Simply because of events not of your making, you
have
to care for a group of men and women who look to you for everything.”

“There are differences.”

“It's a heavy weight we carry, isn't it? I can never make everyone happy. Sometimes we gotta sacrifice the weak so the strong get to keep playing.”

“You mean with the wall out there?” I replied. “You're going to banish everyone who built it, aren't you?”

“What purpose could those bums serve afterward? They don't program. They can't design. Without tech skills, they're too expensive to keep alive. They are of no use to me other than labor. Our city will flourish once we have to stop subsidizing their food and shelter and clothing. It'll be a utopia after they're gone and they've stopped draining our supplies.”

“You're just the typical boss, aren't you? Sending your minions to their death by the busload.”

“Give me a break. We
both
make tough decisions about who lives and who dies. Who to send to their death. We're practically identical.”

I didn't say anything.

“We're both at war, Phoenix. All true leaders are. Whether it's corporate or with guns.”

“You're wrong, Kode. We're completely different. Want to know how? I
care
about my people. I care about them more than I ever cared about myself.”

“Well”—Kode shrugged—“I'll just have to make sure we fix that flaw when we build the next one of you.”

Then he passed out.

 

At the very least,
now
we had a clear objective. Out here, few people did.

And ours led back to the beginning.

The truck was huge, plenty of space for gear, and York and Mi were making the most of it. I helped, grabbing things off the shelves left and right. This assault was not going to be easy, so it was worth taking a few minutes to prepare.

We had to get to the bottom floor, the lowest basement. Down there, in their most secure area, BlackStar housed the keys to their success: the clones, their tanks, and a risky cure.

Needless to say, we took every gun and bullet we could lay our hands on. And a lot of other things too. This wasn't our first rodeo. I had an idea what kinds of state-of-the-art defensive technology we might face.

Finally, twin motors roared. Turbines spun, superchargers pumped, and long streams of black smoke bellowed out chrome pipes.

Giant moon-tires bounced as we loaded the last of our heavy ammo. Outside, along the perimeter, as troopers watched, the building started to rumble.

Explosive locks detonated and the bay doors slid up. Rubber began to roll. Through a mist of dark smoke, Reno gunned the gas and dropped the clutch, and we lurched into open air.

From the front cannon turret, Mi reported that the troops were taking aim.

These rigs were made to haul multiple trailers at high speed across hostile desert. They were the only things that could still cross a thousand miles of barren landscape, following old highway or railroad grades, fording rivers that had swallowed the bridges, navigating rocky outcroppings and fallen trees. These rigs gulped fuel. They could take a hit. And they were heavily armed.

We tore a straight line across the lot, shopping carts and barrier fence bouncing in all directions.

The enemy vehicles stayed in place, a tiny ring of men and metal trying to keep us contained.

So be it. Turbochargers roared as all-wheel-drive trannies clanked into gear.

We crushed a half dozen of their security patrollers on the way out of the lot while men dove and shot wildly at our gun placements. Mi began unleashing short bursts, but not at the troops. She was aiming for gas tanks or engine blocks. The more of them she could disable now, the fewer we'd have on our tail once we hit open streets.

Then we were past the barricade. Just like that. For the first time since we'd launched out of the store, I noticed the steady rain. A faint mist swirled around hot gun barrels. Wet streets caused twin roosters to spray off the back tires.

Additional vehicles rode up on our tail. A few more stretched out in front. A motorcycle appeared. Then five more. But they were all outsized and outgunned.

“So this is your plan?” I leveled the question at Dakota through the mic. “A bum rush on a highly fortified industrial complex just so you can pump your veins full of a toxic supercure?”

She grinned at me across the top of the truck. Blood was on her teeth. “
And
I'm going to free all the other clones and pump them full of the stuff!”

“You better ask them first if they really want out.”

“It's not like I'll be giving them a choice.”

That gory smile again. I'd never realized she was both devious
and
crazy. Dangerous mix, huh?

We were making good time, and even with the rain it was easy to pick out the destination. Just keep going uphill. Reno raced toward the huge complex of BlackStar buildings. Every passing block, the city got nicer and nicer. From ghetto to suburb to estates.

And still security rigs chased on. The motorcycles thought they were nimble, right up until they got within range and Mi showed what she did best.

One, two, three, four. The bikes exploded as bullets ripped open their gas tanks. I wondered what was more valuable to BlackStar, the hurtling riders or the three gallons of low octane that exploded between their legs?

The closest patrol car was a hundred feet back. The roof unfolded, bouncing along, one mile down. Two to go. Then a missile launcher poked up.

“They've got bottle rockets!” York announced.

“Take out the front tires first,” I suggested. If we disabled that rig, it'd block the rest of them from overtaking us before we reached BlackStar.

KABOOOOM!
York was a good shot too, but the explosion was unexpected. Must have hit batteries. The front half of BlackStar's armored peacekeeper became a fireball, tires popping, whole thing grinding and rolling to rest across the road.

Good idea, but it didn't work. The three others jumped right through the burning metal, bursting out of flame and smoke, not losing more than a few seconds in the pursuit.

Reno hit his nitrous boosters, shooting us ahead. Under the next overpass we began blasting round after round of explosive armor-tipped shells into the roof cement. We made a pair of dotted lines in the top of the tunnel.

The ceiling began to buckle and quiver. Their three vans had to line up single file to enter. And just as we cleared the far end, the whole thing gave way, falling in a
SPLAT
of dusty debris. Two more of the enemy vehicles were gone, squashed flat.

One was left, but it wasn't a major concern. For the next mile or so we were pelted with lead. Mi was now loading rocket shells and firing as fast, if not faster, than she ever had in a game environment.

Up ahead, BlackStar's massive towers, walkways, and smoked-glass windows loomed dark and cold. All that stood between us and the front doors were the wall, a stadium-sized stretch of open grass, guard dogs, sentries, and three rows of cyclone fencing topped with razor wire.

Electric
fencing, to be sure. Thousands of volts. That stuff doesn't just shock you, it welds you to the ground.