Glitch (16 page)

He smiled as the boy stared at him as if he were a leper. Naturals were always so surprised when they learned he was Gramgadon. He liked it that way. The ostentatious display of augmented humanity that would arrive here to fight would never look twice at him if they saw him in public. In fact, most of the meatheads and hormonleeches who used drugs to emulate the Transhuman augments wouldn’t stop to help him if he were dying in the street. He liked the anonymity. He used it to his advantage almost every day of his life because he was not so helpless.

Right now his disguise was working wonders with the farmhand, who sneered at him. Gramgadon pretended to be amazed by the enhanced fields. In a way he was. To dedicate one’s life to feeding the world’s undesirables was admirable, although only ten or twenty percent of these acres went to edible foods. Most of the other materials fed other industries, like the ones that fueled his digital bosses.

For a second, the huge brands on his chest flared up like living things that might press through his shirt. He had been blessed to be marked by all three of the most powerful Rogues in Cyberspace, as well as by the real ruler: SWML.

He breathed deep, resisting the urge to pray for their intersession right now. He imagined he could feel all the tiny machines inside his body that allowed him to be their vessel agitating for attention. He bit his lip so that he didn’t start babbling his fidelity to them. He wanted to drop to his knees, raise his hands to the sky, and praise them for making him who he was.

I’m just here to watch, he told himself.

A shiny AUV arrived. He ducked inside the large, air-conditioned vehicle and dreamed of forced human servitude to his masters. He no longer had any interest in the fields, or in making conversation with the security personnel who rode with him. All of it, everything, was a prize for his masters. They didn’t discriminate between a field of corn or a field of gold. It was all physical matter to them—the same at the atomic level.
But the human brain ...

He stared at the back of the driver’s head. A simple tap of a hammer could break open his skull and reveal the spongy, gray matter. It was a complex world, the human brain and the mind it produced, and for his masters it was their ultimate goal: to make a synthetic brain, and to live in Realspace not as ghosts but as embodied persons. That’s what they wanted. To do that, they needed a way to manifest themselves, a way to project their essences into Realspace. They needed the Ghosting Protocols that Skippard Wellborn possessed.

The vehicle stopped outside a walled villa. Off to the side was an old farmhouse that looked like it had stood there for two hundred years or more. It sat on a small hill surrounded by huge oaks that provided plenty of shade. The villa spread out behind it, a low-walled compound with security at the front. He walked past them through tall double doors. Inside, he saw a well-manicured rock garden and a path lined in manicured shrubbery. A few privileged guests sat in niches, talking in hushed tones.

He chose an empty table.

A young man in formal livery approached, carrying a dinner towel on his arm. “Something to drink, sir?”

“Water, please.”

Gramgadon the Rogueslave and former glad-fighter surveyed the other patrons who were sponsoring this illegal event. They were all potential brothers and sisters in serving his masters, every one of them, because they understood how frail humanity was and how strong his masters were. Whether they liked it or not, they would be part of the Great Game tonight that pitted humanity against is betters.

He gazed at each of their faces and let the machines inside of him take note. He was looking for one, in particular, the newest prize in Cyberspace: Simone Lord, the daughter of the Skippard Wellborn, the ultimate enemy. She would be coming to compete. She and the thing inside her. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

* * *

Simone sat in the back of a Consortium helicopter with the other Alters on her way to compete in an illegal gladiatorial contest. She understood very little about this world in which people often died, she admitted, and that scared her.

As she sat across from Hutto—who had fallen asleep—she distracted herself by staring at him as if she had the power to turn him to stone with her eyes. The bright sunshine of a clear day shown on his face. It was the sort of face that demanded you linger there. She kept looking away, then looking back, perturbed she couldn’t stop. Beasley stared out the window. Wally did as well. Kimberlee read a tablet, as did Joss. The adults were in their own helicopter. Simone had taken the ride because she had no idea how to get there. Here she was pretending to sit as if she were normal, gazing at a boy who should have been her boyfriend by now.

But isn’t, she thought. He’s still pissed I left him hanging in his dorm room with only a kiss and the hint of something more.

Getting used to inertia had been harder than she’d thought. The slight pressure from her seat had caused plenty of amusement for everyone when the helicopter first took off. For the first few minutes, enough fireworks erupted from the contact with her seat that Hutto offered several juvenile comments about a possible mid-air explosion. After they leveled out, though, she was able to sit without concentration—or sparks.

Soon after, as everyone’s thoughts became their own and a quiet had settled on them, here she was staring at Hutto, torn between the thought she’d like to kiss him again and what it would be like tonight in the arena.

Everyone but her had eaten a hearty lunch before preparing for the quick ride to central Alabama. Ever since that night a few days ago when she’d let her entity run free, Simone had struggled with the fact everyone was giving her advice: her father, Uncle Pic, her mother, her brother—even Coach Buzz. Everyone seemed to care what happened to her. She, though, had her own problems. Her father understood. No one else.

Her mother guessed.

Simone had given her entity its first full run. She had let a full transformation occur, with no binding. This was different from the other times, like when she’d been with Hutto, when she’d battled her double, or when she’d sparred with Nisson. With Hutto the slow transformation had been an amazing experience of incremental fullness. She’d had a body and her entity had been controllable. But during the time as a ghost, her entities had been cheated.

When Simone completed the final step in the woods, the presence pushed through her into Realspace. The roar that followed must have scared every living thing within a half-mile radius. Its splayed feet ate into the ground. Even though it wasn’t fully corporeal, it relished the contact.

She couldn’t describe the experience beyond thinking she was taking a ride.

Have you chosen a name?

Its voice was in her head.

She hadn’t chosen, but she could hear the eagerness in the entity’s voice

No
. Silence followed as it waited.
Oh, all right
, she said.
I’ll call you Supertrans, for now.

Thank you, Simone Lord
.

It began to run, and she shut her eyes. She imagined she rode a horse, or even sat on a buggy pulled by one. Its gait was strong and forceful. It didn’t tire. The wind whistled through its many teeth and its breath was silent and unlabored. When it reached out with a taloned hand and struck a rotting tree stump, shattering it, she winced. But there was no pain. The impact was ...
pleasurable
.

She finally opened her eyes. She leaned forward like an eager jockey, imagining horse hair in her face, wind rushing by her. After it leapt over a creek, she urged it to jump again. To her amazement, it listened and did.

Supertrans caught a musky scent. Simone imagined she smelled a delicious roast in an oven. She imagined her mouth watering. She imagined sitting at a dinner table, fork and knife in hand, waiting for a steaming dish to appear. She saw a twelve-point buck across a fallow field, leaping away. Every particle of who she was wanted it.

When Supertrans caught the buck and bit into its neck, severing the spine with one bite, she tasted the blood, the tissue tearing in her mouth. She drank and ate. She wanted to do it again.

It was good.

And here she was staring at Hutto, pretending to be a normal human being, when she didn’t have a body ... and was feeling more and more like she didn’t want one. Hutto, though, caused conflicting feelings. Maybe because of him she would never give up wanting to be embodied again. How could she? A hug from him right now would be perfect.

But now look at me.

She raised her hands. She touched her arm and saw muted gray swirls blend together as if she were made of ice cream. It was neato, but after the millionth time you did it, it seemed no more interesting than an old tattoo. She looked at her feet. Her digital boots were a few inches from Hutto’s.

She pushed one forward. No one paid attention as the helo entered a rough patch of low clouds. The
whup-whup-whup
of the rotors was loud enough to silence the tin-foil like crackling of her boot against his. She could feel the pressure. The sparks were so minor, no one noticed.

Hutto kept sleeping. He looked like his older brother
—
the man he would become.

They had all sat around the fight space after lunch to hear Nisson give a bit of final advice—in fact, it was the only direct advice they’d been given on what to do. Nisson ate with them as the school provided a hearty meal of organic beef, Greek salad, fresh sweet-melon juice, and spelt bread. It was enough calories to get them through the day, with a light meal later. All the Alters lay or sat on the mats, most of them looking like they needed a nap.

“Agent Wellborn told me to talk to you kids,” Nisson said.

He was dressed with a Team Toth dragon battle cuirass and a black kilt. He wore leather straps on his calves and his wrists.

“Here’s how it is. You guys and gals are talented. Yep, that’s what I call it. You’re going to get a taste of some crazy stuff tonight. But just remember to let those things out and you’ll be good. There ain’t but a handful of folks like you on the planet. The folks like me who, well, paid to be made like this, won’t be anywhere near such a small-time event. So, don’t be nervous.”

He looked concerned, though, as if they were all going skydiving and he was about to give them their instructions on how to get the chutes open.

He scanned the room before making sure he had everyone’s attention. “Now listen, Pitdog fighting ain’t glad-fighting. In these events you ain’t got any rules, other than fight until you cain’t fight no more. I’ll be there. I’ll jump in and bring the whole place down if you get in trouble. I doubt that, though. The problem is what you’re going to see. The fights are
brutal
. You cain’t quit. Only the aggressor or security can stop the fight. So don’t watch the other fights, if you can help it. Not that it matters, but know this: You cain’t ask for quarter or for your opponent to stop. Well, you can ask, but he don’t have to stop. Again, this ain’t honorable.”

Everyone but Hutto acted like they might start crying, or maybe run away in fright. Kimberlee looked around in a panic, and even Joss had his head down.

Wally tapped Beasley on her wrist. “I feel sorry for the other guy.”

Nisson nodded “That’s right. You don’t realize it, but there’s three poor schmucks with maybe some alloy implants or a back booster, maybe even an augment with a nice piece of weaponry. But it won’t matter because an Alter summoner with an aggressive kick ... hell, anyone in the game knows this is where it’s at. That’s why the league’s going to open its arms to you all.” He knelt down by Beasley. “Don’t be afraid. You’re going to do just fine.” He glanced at Simone, but said nothing. He kicked his little brother in the foot. “All of you’ll do fine.”

* * *

They began their descent toward a sprawling walled compound in the middle of farmland. The helicopter landed on an actual helipad. Security personnel ushered them to a waiting room. Everyone kept quiet. Hutto followed his brother in. The room was a low-ceilinged chamber with a few couches, chairs, some folding tables. It looked like a place local help might eat their lunches or take an afternoon break. He moved to a far corner and waited to ready himself.

Agent Wellborn was already there, waiting. “The fights will be later tonight. I want everyone to try to sleep.” Hutto groaned. “Afterward, we’ll head to the fight space.”

“Where is it?” he asked.

“They’ve got a cage in the compound,” Yancey said. “They told us the spectators are arriving. It’ll be a full house. At least two or three hundred people.”

“Wow!” Wally said.

“Oh, god, I’m going to be sick,” Beasley said.

Nisson kicked a trash can her way. “Be sick in that.”

“In this room you’ll calm yourselves and begin your katas,” Yancey said. “I want everyone on the cusp so that when it’s your time, all you need are the remaining steps. Center, dance, and summon. There is space behind the cage door where you can finish. It’ll open, you’ll walk through, and—”

“And you fight to entertain the Fight Lords,” Nisson said, “who’ll be watching, or at least have people there watching.”

“And you kill,” Simone said.

“If need be,” Nisson replied, “but it rarely gets to that in these shows. Most of these guys are amateurs. So don’t worry about any of that. Just look at it like a performance.”

Hutto began mumbling his mantra, shifting back and forth. Simone glanced his way, and he smiled at her to let her know he was ready.

“Who goes first?” Simone asked.

“Beasley.”

Everyone moved out of the way as she reached for the small trash can and heaved into it.

“Jesus,” Joss said. “She’s a wreck.”

Beasley looked up, wiped her face. “I can’t do this. No way.” She began crying, her huge frame shaking.

Hutto pulled a towel from a shelf and handed it to her. “Maybe she shouldn’t ...”

Coach Buzz walked in. “I agree.” Yancey and Nisson said nothing. Coach put an arm around her. “We’ll work on you some other time, Beaz.” He helped her sit down. She rocked back and forth, looking like she might pass out. “She’s not going in there.”