Gods of the Game #3, Chapter 5

Jessie burst into the community center just as an ashen-faced Mandeep was serving plates of butter chicken over saffron rice.

The atmosphere between him and Clovinn had grown brittle, her discomfort over sitting with an Echo of her best friend overwhelming the previous tentative connection.

Charoen, aware of the discomfort, found himself unable to dispel it. Instead, he was supremely aware to all the stimulants to be found within the center. The smell of oil and metal from the vehicle hangar; the sizzling sound of cooking and the bright, vivid scents of spices; the hovering disco-ball drone that cast a thousand glints across the walls as it revolved slowly in the silence. The food itself caused his mouth to flood with spit and his stomach to knot up; sure Sindre had said something about his only being ready for food paste, but the aroma coming through the narrow kitchen window called to him in a primal fashion, and made him willing to cast all caution and intestinal care to the wind.

Then the door slammed open to admit Jessie. Pale-faced, trembling, her eyes widen, her hair bound back beneath an olive green bandana, she came to a halt only a few steps into the center and there stood, staring at Charoen.

“Oh shit,” said Clovinn, tone at once apologetic and half-panicked.

Charoen rose slowly to his feet. This wasn’t his sister. His memories were false. Yet still they swarmed him, dozens of moments, a constellation of fragments, her face across the years, her laughter and tears, her ambitions and stupid moments, and over it all like some false aurora borealis his fierce protective instinct, his bloody-minded desire to ensure she was safe at any cost.

Was this love? His throat felt narrowed, his chest tight, and sympathetic pain speared through his heart as he saw her anguish shining so brightly in her eyes. Was this love, or merely its simulacra.

“My brother is dead,” said Jessie.

“Yes.” Charoen had no difficulty admitting as much. Though for the first time the fact saddened him. “He is.”

“You’re not him.” Her voice was raw, threatening to spill into a chasm of panic, of horror, of screams. “You’re not Charoen.”

“I’m just his Echo,” he agreed, but even as he spoke he knew there were no words, no right phrases, nothing that could make this right.

“You…” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “You’re not…” Her face contorted like a paper being scrunched up into a ball. Her tears overflowed. Abruptly she screamed, darted forward, and seized Clovinn’s tray of food to fling it at him.

Instinctive reflexes made him sway aside so the tray missed. Plastic bowls clattered on the floor, food splashing out in warm orange across the linoleum.

“Jessie!” cried Clovinn, moving to interfere, but she froze, her own reflexes admirable as Charoen flung out his hand, bidding her hold back.

Jessie screamed again, hurled the entire table aside and came at him in a flurry of fists. She was the Brutal Deluxe mörderin. Her Strength and Power stats were formidable. Her blows were not to be ignored.

But Charoen chose to just stand there, arms down, and accept her punches. She pummeled him, her blows wild and uncoordinated. Poorly executed and lacking the true strength she could have summoned with proper technique.

It was the sight of her that unnerved him, the sound. Her face was a smear, eyes wide, unseeing, her mouth drawn into a snarl as she screamed, again and again, the sounds torn from her soul, her arms blurring. Dull pain blossomed across his chest. She wasn’t trying to hurt him, specifically, rather trying to demolish the nightmare she found herself in.

So he took the blows.

Staggered back as she whaled on him again and again, till at last she ran out of steam and staggered back, shoulders heaving far more than her Stamina rating should have allowed, her face streaked with misery and wetness, her eyes raw, only for her face to crumple again in pure misery as she covered it with her hands.

Clovinn stood to one side, Mandeep having burst out of the kitchen and frozen behind her, both horrified and uncertain.

Charoen stared at his dead self’s sister. Thought of her laughing as a young girl as she’d sprinted through a field of rusted satellites and sunflowers, a feeble kite he’d made for her barely lifting into the sky, her laughter more precious in that moment than any amount of rations he could steal.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

“No,” she moaned. “You’re dead. You’re dead. I saw you die.”

“He’s dead,” agreed Charoen softly. “I don’t know who I am. But think of this as him hugging you through me.”

Jessie’s shoulders hitched again and then she began sobbing in earnest, her cheek to his aching chest, her arms slipping around him as she hugged in tight.

For a moment they remained thus, and then she tore herself free and fled the community center.

“I’ll go after her,” said Clovinn and raced after.

Charoen frowned out at nothing, then slowly lowered his gaze to his hands. The skin so smooth, missing the flecks of scars he intuited should be there, and strangely pale.

And though Mandeep moved hesitantly to collect the fallen tray and dishes, Charoen could feel the man’s heavy gaze upon him. He turned to meet it. The Sikh slowed and stopped while down on one knee, one bowl in hand.

The silence grew heavy.

Finally Mandeep broke it. “Charoen was a good man. A man of honor. If you are him in any respect, then you should end your life. Echoes are assault on the creative work of God. Human life is sacred. You should not be here.”

Then the man turned away to resume cleaning the mess away.

Charoen frowned at Mandeep, but felt no urge to respond. Instead he inhaled deeply, rubbed at his bruised chest, and departed the community center as well.

The sun had risen marginally higher in the sky, but already the day felt more arid. Familiar figures had emerged from the dormitories to stand in clusters by their front doors. Brutal Deluxe players. The massive Samira, the orange-haired Fireball, the albino Langley.

There was no sign of Jessie or Clovinn.

Virgil limped out of the medical center. He surveyed the scene, his expression complacent, then beckoned to Charoen.

Who, not having a better course of action, strode down the dusty path to follow Virgil inside.

The air within was cool, the lighting bleak, the transport vat already gone. Dr. Bierhals was at his desk, his expression one of dissatisfaction. Virgil ignored him to limp over to a stool and there sit.

“Doctor, do you think you can remain silent while Charoen and I have a chat? If not, I’d ask you to excuse us.”

Dr. Bierhals stood. “I doubt I’d be able to refrain from commentary.” He nodded to Charoen, his expression tight and hard, and departed.

The door closed automatically behind him.

“Ah, here we are, then.” Virgil placed both hands over the head of his walking stick. He looked even worse than before, his skin waxen, his face carved with deep lines of either pain or fatigue. “Our second chat. If you want to go ahead and do a little bitching, to get some complaints off your chest, I’m all ears.”

Charoen crossed his arms. He realized he was more curious than angry.

“No?” Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Nothing about poor Jessie and her trauma? What about your own lack of agency here? Though I guess you’ve reclaimed some measure of it by coming back? Nothing?”

Charoen just eyed the man. He felt patient. Wise. Cold.

“What about my own perfidy? I am, after all, a perfidious man.” Virgil grinned and spread his arms. “No accusations about my playing god, my breaking the bounds of morality, my selfishness…?”

Still Charoen remained quiet.

“Huh.” Virgil lowered his arms. “How delightfully surprising. I thought we’d have at least a few rounds of shouting. Remember how the dead you punched me in the face when he realized my machinations with Beatrice? Right after our first big win and entrance to the Minor Leagues? I guess you’re more even keeled than he was.”

“I remember,” said Charoen, a ghost of that old anger and outrage returned to him.

“Very well.” Virgil studied him. “You’re here. That says something. You’ve weathered your first encounter with Jessie. Had a nice moment with Clovinn. Apologies for Mandeep’s words. Yes, I overhead them. I’ll have a word with him later. We warned him to remain quiet, but religious types. They see it as a personal imperative to remain true to their creed. Can’t really blame them, I suppose. The point being: you’re still here. Which is a fact I’m ready to read into.”

“And deduce what?”

“That you’re up for some fun.” Virgil smiled. “To receive your stimpack, to begin training, to see just what you can do. Am I right? Did you just feel a little frisson of excitement at the prospect of putting on your Virtual Mobility Unit and seeing what your new stats might be? I mean, I could check one of those monitors to find out, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

Charoen studied the man. His words were like sea foam. Not quite blather, but more akin to a distraction than anything else. It was in his eyes that he saw the real message. That’s where Virgil’s brutal intent truly revealed itself.

“You’re a remarkable man, Virgil.”

“Am I now?” Virgil affected surprise. “Am I to be complimented instead of punched? Now that I didn’t foresee.”

“You’ve made this happen. All of this. You made Brutal Deluxe. And you’ve dragged it all the way into the Premiere League. All the while you’ve been suffering. You’re in pain right now, aren’t you?”

Virgil’s smile smoothed away.

“A lot of pain,” continued Charoen. “But you don’t let it stop you. Now you’re slotting me into place. A prime Echo. You’re sad Charoen died, but… not displeased. You think I’m a better piece. I’ll do what he couldn’t do, and do it better. You just need to navigate me through this initial phase of… what are you calling it? Emotional nonsense? Unavoidable drama?”

Virgil smirked. “You’re less like Charoen by each moment.”

“Because I’m not Charoen. I thought I was this way, was different from how I remember myself being, because of the sedatives. But now I think maybe I’m this way just because that’s who I am.”

“Calm, collected, thoughtful, perceptive.” Virgil smiled. “What’s not to like?”

“You’re wrong. I’m not calm and collected. Inside here?” Charoen touched his chest. “There’s a lot more going on. But you’re right. I’m curious. I want to see a little more before I make a real decision. I’m a race horse. I want to run once or twice around the track before I decide whether or not I like being alive.”

“Oh, I think you’ll like it,” grinned Virgil. “How could you not? Charoen was the most talented krieg chess player since his father, and you’re him on steroids. You’ll take to it like a sex addict to a brothel. If that’s your test, well. Let me assure you that it’s going to go very, very well.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Charoen took a step forward, and was amused to notice Virgil flinch ever so slightly. “I know I’ll be good at it. I know it’ll feel good. If anything, I think you’re underestimating what I can do. I’m not curious about whether I’ll be good at or enjoy krieg chess. I’m curious about how I’ll feel about that enjoyment. About who the experience will show me to be. You don’t actually understand me, Virgil. You think you do, even now, but you’re wrong.”

Virgil went to speak but then cut himself off, and instead made a polite showing of continuing to listen.

“What I can sense in here?” Again Charoen touched his chest. “It’s alien to me. To my understanding of myself. My self as Charoen. He didn’t have this, or at best, he only had a fraction of it. And when I unleash it, when I see what it is this fire can do, only then will I begin to understand who I am. What you’ve made me. And only then will I decide if I want to keep living.”

“Very well. Nice speech.” Virgil grinned again, though the expression didn’t touch his eyes. “Suitably ominous and intimidating. I’m shook! But what I’m hearing is that you’re ready for your stimpack. That about the long and short of it?”

Charoen allowed himself a quiet smile. “Sure. If that’s what you’re willing to take from what I just said, so be it.”

“Great!” Virgil clapped his hands. “Because you’ll be delighted and absolutely shocked to hear that I’ve coincidentally come into the possession of a massively modified Horizon Dynamics stimpack. Oh yes, even better than our ol’ Inauen-Morf units. This baby’s a monster, and I’ve gone ahead and had it modified to my specifications. I think it would literally kill just about anyone else on the team other than maybe Samira, but on you?” Virgil let out a low whistle. “It’ll be like throwing gasoline onto a funeral pyre before tossing the torch. Whoomph!” He raised his hands, eyes going wide. “It’s going to be quite the light show. Now, Dr. Bierhals is going to make a stink about it, but that’s what he does, am I right? In the end, however, he’ll do what he’s told, which is why he’s here in the first place. There’s nothing wrong, after all, with inserting a stimpack with a Compatibility Index of 100%, is there?”

Charoen just stared at the man.

“No, the answer is that no, there isn’t.” Virgil stood with great effort. “I’ve just pinged him. He’ll be back shortly. I’ve already told him to skip the lectures. You already heard them in your last life. Instead, we’ll move right into prepping your body for surgery and then get that pack on your neck as soon as possible. After all, we’ve only got a month till the start of the Premiere League season.”

“A month?” Charoen tried to discern why he wasn’t surprised.

“Yes, yes.” Virgil flapped a hand at him as he limped toward the front door. “Woe is me, only a month, how am I supposed to integrate, etcetera, etcetera. But there’s a silver lining there, too.” He stopped to look back. “If there was more time, the rest of the team might decide to quit or revolt or some such nonsense. This way, we can keep them nice and numb and in shock till the first game. After which, well.” Virgil’s eyes gleamed. “They’ll see just what an asset ol’ Charoen can be.”

Charoen tongued the inside of his cheek and said nothing.

“No response?” Virgil chuckled. “How disappointing. I guess this version of you will be less fun than I’d hoped. Ah well. You can’t have anything. See you in a few days, Charoen.”

And he quit the medical center just as Bierhals entered.

The doctor turned to watch the könig depart, then shook his head and strode over to his desk, where he sat and pressed his fingertips to his temples, eyes closed.

“Why are you agreeing to this if it distresses you so much?” asked Charoen, curious despite himself.

Bierhals roused himself. “It literally doesn’t matter. Here I am. Here you are. Both of us dancing to Virgil’s tune.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a small black case. Pressed his thumb to a small catch, and when it unlocked, opened the lid to reveal the Horizon Dynamics stimpack encased within molded foam within. It was matt black with faint traceries of gold circuitry visible across its sleek surface.

“Virgil can only outrun his personal fate for so long.” Bierhals’ tone had turned musing as he drew the stimpack out and turned it so that it gleamed in the bright light. “But any satisfaction we might derive from that is mitigated by his own awareness of his impending doom. Ah well. We shall play our parts for a little longer.”

Charoen studied the doctor, and saw there bitterness and resignation, hatred and horror. “You can simply refuse.”

“Can I though?” Bierhals leaned back in his chair to eye him back. “And leave the implementation to someone less qualified? I suppose I could. But there are other factors at play. Personal reasons to do what Virgil asks.” His smile was savage, humorless. “You don’t think the good könig would employ a doctor over whom he had no outside leverage, do you?”

Charoen made no response.

“So.” Bierhals’ tone turned business-like. “We’ll have to ensure your body is ready to receive both the socket and stimpack, but that’s easily done. You’re at your physical prime, and most of the process is automated and safe. I’ll monitor you after the stimpack is implemented and do my best to prevent catastrophic shock as it begins to augment you far beyond what anybody should reasonably experience from their first stimpack.” Bierhals’ tone grew mock-amused. “Why accept the natural protocol of upgrading a human body through the normal ranks of SCI when we can instead just throw you carelessly into the deep end? What’s the literal worst that can happen?”

“Death?” asked Charoen.

“Ha!” Bierhals’ laughter was savage bark. “No, that’s not the literal worst. A living death where your nervous system is permanently haywire and ever second a true hell is probably worse than that. Speaking of, I’d have you sign some DNR’s and other forms giving me authority to euthanize you in case of a disaster, but with Virgil around, what’s the point?”

It sounded like a rhetorical question.

Bierhals removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “My apologies,” he said at last. “This is… a trying experience for us both.”

With a sigh the doctor replaced his glasses and gestured to the chirugeon bed. “Go ahead. Strip and lie down. We can at the very least begin with the preliminaries, even if they are formalities. The chirugeon will no doubt wish to ensure that you are sufficiently fortified to withstand the procedure, but once it deems you ready, we shall begin.”

Charoen moved over the gleaming metal bed, where he stripped and lay down. For awhile Bierhals tapped away at his screens, then he rose, donned gloves, and moved to engage the bed’s systems.

“Dr. Bierhals?”

The doctor paused and glanced at him.

“I forgive you.”

The older man frown. “You what?”

“I don’t know if you need to hear it, but in case you do, know that I forgive you for your role in all this. Don’t feel guilt on my account.”

Dr. Bierhals stared at him blankly, and then, though his expression remained inscrutable, his chest hitched rapidly a couple of times in a row. Finally he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and grimaced. At long last he raised his face, and in his gaze was such a depth of pain and sorrow that Charoen momentarily felt lost at the other man’s compassion and grief.

“That’s very kind of you to say. Now. Let us begin.”