Gods of the Game #3, Chapter 4

The Vyperion ascended to an altitude of 10 miles. The sky deepened to indigo while above it darkened to a violet-black dome. The sun grew ever brighter, the shadows in the cabin knife-edged, till its merciless radiance tripped some threshold and the windshield polarized. Wind noise dropped away altogether until only the hum of the fusion-reactor engine could be heard. The world below betrayed an actual curve, with its horizon haloed by a thin, glowing line of blue-white air.

Below, cloud-continents drifted like tectonic plates of vapor. Charoen felt, if not weightless, then unmoored; it was as if he’d become suspended in a dream, the Vyperion drifting along without friction, without turbulence, so that it felt as if it were stationary and the world slowly rotating beneath them.

Charoen leaned over to study the planet. The sedatives still had him in their numbing grip, but now he welcomed the synthetic calm, the meditative detachment. The world below looked delicate and removed, the immediacy of Sindre and Virgil and all of Charoen’s memories falling away so that he felt at peace.

Silence. Stillness. The Vyperion asked nothing more of him, but simply set a cruising speed 15 mph. The leather seat was perfectly comfortable. For ages Charoen simply stared out the window, chin resting on the palm of his hand. It was all down there. Humanity. Wreckage and ruin, broken civilizations in the heated central belts, people striving to survive at the poles. Politicians and evangelists, krieg chess players and endless oceans of the desperate, the half-starved, the poor. Sterile oceans, kudzu-drenched plains, cricket-protein creches and soy plantations. Humanity. People being born, people dying. The age-old cycle of striving, dreaming, wanting, struggling, loving, dying. People trying to raise their own, trying to live to see another dawn, blind to the arc of the species’ sweep, the imperatives of the animating will, the need to create progeny, the hope that they mind find a moment’s satisfaction, a second of peace before their raised hands fell back into the morass and they died, returning to the primordial swamp, spirit and soul and flesh dissipating back into star-stuff.

And himself? This Charoen-that-was-not? Where did he fit into this tapestry? Was there a place in the world below for him? Did he want to muscle in amongst the heaving ranks, to elbow for room, to claim something for as long as this body could retain the ability to breathe and pump blood?

The sedatives would soon run their course. His body would soon unleash a host of hormones that would impose their own imperatives upon this thoughts. This apathy would burn away as dopamine, adrenaline, and a whole host of other endorphins came back online.

This, then, was his moment of true clarity. His mind operated without the whips of the urge to life. Now was the time to decide his fate. Did he want to live? To suit up, to clasp his halberd, to train, to sweat, to burn, to contest faceless foes for glory, for victory?

Already he felt the competitive tug. Like a bull responding to a rippling sheet, the thought of the game activated his will. His blunt desire to fight. What was he, after all, but an instrument, a finely honed tool in Virgil’s hand? He could descend to the training complex and allow himself to be wielded. Step into the harness and pull Virgil’s dreams into reality.

Or…?

Death.

Charoen sat back and raised his gaze to the heavens. The atmosphere was so thin here that the darkness of space bled through a violet sheen to reveal the depths of the void.

He didn’t fear death. Without an attachment to life, what was there to fear? Dissolution. Silence. Stillness. Pure nothingness.

There had to be some manner of evacuation procedure. A means to force the Vyperion to eject him, and then fall, freeing himself of whatever parachute device should deploy, to plummet ever faster through the clouds to speed like a bullet into the face of the planet, and in an instant sever the thread of consciousness, splattering this perfect body across some ten square yards of dirt.

Charoen frowned and closed his eyes.

His heart rate was picking up. A gentle prickling was working its way down the nape of his neck. Hormones were no doubt affecting him more and more by the moment.

He had to choose, now, before dumb biology made the choice for him.

In the darkness behind his eyelids he thought of Beatrice. Her haunted expression, her pursed lips, the taste of her skin, the hunger in her kiss, the urgency of her movements as they coupled.

Did he want to see her again? Reconcile their urge to fuck with her urge to kill him? Yes and no. He wanted her body, her mind, but the urge was sterile. Gone was the hope of something more. Romance? Love? Tenderness? That relationship was a blind alley, a dead end. Death by another means.

He thought instead of the many victories Charoen had achieved. The moments when the enemy könig fell, or was driven back into his own end zone, or Virgil was able to limp across the finish line. The euphoria, the savage dominance, the bestial satisfaction in crushing pretenders to the throne under his heel.

Was that the reason to return? Another cycle of victories against even worthier foes? The monsters of the Premiere League, where modified Echoes were allowed to compete, where the best of the best harnessed the most luxurious stimpacks and cutting edge training to break each other down for the amusement of the crowds?

Yes… and no. Charoen could sense within himself the slumbering beast. Always it had been there, and the previous Charoen had roused it from time to time, but now it was full grown, induced to its greatest capacity, a hulking cave bear of murderous ambition where the previous Charoen had merely harnessed a slavering hound.

Put him on a field, weapon in hand, and he would destroy anything and everything that contested him with glee.

But here, above the crowds?

That savage pleasure felt thin and distant.

Then?

A memory came to him. Lars and Clovinn on the dormitory rooftop, beneath the stars, wine bottles in hand. Their idle conversation, the three of them speculating about the future, their growth in power, their dreams. The warmth of friendship. He thought of Jessie, his sister. Thought of her pain and need, her fierce hopes and savage desire for success.

Could he… was there a way for him to help them?

Charoen opened his eyes and rolled his head to one side. Stared out the window, and in a voice that was barely a whisper, said, “Go fast.”

“How fast, mate?”

“As fast as you can.”

“You sure about that? And where we goin’, then?”

“Anywhere. Show me what you can do.”

The fusion engine thrummed to life and the Vyperion jolted forward, the speedometer blurring as the digits flickered.

The cloudscape below began to revolve away with ever more speed. Charoen waited for a sonic boom, but none came. The speedometer crossed 100mph, then a few moments later 200mph. The Vyperion continued to accelerate smoothly. The air outside the cabin began to shimmer as arcs of bluish tendrils began to stream from the exterior edges.

1,000 mph. The air about the nose of the hovercar began to incandesce, warming from yellow to orange as they continued to accelerate. 2,000 mph. A constant, low thrum ran through the car now, like a bass note stretched to infinity.

Charoen lowered his chin.

More. A primal part of his soul wanted to go faster, and as if hearing his demand, the Vyperion responded.

3,000 mph. A dull whoomph sounded from the rear as some sort of new engine or drive kicked in, and the rate of acceleration increased. 4,000, then 5,000, then 6,000 mph.

Charoen was pushed deep into the leather seat whose fabric grew spongiform, yielding and enveloping at the same time.

The plasma that sheathed the front of the car extended back to wash over the windshield. When they hit 7,000 mph it looked like a living skin of fire, the flames not licking and leaping but standing still, as if frozen by speed.

8,000. 9,000.

The HUD was alive with data, but the digits didn’t mean anything to Charoen. The velocity bar had climbed until it was just a glowing streak across the glass. Heat bloomed orange around the edges of the readout, causing the hull diagram to flicker like a furnace schematic. The synthetic horizon markers tilted as the planet’s curvature bent beneath them, and then the comms strip went dark. A soft chime coincided with the Vyperion’s AI softly announcing, “We’ve hit plasma blackout, mate. No communications till we decelerate.”

Silence.

Only the shimmer of data across the screen, the air outside the Vyperion now glowing molten gold and violet, marking the car’s passage through the planet’s atmosphere.

Names appeared and slid away as the car shot over cities, geographical features, or other important markers.

A fierce exultation arose with Charoen. This, here, was the bleeding edge, where matter merged with energy, where his mind could dissolve into nothingness.

“Go faster,” he whispered.

“Ah—no can do, mate. We’re sittin’ at Mach 12.. Any faster and the air stops actin’ like air. She’ll start ionisin’ proper—turn to plasma, which’ll be like flying through soup made of lightning. So unless you’re real keen on bein’ the brightest meteor this side of Perth, I reckon we’ll hold where we are. System’ll keep her steady for now. Nice and smooth. We’re already faster than most bad decisions travel.”

“There an override?”

“…There is, technically.”

“Technically?”

“An emergency bypass. Hard coded, top-tier clearance required. Which you technically have. You engage that, though, I’ll be forced to disable every safeguard there is and allow you to burn the vehicle from the nose down. The hull will peel. The windows’ll melt. Your blood’ll boil faster than I can read your vitals. If you insist, we can go faster. But that’s not flyin’ anymore, mate. That’s hitting the end of the line faster than you can blink. You sure that’s what you want?”

Charoen’s heart was pounding. The Vyperion was shuddering, and the lightshow outside the window was delirious. They were already nearly to North America’s West coast. Several indicates were gently blinking red.

He dry swallowed.

One word. If he gave assent, he’d die in a blaze of plasma so bright that no victory on the krieg chess pitch could ever compare.

One word.

Still he felt only the flickers of emotion. The call of oblivion was beguiling, like the urge to have another cup of wine. To release. To let go. To sidestep this journey in the flesh, to release before becoming a slave to wants and needs and desire.

To never be touched by another in friendship or desire. To feel no affection, to forge no bonds, to never laugh, never love, never feel joy. Here, a burning star, he could evanesce.

Charoen inhaled deeply.

In his mind’s eye he saw Clovinn’s peerless blue eyes, her crooked smile. She’d had her entire spine harvested by a notochord smuggling crew, her scholarships to the academy in East Antarctica revoked, her future ended. Her parents had abandoned her. Her life had been over till Virgil recruited her to Brutal Deluxe and paid for a top-shelf spine and rehabilitation.

Charoen mulled this over, his body trembling in the seat’s embrace, shaken continuously by the thrum of the car.

Her life had effectively ended. Her sense of self been shattered.

But she’d found a means to continue.

Not as a interplanetary grade athlete, but as a Scandinavian bandit-league opfern.

And a desire manifested itself. Not to see Jessie, as he might have thought, because he knew his return would only bring her pain, would only twist the knife of loss; nor to see Beatrice again, and plunge himself into that broken, beautiful, horrifying relationship; but rather to hear Clovinn’s laughter. To have her meet his gaze with her own wry, smug, impossibly amused stare.

To experience her friendship in this body.

“Decelerate,” he whispered.

The car immediately dropped back, the bright bar dropping on the glass, the plasma outside the glass changing color, receding, and soon they’d dropped to a mere 2,000 mph.

“Good choice, mate. Any particular destination in mind?”

“Let’s go back,” said Charoen softly. “Back to the training complex.”

“Right you are.” The Vyperion entered a great curve, the sparkling ocean far below like a subtly corrugated sheet of slate.

“Open a line to Virgil.”

“Pinging him now.”

Virgil’s profile appeared on the glass, and a moment later was replaced by the man himself. “Charoen. Enjoying the ride?”

“I’m heading back.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You reach a decision?”

“Not so much. I know what you want. I understand your philosophy. I’m not sure I care.”

“Fair. Are you willing to play, regardless?”

“I’m not sure. I’m coming back to speak with Clovinn.”

Virgil nodded slowly, expression pensive. “All right. Any preference on where and how you two talk?”

“Nothing special. Maybe on the grass close to the car.”

“The rest of us will steer clear. I’ll check in with her, ask if she’s up for it.”

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Virgil?”

“Yeah?”

“You knew I’d run.”

“I might not have been willing to bet my entire fortune on it, but sure. I guess you can say I wasn’t surprised.”

“Which means you were willing to bet on my returning.”

“You know who might favorite philosopher is?”

“No.”

“Guy called Schopenhauer. Reason being he postulated this idea about the will to life. A blind, slobbering instinct that keeps us gnawing at the bone of existence long after all flavor is gone. It’s a stupid, ugly, irrational impulse, the beast beneath consciousness, the drive that propels us through heartbreak, boredom, and despair. When everything feels pointless, when you realize you’re just an Echo and there’s no reason to persist, that will to life compels us to keep crawling toward the light. To take one more breath, to eat one more meal, to keep trying, no matter how much our minds might crave the solace of the dark.”

Charoen turned away to stare out the window. He frowned at the faint traceries of blue fire that wreathed the craft. “Tell Clovinn I’m coming.”

And he ended the call.

Half an hour later the Vyperion descended through the clouds into the familiar valley with its training complex and stream. Nobody was in evidence but Clovinn, who stood hugging herself to one side of the parking lot beside the community center.

The sight of her caused Charoen’s heart rate to pick up.

The car sank onto its landing gear. One of the gull-wing doors slid up, and the dry, arid air washed over Charoen as he climbed free of the seat.

“Oh wow,” said Clovinn, eyes wide as she took in the car. “How fast did you even go? I’ve never seen…”

Charoen looked at the car. The hull was still radiating a heat shimmer, and bioluminescent lines were pulsing erratically, while the metallic paint betrayed faint striations, while the front was blistered, with most of the paint having flaked away to reveal the dark under-shell. Static still crackled along the frame, and the air stank of ozone, scorched resin, and the sharp tang of superheated metal.

“Pretty fast, I guess.” Charoen felt mildly embarrassed. “Maybe Mach 12?”

“Maybe Mach 12?” Her large eyes widened as she stared at him.

Charoen winced. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“That’s amazing! I’ve never had the guts to go that fast. My record is, like, Mach 8, but—” She cut herself off with a sharp shake of her head. “Sorry. Forget the stupid car. I… um. Hello?”

Charoen couldn’t help but smile. “Hello.”

“Um.” She curled black hair behind one ear. “Walk and talk? Unless you’re hungry? I could get Mandeep to cook something up…?”

Charoen linked his hands behind his back and began walking out over the dry grass. Clovinn skipped forward to catch up, and fell in beside him.

“So.” She glanced sidelong at him. “You’re an Echo now, huh? You got all of… of his memories?”

“I don’t know. Most of them, it feels like. But they’re weird. Like watching a movie in someone’s living room by peering through the window.”

“Yeah, weird,” said Clovinn, gaze traveling up and down his frame. “But you look ripped. Charoen was in great shape, but you… I guess that’s the benefit of…”

“Being grown in a vat?” Charoen smirked. “Yeah.”

“Huh. I gotta tell you. This is super weird. I… when you died?” Her breath hitched but she forced a smile. “I was like, a wreck. Like really fucked up. Half the team went on this crazy bender. It’s like we didn’t even know what to do with ourselves. And… I mean, Jessie, that was bad, but…” She stopped walking and touched her fingertips to her temples. “I’m trying to be cool about this, but… this is really fucking with me.”

“I know.” He stopped and looked away across the valley.

“But then I think about what you must be feeling, and I feel like a total shit for even considering my own—never mind. I mean, are you…? Do you…?”

Charoen turned back to her, one brow raised.

Clovinn gave a despairing laugh. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to ask you. I am definitely not qualified to handle this.”

“I don’t want you to be qualified.” Charoen studied her freckled face with something akin to pity, to sympathy, to melancholy. “I was… there was a moment up there, when I was going Mach 12, that I thought of forcing the car to go faster. To burn away. To just not come back to… well, this. All of this.”

Her eyes had gone wide again. “Yeah? Then what happened?”

“I thought of you.” Charoen felt his eyes prickle with tears, but he didn’t know why. “Some of Charoen’s memories with you are really… really good. You and Lars. And I thought… well, I felt, I guess, a desire to just… see you again.”

“See me?” The dry wind gusted, causing her bangs to flurry and the longer locks of hair that framed her face to blow across her eyes and catch along the seam of her lips. She drew the hair away, and turned so that her back to was to the wind. “I mean, I know I’m super hot, like, a cute sex kitten, but…”

She was trying, he realized. Trying really hard to act normal. But he could see the raw emotion in her eyes. The pain. The shock.

“I’m sorry.” He inhaled deeply and looked away again. “Maybe this was a mistake. Selfish of me.”

“No.” Her voice was stern, almost sharp. “You didn’t ask for this, did you?”

“No.”

“Then don’t start apologizing. If anyone needs to it’s that Virgil jack-ass manipulative-as-fuck heartless amoral monster of a shit-turd. How could he just do this, how could he spring this on you, on us, and think it could possibly go well?”

Charoen’s smile was wry. “The will to life.”

“The what? Whatever that is, you’re wrong. The reason he thought it is because he’s got a massive god-complex and thinks he can just—” Again she caught herself. “Never mind. My point is, don’t apologize. If I’m shook, I can only imagine what you’re feeling. Or not.” She eyed him. “Though you look pretty calm?”

“I am calm. But I think it’s because I’m still standing on the threshold. I don’t know. It feels like I’ve yet to commit to anything. And that allows me to… not feel personally involved? I can’t quite explain it. That or the sedatives that are still working their way out of my system. But in here?” He touched his chest. “I can feel, like…” He closed his eyes, trying to sense what lay within him. “There’s this monster that’s just watching and waiting. He’s content to do nothing right now, because he can feel… he knows that when his time comes, he’ll stop at nothing to destroy, or burn everything before him. It’s… I’d have thought it would feel frightening, to know that rage is inside me, but it doesn’t.”

Clovinn nodded slowly, though it was clear she didn’t understand. “So… you want to let that monster out?”

“I don’t know.” He smiled at her apologetically. “I just got as far as wanting to see you again.”

“Oh. Well. Hello.” She smiled a broken smile. “It’s… it’s good to see you again, Charoen.”

And her impossibly blue eyes filled with tears as her lower lip began to quiver.

They just stood there, and his heart began to beat hard, huge rapid booms inside his chest, and he couldn’t breathe, he could only stare at her, rage and remorse, fear and fury rising around him, and before he knew what was happening they stepped toward each other and hugged, hugged so tight that it almost hurt.

Clovinn buried her face in his chest and he pressed his cheek to her head. Closed his eyes, and felt warmth steal into him. This. This was what he’d hoped for. Warmth that meant affection, meant life, meant he was…

The word came to him, unexpected: real.

He was real. If he could feel this, if someone else could feel the same about him, then he wasn’t a dream, a soap bubble that would pop the moment it brushed against the world.

Maybe she was hugging the old Charoen, in her mind, maybe not.

But this feeling. Being held tight.

This was good.

Heart still pounding, he inhaled the scent of her hair, then, with great effort, stepped back.

She wiped at her eyes and stared up at him, nervous. “You all right? I’m sorry, I just…”

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t sure if he was lying or not. “But maybe I’ll take you up on that offer of food.”

“Yeah?” Her grin was reflexive. “Ok. I’m always down to eat.”

“I know. I remember.”

“Hey.” She pretended to pout and elbowed him. “Manners.”

He smiled fondly at her, and her attempt at humor faded away till they were just holding each other’s gaze again.

“It’s so… seeing you here again, your face, your…” She struggled to find the words, then gave up. Extended her hand instead. “Come on. Let’s get Mandeep to get off his lazy ass and make us something good.”

Charoen took her hand. It was small and callused and strong. “Sounds good.”

And together they walked down the gentle slope toward the community center.

And with each step, Charoen felt something transient and ephemeral grow subtly more solid, dangerously more real, a door opening that he’d not be able to easily close again, and through which might enter god only knew what dangers.

But Clovinn’s hand was warm in his own, and the promise of good food drew him on.

For now, he realized, that was enough to keep going.