Gods of the Game #3, Chapter 6

It took Charoen six days to integrate the socket, stimpack, and the baseline rewiring of his body’s code.

Six days of alternating deep sleep and fevered nightmares. His body sought to reject the implementation. He had glimpses of the doctors fretting over their panels. Brief moments of lucidity where the world seemed to run like candlewax and everything was tinted rose. Tubes ran thickly into his veins, and he was constantly being shifted back to the chirugeon table for further updates, recalibrations, and modifications.

He could dimly, distantly sense what the stimpack sought to do to him. It felt unnatural. Wrong. Like a rising tide. An approaching forest fire. On some distant plane he understood that this was desirable, that he’d acquiesced to this modification, but on another, he rejected all assaults on the sovereignty of his body.

The Horizon Dynamic pack, with the aid of Dr. Bierhals’ genius and the cutting edge technology of the 24th century, eventually won through.

One morning Charoen opened his eyes and found himself at peace. Morning sunlight poured in through the medical center’s large windows. He lay beneath thin cotton blankets on a gel-mattress. There was no fever. No pain. His body felt as good if not better than it had even when he’d been birthed from the vat. If anything, it felt strange. Other. The more he concentrated upon himself, his sense of self, the more disturbed he grew.

For gone was that natural panther-like strength and grace he’d come so quickly to take for granted. In its place lay mystery. A sense of potential. But without the knowledge of limits. Without a sense of mortality.

This deep, bone-cored thrum of vitality and power felt inhuman in its majesty. Sober, solemn, he raised his hand to study his palm. Was this what an arch angels felt like?

The very absurdity of the thought caused him to smile, which is when the door opened and Bierhals entered, tablet in hand. The man looked drawn and worn, as if he’d gone days and nights without rest. Probably accurate.

“There he is!” The man’s voice was tinny with false enthusiasm. “Alive and smiling. What more could a humble doctor ask from his patient?”

“The operation was a success?”

“Just barely. It was touch and go there for a frighteningly long period of time.” Bierhals sat beside the bed. “Your body possesses a frightening sense of homeostasis and fought off the sheer violence of the changes the Horizon Dynamics stimpack tried to implement upon you. Bizarre. I’ve never seen the like. But it’s done. Your SCI rocketed overnight to an incredible 57%. Again, I’ve never seen nor heard of the like. That’s nearly the maximum level of your old Nitric Armory pack, and took your old self months to reach, but now…” Bierhals shook his head in wonder. “

Charoen sat up smoothly, hinging from the waist, and reached up to touch the stimpack at the base of his neck. It was warm, and his memory doubled, so that he was himself from before, Jessie in a bed beside him, Bierhals telling him the first time about this very operation.

“I feel good,” said Charoen simply, shaking off the memory.

“As you should. You’re ready for anything. I’ve delayed your awakening until I was sure. But you can go straight to the training field, as far as I am concerned.”

A thumbnail of Sindre’s portrait appeared in the upper right of his vision, and the coach’s voice rumbled in his mind. Rise and shine, lad. Bierhals has given you the all-clear. I’m waiting for you in the complex. Time see what you can do.

Incoming, said Charoen. Then, to Bierhals, “Looks like I’m expected.”

“Yes.” The doctor’s expression turned lugubrious. “This is where I try to give you warnings, and then cut myself off, realizing the hopelessness of such wisdom. Go. Go do what must be done.”

“What must be done,” agreed Charoen, and rose. The first time he’d been exuberant, and had leaped and cavorted, done handstands and reveled in his new power. This time he simply padded naked over to a locker that stood open, and there drew out and dressed in drawstring pants, a light shirt, and sandals.

Bierhals turned away in bitter resignation.

Charoen stepped out into the morning sunshine and stopped to raise his face to the sun. His skin warmed. The sensation was nice.

“Hey, Charoen.” The voice was tense, challenging, nervous.

He cracked open one eye. Catori. Tall and rangy, her black hair pulled into a ponytail. Harsh cheekbones, angular brows, and a severe, forbidding air. She’d been the first to welcome him and Jessie to the team, along with Clovinn. One of the Jägers.

“Catori,” he said, tone neutral.

She stood on the path, hands shoved deep into her leather jacket’s pockets, brow furrowed as she studied him. For a moment they remained thus, studying each other, and then she gave him a stiff upnod. “Welcome back.”

He could hear a wealth of unspoken thoughts and emotions behind those two words. So it would go, he guessed, with every person that had known him—Charoen—before. “Thanks.”

“Coach’s waiting for you in the complex. It’s been cleared out for you. Good luck in there.” Then she pursed her lips, dark gaze flicked up and down him one more time, and strode off.

Fair enough.

Charoen made his way down the path in the opposite direction. So strange. It felt like he’d walked this gravel path down to the stream so many times before. But this was his first time. Memories like fractured glass overlay his vision. Could he experience anything for the first time as himself, or would everything be adulterated by his false memories?

Over the small bridge, into the narrow tunnel, its white walls gleaming, around the ‘S’ curve that hearkened back to its military origin, and out into a vast rectangular space. The ceiling was some forty yards high, with huge caged lights strung from the girders. The floor was that painfully familiar expanse of blue akin to two football fields placed side by side. The scope and scale of the chamber was breathtaking.

The old scents of rubber, oil, and rock filtered thinly through the cold air.

Sindre, Virgil, and a third broad-shouldered, older man stood in quiet conference close by. Coach Carmine, Charoen recalled. The three turned to greet him, their gazes sober, speculative, cautious.

“There he is. Our golden boy, our prefabbed wunderkind.” Virgil’s piercing stare belied his mocking tone. “How you feeling, Charoen? We sticking with that name, incidentally, or have you chosen a new moniker for yourself?”

“Charoen is fine for now.” He met Coach Carmine’s blustery stare, and the man grimaced and looked away. “I’m ready to begin.”

“Your SCI’s at 58%,” said Sindre. “It just ticked up on your walk over here.”

“Incredible,” allowed Carmine, then gave a shaky laugh. “I’m having to update my expectations on what’s even possible with the Premiere. Too much time spent coaching the bandit leagues, I guess.”

“Let’s focus on the basics,” said Virgil. “We’ve a few key elements to check on before we declare this a victory. For one, we’ve yet to see how well Charoen here handles his gamma waves. Can you focus? Can you reach the higher ranks? It’s not enough to be fit and hale and healthy.”

“One way to find out,” said Charoen calmly.

“One way to find out,” agreed Sindre. “You know the way around a VMU suit.”

Charoen walked past the trio in response and crossed the first field toward the VMU field. The ground was spongy. The suits hung from their charging pegs as before, each numbered and corresponding to a different player.

His own suit hung in place.

Charoen studied it. His suit. My suit. Myim’s suit? The pronoun felt at once wrong yet ineluctable. He took off his shirt, pants, and kicked off his sandals so that he was only in his underwear, then took the suit down and climbed in through the rear slit. The texture was strange, pliable and stretchy. It covered him perfectly, and closed around him like a second skin.

Without thinking about it, he pressed the button on the collar so that it sealed hermetically, then took up the helmet and pulled it on. When it settled over this stimpack there was a subtle hiss, a moment of suction, and then cool air washed over his face.

“The simulation’s ready,” called Sindre. “Kali’s waiting.”

Charoen nodded and tapped the band on his wrist twice. So strange, how every new experience felt doubled. Falsified.

The interior of his visor flickered as the world changed. Once more he stood in a Lunar spaceport hangar, his back to a bay door, blue force windows looking out into the darkness of space. The solar system was revealed overhead through an vaulted glass ceiling.

Kali arose before him.

Towering some twenty feet tall, she was as alien and formidable and majestic as always. Four armed, clad in a hexagonally patterned suit of blue, charcoal gray, and gold. Ivory hair fell in a wild mane down her back, and her skin was purple. Her expression disdainful, amused, her features ferociously beautiful, and in each of her hands she held a weapon.

Two swords, a golden spear, and a thurible whose perforated head leaked smoke as it hung from its chain.

Charoen inhaled deeply. The silence was total. Her presence was overwhelming. The edges of her weapons gleamed. Her gaze narrowed as she considered him. Evaluated him. In a moment the treadmill floor would begin to push him back toward the bay door that led out into space. In a moment she’d swing her golden spear.

The slow ramp up as she probed his reflexes, his strength, his speed.

Charoen closed his eyes.

The beast that had dwelt within his breast ever since he’d been expelled from his vat bestirred itself. That base, brute anger. Not quite outrage, not quite hatred, not quite implacable fury, it was a turgid and lethal mix of the above, a rising tide of blackness that wanted nothing more than to extinguish everything around him.

His mind stilled. His doubts, his fears, his concerns, washed away.

All that remained was absurdity of his being alive, the violation of the dead Charoen’s will, the travesty that was his untethered existence.

Charoen exploded forward.

The treadmill floor began to pull him back, but it would have taken a slow walk to maintain his place. Instead he flew at Kali, a livid meteor, and her eyes narrowed as she gauged his speed and power.

She underestimated him.

Time seemed to slow. His muscles felt like liquid flame. His intent simple and pure. She swung the golden spear in a great sweep that should have taken him out at the knees, but he knew that there was little force behind the attack.

He ignored it, darted within its radius.

She swept both blades together, one at thigh height, the other level with his chest. Charoen thrust off the ball of his foot into a forward dive, rotating through the air as he slid between both blades.

Kali’s skin turned green, her uniform to ocher, umber, and gold as she upgraded, but it was too late. She reared back, her weapons in disarray, as Charoen drew his fist back as he dove into her.

He caught a glimpse of her eyes widening as he punched her square in her muscled abdomen.

It felt like punched a cement column that had been wrapped in a thin layer of rubber. But there was true strength behind his punch, and the bones of his wrist and knuckle had been augmented by his new stimpack.

The concussive force of the blow caused the huge Kali to stagger backward, her skin shifting to virulent yellow banded with black and crimson markings. She’d just upgraded to “C” rating, and that within seconds of his entering the trial.

She leaped away, impossibly nimble for her size as Charoen hit the ground, rolled, and came up to veer aside and miss a sword thrust. He hiked up one leg to dodge a spear slash, swayed easily down and under another sword, and flung himself at her anew. The ground beneath his feet was blurring away, the treadmill having accelerated greatly, but still he was able to leap at her, contorting midair to avoid a return slash of the spear. Up he flew, right at her face, to smash his fist across her jaw faster than she could avoid.

Kali staggered back again, her skin shifting now to bone white, her uniform to ivory slashed azure marks.

“B” rank.

Charoen hit the ground and was whisked away by the treadmill’s velocity, so that he tumbled and bounced before finding his footing, upon which he immediately broke off to the left, legs blurring as he ran faster than he’d ever done before, his body heating up, an NDS marker registering at 3% in red in the corner of his vision. He’d no way to tell how fast he was sprinting, but he came around and at Kali’s flank.

She’d reared up, her eyes blazing with fury, and leaped to meet him, all weapons swiping and stabbing at him simultaneously as her thurible slammed into the ground to unleash a chaotic cloud of dense smoke.

Charoen gave himself wholly to instinct. He was screaming, he realized, and as a sword thrust at his sternum he leaped, twisting midair, to roll up the length of the flat of the blade and drape an arm over the hilt to wrest the sword against her wrist and tear it free.

Kali shrieked as her wrist broke and she released the sword.

The blade was huge, easily as large as a claymore, but Charoen wielded it with one hand as he fell, crashed to the speeding floor, rose, and parried a sword thrust.

Sparks flew.

He smashed her blade aside and hurled himself at her again.

Kali retreated before him.

His body was on fire. Sweat was coursing down his face. The blade was weightless in his fist. It danced about him, unleashing a cascade of sparks as he parried spear and blade, as he muscled through the smoke, still able to run faster than the floor could carry him away.

Kali’s skin shifted to blood-red with undulating black stripes, her armor as black as obsidian.

“A” rank.

She pressed forward, met him, and together they shot toward the bay door as he fended off her blows, parried and deflected, but he’d lose if he just remained in place, so Charoen again broke out wide, racing so that his knees felt jellied, his ankles liquid, and ran all out to curve around Kali who turned as she tracked him until she stood between him and the bay door.

And only then did he fling himself at her anew.

Kali sought to slide away, but he darted from side to side, hemming her in. Seizing the huge sword with both hands, he hammered at her, knocking spear and sword aside, and slashed its tip down her flank, tearing open a great bloodless slit in her side.

Kali screamed.

Her entire form turned gold. Golden skin, golden armor, golden eyes, golden weapons. With the bay door rushing up to meet her from behind, she flung the spear at him with such terrible power and precision that he was unable to knock it aside. Its head lodged in his gut, and then her free hand closed about his arm.

Before he could react, the golden Kali twisted all the way around, lifting him off the ground and flung him bodily through the bay door, flying head over heels into the void of space.

The blue VMU field rose up to slam into him, spin around him, again and again, till he came to a stop, gasping and heaving on his side.

He couldn’t catch his breath. Pain throbbed in his stomach where he’d been speared. He felt battered and bruised, his limbs weak and wobbly, his gorge rising, his mouth filled with thick, ropy spit.

With effort he disengaged the helm and pulled it off. His panting was the only sound that filled the training complex. Virgil, Sindre, and Carmine were staring up at the leaderboard where the rest of the team’s rankings were displayed.

His name was already placed at the bottom of the roster, but abruptly the fields next to it flickered as the great AI’s in Shackleton City in the Antarctica processed his performance.

Charoen, opfern: Strength A8, Stamina A3, Speed S1, Reactions S2, Agility S1, Power A9. Gamma 84 hertz (B-ranked, Apex Zone)

“That’s not possible,” croaked Sindre, his voice breaking the silence. “He just suited up. He just got his stimpack. That’s … that’s not possible.”

Virgil began to clap, the sound loud and garish in the silent. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I’m talking about. Show of hands:  who believes in my humble little plan now?”

The rage was receding. Recoiling like a moray eel back into its rocky cave. His body shook, trembled form the aftereffects of the hormonal cascade he’d experienced, and his mind buzzed as his thoughts felt dazed.

Charoen came back to himself. His calm, his rationality.

But now he knew that was a lie. This chill facade was just that: camouflage for what really lay beneath. What he’d become in that trial, that hadn’t felt… that wasn’t Charoen. That hadn’t even felt human.

Charoen gazed down at his shaking palms.

What had Virgil wrought?

Slowly, oh so slowly, he closed his hands into fists.

But there was no denying one fact: it had felt good to attack Kali. To wound her. To drive her back.

It had felt damned good.