Assault or Attrition (19 page)

“Sorry,”
Frost’s hologram said, without any of the inflection associated
with a sincere apology. “That answer has been identified as
untruthful. Please re-identify.”

Chandler
explained that this was one of the new AI features that he’d helped
Cameron Frost develop over the past year; it was a lie detector
that was more or less foolproof, built directly into the fortress.
It seemed as if it had been put online a little earlier than
expected, and Chandler had no idea it was complete and operational.
The system used advanced sensors that would monitor pupil dilation,
heart rate, facial tics, and even the unique electrical patterns
emitting from brainwaves – all combined to determine if someone was
fibbing. It was eventually going to replace thumbprints and voice
recognition sensors to ensure that no one could gain access to a
restricted area, no matter what type of technological gizmo they
had to fool the system. Anyone with a few dollars and access to a
virtual mall could obtain the latest spy equipment; devices to pick
any lock imaginable were available, so the locks continued to
become more and more sophisticated. Using the truth as a key, there
was no way around this new type of gateway – no matter what type of
technology you’re using, you can’t fake who you are.

I spoke
clearly, but with urgency. “Matthew A. Moxon, from The Fringe.”

“Thank you,
Matthew Moxon.” Frost’s words prompted a video screen which
projected across the top of the dome, with a massive photograph of
my face, my vital statistics, birthplace, and of course my name,
displayed in shimmering gold letters. A moment later a pod emerged
from the floor at the edge of the dome; it was a transparent
cylindrical container roughly the size and shape of a casket,
faintly illuminated by an interior light. The door slid open,
inviting me aboard.

I noticed that
there were faint circular outlines in the floor; shallow grooves at
evenly spaced intervals spread around the circumference of the
domed room. These were our shuttles into the depths buried beneath
the fortress, leading us to the onset of what would have been Arena
Mode 2.

The AI urged
the next contestants to register. The three staff members nervously
identified themselves one after the other, summoning their
corresponding pods. Their voices trembled as the thumping
persisted:

Alexander
Ortega, a thirty-year-old IT consultant from Vancouver.

Judy McMann, a
forty-four-year-old nurse from Phoenix.

Anton DuPont, a
twenty-six-year-old chef from Brussels.

Their pods
appeared in rapid succession.

After Brynja,
Peyton, Mac and Chandler registered and their corresponding pods
had appeared, we were prepared to descend.

Chandler
approached his pod, poking and prodding it from all angles. He
mumbles something to himself about claustrophobia before climbing
in.

Peyton brought
up an important point that had eluded me. She asked what happens
when we descend – the eight of us, rocket into the lower levels of
The Spiral – and we emerge in this ‘custom designed battleground’.
Judging by the schematic, the space is much larger below ground
than above (likely due to the meteorite that had struck this
location years ago, burrowing a deep crater that allowed for
construction of the massive underground levels). Wherever we land,
we could be miles away from each other. I assured her that our
wrist-coms could be used to trace each other locally, and not to
worry. Even underground and without a satellite to link them, we
could communicate off-line with a range of several miles.

The thumping
increased in volume as we discussed strategy, and one thump in
particular rattled the entire room. A bulge formed in the door – an
oversized, fist-shaped contour had bent inwards, denting its
surface. Whomever the Red Army had found to track us down was
battering his way in, and was only a few punches away from gaining
entry.

Everyone
scrambled towards their pods, pushing their backs flat against the
white padded interior, facing outwards in their upright coffins.
The transparent doors slid shut in unison, silently confining us
inside the narrow tubes. There was barely enough room to move while
trapped inside; my face was so close to the glass that I clouded
the surface of the door with each panicked breath.

Judy, our
resident nurse, was situated directly to my left. Her eyes darted
nervously around the room. I rapped the glass to get her attention
and said she’d be fine. My voice was hollow, echoing off the
interior of the pod, but I think she read my lips. She nodded and
exhaled deeply.

“This is it,”
Frost’s hologram boldly announced, apparently to no one. His arms
were spread wide, chin pointed upward as if playing to an invisible
audience that surrounded him on every side. “The competitors are
prepared for their descent, and the battle begins now. Remember:
this is more than just a physical challenge. It will test every
part of you, and only the warrior who knows himself can claim the
reward. The victor will receive something more valuable than money;
they will be awarded the
ultimate freedom
.”

The pods began
to drop. Starting clockwise at the far end of the room, Brynja’s
pod disappeared into the floor, being sucked through the pneumatic
tube. The circular tunnel closed itself off, and Mac’s pod
followed, suddenly disappearing with a pressurized pop. Then
Chandler. Then Anton, the chef.

And then,
before the next pod could escape, a thunderous crash rattled the
floors. A crumpled metal door sailed into the center of the room,
spiralling to a stop.

Heavily armed
men stormed the room, and the sound of gunfire was deafening.
London was cut down in the crossfire; orange spheres clanging to
the floor, sparking as they billowed black smoke. Peyton pressed
her hands flat against the inside of her pod and screamed as it
disappeared into the floor. Bullet holes riddled the wall where she
had been just a heartbeat before.

A spatter of
red coated the interior of the pod to my left. It happened so
suddenly that I hadn’t seen the hail of bullets bisect the chamber,
tearing Judy to pieces.

“
He’s still
here!” Someone screamed.
The voice was muffled by gunfire, and
the partial soundproofing of the pod. Two bearded men with toolkits
scrambled towards me. They knelt at the foot of my pod, threw open
the lids and began riffling through their equipment.

Before they
could begin to extract me I disappeared into the tunnel below,
transported at the speed of gravity. The floor sealed shut above
and I was in a free-fall, pitch black and silent. A million
questions raced through my mind during the drop: did everyone
survive the drop? How did the Red Army find us so quickly? And what
the hell smashed down the door? Whatever it was would no doubt be
following us into The Spiral. There was so much to figure out. I
tried to focus on what lay ahead, and push the sight of Judy out of
my mind – or what was left of her.

A few rapid
seconds ticked by and my dizzying ride came to an end, ejecting me
into an open field.

I was thrown
clear. The landing was surprisingly soft, and a patch of damp grass
cushioned my fall as I rolled to a stop. A few rapid blinks
adjusted my eyes to the dimmed light. I stood and took in my
surroundings – I was in a rain forest. Like the tropical paradise
that Frost had artificially engineered in the dome that sat atop
the fortress, this was an ecosystem designed to mimic a jungle. The
dense foliage surrounding me extended further than I could see in
every direction, and it was brimming with life and activity.
Insects buzzed, birds chirped. Even the air, thick with moisture,
was a perfect re-creation.

While the plant
life and its inhabitants were no doubt real, the sky above was
completely artificial. Streaming down a diffused silvery glow, the
endless expanse of stars that cluttered the sky were nothing more
than a convincing hologram, projected a few hundred feet above my
head. It was impressive either way. If I hadn’t been fully aware
that I was underground, there would be nothing to give away the
meticulously crafted illusion.

I couldn’t be
sure what awaited us on the first level of The Spiral, or if anyone
was listening in, so I whispered into my wrist-com, careful to keep
my voice low. “Peyton? Can you hear me?”

A moment
passed. I repeated the call, hearing only the faint drone of static
through the com. Brynja, Mac, Chandler, and the rest of the staff
were either out of range, or their coms were unresponsive. The
silence of the coms was replaced by swarming insects, serving only
to irritate me as the heat began to rise inside my suit. Cameron
Frost was a sadistic bastard, but to include
actual
mosquitoes inside his artificial ecosystem was simply beyond
evil.

I paced back
and forth as I continually checked my com, keeping a watchful eye
out for any signs of movement in the surrounding trees. I couldn’t
be sure of who, or what, awaited us down here – if the Red Army had
already figured out a way to get down to this level we could be
engaged in a firefight sooner than later. And I couldn’t completely
dismiss the notion that Frost would set a few traps of his own just
to keep competitors on their toes.

As I strode
around the knee-high grass, my boot clanked something as my foot
swung forward: a box. It was a metal casket, like the ones that had
been scattered throughout the original Arena Mode back in
Manhattan. It was one of Frost’s little additions to make the games
more interesting (as if superhumans beating each other to a pulp on
a live simulcast wasn’t interesting enough.) A number of the boxes,
containing everything from bullets to explosives, were accessible
throughout the island, giving participants the opportunity to cause
even more bodily harm to one and other. It was like a
fully-realized video game, but without the reset button.

Brushing aside
the damp grass I inspected the edges of the box, carefully running
my fingers along every seam and gap. In the previous Arena Mode,
half of the caskets were wired to explode – a fact that led to the
demise of more than one competitor. This casket seemed harmless, so
I proceeded to flip open the lid. Inside I found a pair of
transparent plastic devices; they were roughly the size and shape
of surgical masks, attached to small silver canisters. They looked
like miniaturized gas masks, or possibly some type of portable
SCUBA gear. I clipped them to my belt and prepared to move on.

The area was
enormous, so finding the others wouldn’t be easy without the use of
our coms. My best guess was that they were disabled by a sensor
when we entered The Spiral. Letting competitors communicate using
electronic devices would take a lot of the tension away from the
narrative, I suppose. If it’s not dramatic enough, you lose
viewers.

Making my way
towards the center was my best chance at finding everyone, assuming
that there was a larger opening where visibility would be better.
The brightness of the starlight at my back indicated that I was at
the edge of the level. It was a subtle distinction, but I noticed
that the roof of this level had a dome-like structure like the
fortress above. The closer to the center of the level, the weaker
the lights became since they were situated higher into the ceiling.
The ground sloped slightly downward as well, where condensation was
draining; it was likely that water was running towards the center,
where my teammates would be drawn when the sweltering heat led to
dehydration.

I drew the
rifle from my back and prepared to make my way through the darkened
forest. Using a dim light from my gauntlet I navigated through the
dense trees, stumbling on roots and loose rocks along the way.
After a short hike I arrived in an open space at the edge of a
lake. It was immense. The body of water was so wide I could barely
see the trees that dotted the shoreline on the opposite side.

Movement caught
my attention at the perimeter of the lake a few hundred feet to my
right. I stepped back, retreating into the darkness of the tree
line, until I realized who it was. Chandler, who appeared to be
nursing a sprained ankle, hobbled along with the assistance of
Peyton, her pink hair glowing like a beacon beneath the
starlight.

I jogged along
the grassy shore and waved them down, careful not to make too much
noise.

“I don’t know
why it happened,” Chandler mumbled. “I mean,
what
happened,
not why. I know
why
, it’s just—”

“Are you all
right?” I asked, offering my arm for support.

He nodded and
attempted to turn his painful wince into a smile. “I fell from the
pod. I landed hard on a rock, and something popped...in my
leg.”

I assisted our
injured friend to a soft patch of grass under the canopy, where
we’d be less visible from the clearing. At least if someone
approached we’d have the option to shoot first.

Peyton
explained that she’d heard Chandler screaming in pain and ran to
his aid. Luckily, her pod had deposited them in close proximity to
each other. Neither had seen Brynja or Mac, and the remaining staff
was missing as well.

Chandler asked
about Judy and if she made it down. I didn’t have the words to
describe what I’d seen – and if I did, I wouldn’t say them. I just
shook my head. He nodded back, eyes welling with sadness. It never
occurred to me that while Judy and the rest of the staff were
merely acquaintances of mine, he had spent over a year getting to
know them. I didn’t bring up the fact that Ortega and Anton –
wearing heavy plastic suits that were about as subtle as Christmas
ornaments – were the next most obvious targets. Hopefully they’d
removed their armor to increase their mobility and help with
camouflage.