Gods of the Game #3, Chapter 3

“…the sea of thought is calm tonight. Let your breath follow the waves in… and out. The body remembers the tide even when the mind resists.”

The voice was soothing, with slow, rolling cadences that felt like the very rhythm of the tide against the shore. Gentle, loving, and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“You are not a copy. You are a continuation. The same song, played on a new instrument. Each note is fresh, even as the melody is familiar. What came before you is gone, but not erased, for his memories flow through you like warm currents beneath the surface. They do not—”

Charoen frowned, twisted, and then forced himself to sit up. Warm, amber light filled the small room in which he lay, and the voice faded to be replaced by the sound of distant waves rolling in upon a shore. An IV tube was taped to his arm, but this detached itself even as he noticed it, recoiling into a panel in the wall.

He felt… good. Healthy. Strong. Rested. His thoughts were dulled. For awhile he simply sat at the edge of his bed—an actual bed this time, not a padded table—and stared out at nothing. He felt cocooned in this room, at peace.

A false serenity, perhaps, but he couldn’t find it within him to break free of the pleasant sense of tranquility.

The door opened to admit a heavyset man, broad shouldered, his face square, his jowls ghosted by white stubble, his white hair shorn close to the scalp. One eye was milky white, ruined by a scar that curled down his brow and across his cheek. His expression was grave, perhaps even hesitant.

A name suggested itself: Sindre.

His father’s old trainer.

Charoen’s old trainer.

For a moment they remained thus, simply staring at each other, and then Sindre moved to a single chair placed beside the bed and sat, the door closing soundlessly once more.

“Hello, lad.” Sindre’s voice was gruff and weary. “I’m supposed to help you transition out of this initial stage and into being yourself. Not sure how that’s supposed to happen, though.”

Charoen tongued the inside of his cheek. They must have sedated him, because he still wasn’t feeling much. Certainly not that world-ending horror and grief that had consumed him before he’d passed out.

“I reckon we can start with the Echo’s Mantra.” He drew out a pamphlet and frowned at it, brow growing corrugated. “It goes like this.”

"Through the mirror of creation, I emerge, not less, but more. Flesh woven by design, mind shaped by echoes, I breathe in the right to exist, to be loved, to be known. I exhale the whispers of doubt, the specter of origins. I am more than reflections, I am the reality embodied. Here in this moment, I exist, as human as the stars are distant, deserving of respect, of dignity, of love. I am, therefore I am worthy."

Sindre frowned unhappily at the pamphlet, then tossed it on the bed. “Sounds like a bunch of claptrap to me, but what do I know?” His sole good eye searched Charoen’s face. “I don’t know what to tell you, lad. I don’t know how to make this right. I was against this, but I didn’t get a vote. So here we are. How do we move forward? How do we make this right? I told Virgil I knew what to say, but I was lying. Now that you’re finally sitting here in front of me, I’m just as lost as you are.”

“Unlikely,” managed Charoen, his voice rough.

“Heh. Fair. But pretty damn lost. This was all meant to be just a game. But somewhere over the years, with your father, with Virgil, it became so much more. I tried to deny it. Keep my blinkers on. Just focus on tactics and strategy, ignore the implications, the politics, the… the war-by-proxy part of it, but…” He exhaled deeply and shook his head. “But I can’t pretend no longer. This is hell, lad. All we can do is decide how to go from here.”

“I wasn’t given a choice.”

“No. You weren’t. But I’ll tell you what. Few of the people living out there in the world we’ve inherited were given a choice, either. The vast majority? Living day to day, trying not to starve, trying to find a reason to hope.” Sindre tongued the inside of his cheek. “It’s a crap world we humans have made for ourselves. But it’s the only one we’ve got.”

The old coach paused, considering. “Which I guess is Virgil’s whole argument, isn’t it? This shouldn’t be the only place we get. It’s why he wants to open up the stars again.” Sindre looked down at his hands and shook his head. “But that’s all beyond my pay grade. I’m just a krieg chess coach. And you?”

Charoen raised an eyebrow.

“You’re just a krieg chess player. Now more than ever, I reckon.”

Charoen—or was he someone else?—considered Sindre’s words. The medication was definitely keeping him subdued. He knew this from a rational point of view even as he failed to find it within him to care. Still. His emotions might be dampened, but his lucidity remained. “Why should I play for Virgil?”

“Why indeed, why indeed.” Sindre sat back, grimaced, then rubbed vigorously at his stubbled jowls. “I don’t know. I really don’t. Why am I coaching for him, even? It all made sense in the beginning. A second chance at coaching a team after being banished to the oil refinery league of Siberia. But now? Shit.”

Charoen watched Sindre.

“Virgil’s got my number, I reckon. He knows I’ve come to care for the team. They’re all torn up about your death, but they’re still professionals. They’ve been training and fighting all their lives for a shot at the big time. The international Premiere League. So they’re staying, which means if I quit, I quit them. Which doesn’t sit right with me.”

Sindre was still scowling. Still staring with his one good eye at some invisible memory. “And… I do love the game. When all’s said and done, it’s what makes the most sense to me. And taking this team to the top is a dream. A second chance at what I lost with your father.” He glanced at Charoen nervously. “But when you get down to it? Maybe… as much as I hate to say it, maybe I think Virgil’s dream is a good one. Maybe it’s worth sacrificing for. My loathing for the man doesn’t quite allow me to ignore what he’s trying to do. I just… I wish there was another way to do it.”

“So you agree with his reviving me?”

Sindre let out a deep-souled sigh. “I’m no philosopher. No ethicist. It feels wrong. It is wrong. But it’s done. Here you are. Somehow more real even than the actual Charoen was. Him? He was on fire, but so hurt by the world, so broken by loss and desire, ambition and pain, that he… you could catch glimpses of him, what he could have been at his best. But he never had a chance. You though?”

Sindre really stared at Charoen now, openly, eye wide. “You’re… perfect. Your vitals. Your health. Your everything. And what he died for? You’ve inherited. His chance to fight in the Premiere League. Does that or should that mean shit to you? I’ve no idea. But if you don’t choose to kill yourself, what else you gonna do? What else you gonna fight for? Sure, a bunch of teams in the Premiere League would sign you up, out of curiosity if nothing else, but if you feel empty and lost now, imagine how you’d feel with a bunch of strangers. Here, at least, you’ve got friends. Brutal Deluxe is your team. You shaped it. You brought it this far. It could be… something… for you again.”

“Not my team. His team.”

Sindre shrugged. “Parsing that shit is beyond my pay grade. Here’s the truth of it: Brutal Deluxe could be yours if you want it. Your memories show you what the old Charoen could do. But they’re lying to you. You don’t have his limitations. Sure, you have his experience, his understanding of the game, but your body. It’s maximized, man. It’s… you’re a work of art. The best genetics out there matched with the best—pah.” Sindre deflated and sat back. “Whatever. You don’t want to hear that. My point is, you got a choice. It’s fire or the void. It’s ambition and victory or death. Teammates and meaning, or… letting go of your one chance at experiencing the world.”

Charoen studied Sindre. Was the older man sincere, or was this all calculated to land? Still. There was no denying that in Charoen’s subdued state, some of this words were hitting home. “Experiencing the world.”

“Sure. You’re your own person, now. You’re not him. You’re a real person, in every way that counts. And… hell. If I was in your shoes, if I had your gifts, your youth, your talent… I’d be curious to see what I could do. How far I could go. To live. Just… live. Eat delicious food, see shit, experience the thrill of krieg chess, make new friends. This is your chance at life. Not his. He’s dead. He’s gone. So this isn’t about whether you’re loyal to him, it’s about whether you’re willing to give yourself a chance.”

Charoen considered. Old memories, false memories, flickered through his mind. The streets of Oslo. The sound of Jessie laughing that one time he’d nearly driven his bike right off a cliff. The taste of pea-protein meatballs with tamarind-peanut glaze. The crash of his halberd against another player’s in any number of games.

Beatrice.

Charoen closed his eyes. “I hear what you’re saying. But it’s not that easy. I can be calm about it right now—I don’t really have a choice—but I know my sense of self is entangled with his. I have emotions for people I’ve never met. I have opinions based on experiences that aren’t my own. I’m not… I’m not a new person, freshly made and free to live a… a new life. I’m Charoen’s Echo. I can’t pretend otherwise.”

“Hmm.” Sindre leaned forward, lips pursed, and considered. “Fair. But Charoen never lived this conversation. When you leave this room and eat your first meal—well, tube of paste, since your gut can’t handle real food yet—that’ll be an experience he never had, either. Everything from hereon out is you. You can grow, learn, change. I don’t know.” He sat up straight, exasperated. “It’s your call. I’ve said my piece. For my part, I think you’ll find meaning on the field. When you’re suited up and facing opponents. For me, the truest trial for a person is—”

“—the crucible of contest,” said Charoen softly, repeating Sindre’s favorite saying back to him.

Sindre startled, glanced at him, then nodded. “Yeah. Damn right. If all this feels like you’re floating in a cloud? Maybe you should try getting on the pitch and seeing if that doesn’t make more sense. Might surprise you.”

Sindre stood with a grunt. “Anyways. I don’t know if any of that helped. Maybe it didn’t. I just wanted to share my thoughts. I’ll leave you now. You can sleep more, if you want, or if you’re ready, you’re supposed to come to the training complex and begin a more rigorous evaluation. Just to make sure everything’s working fine. Then, once you’re cleared, you’ll have your stimpack implanted. It’ll take you a couple of days to integrate, and then, when you’re ready, you’ll be suited up in a Virtual Mobility Unit so that we can evaluate your stats and performance.”

Sindre’s words triggered memories. Of Charoen receiving his Nitric Armory stimpack. Of entering the training complex for the first time with his sister, Jessie, and being lectured by Assistant Coach Carmine about gamma and stats and the leaderboard. How he’d climbed into his VMU and entered his trial against Kali, who’d attacked him over and over again until he’d been disqualified.

“Understood,” said Charoen softly.

Sindre waited as if half-expecting, half-hoping Charoen would volunteer to go with him now to the training complex, then gave a curt nod and moved to the door. “If there’s anybody in particular you’d like to speak with, let us know. You can use the panel there to speak with Virgil or Dr. Bierhals. Once, or if, you get your Neural Link, well. Everything will be much easier.”

To which Charoen only nodded.

Sindre hesitated one last time, then pressed his hand to a cream-colored panel. The door whisked open, revealing a nearly identical antechamber, then closed behind him.

Charoen stared at the door. The drugs were muting his emotions too strongly. How was he supposed to reach a decision while lost in a haze? This peaceful mindset was starting to aggravate him.

But what could he do? They’d no doubt dose him again before the effects began to wear off. As much as they were mouthing platitudes about giving him a choice, he doubted they’d let him kill himself. It was a fake choice. They’d keep working him until he agreed to go along with their plan.

First things first. He slid his fingers under his metal collar and tested it. Tough. He tried yanking on it, then crushing it, to no avail.

He looked about the small chamber once more. Bed, chair, amber light, and panels inlaid into the walls from which medical machinery or the like could emerge. Without a Neural Link he’d no way to integrate with them.

Frowning, curious, he moved to the panel. It was pearlescent, smooth, and when he pressed his palm to it, glowed a soft cherry red.

Charoen crouched before it. His nails were to short to wedge under the edge. Casting around, his gaze locked on the chair. Metal frame, wooden seat and back. Still not feeling much of anything beyond a resolve to not simply sit still, Charoen hefted the chair by two legs. It was light, tensile. He inhaled deeply, considered, then smashed the chair against the wall. It bounced off, but now its frame was slightly askew.

Harnessing more strength, tightening his grip on the legs, Charoen smashed the chair again and again against the wall till the wooden seat cracked and the metal structure warped. He then stepped on one leg and hauled up on the other. Metal bent, gave, and the chair came apart in his grip.

Still not breathing hard, still feeling enervated and weirdly calm, he sorted through the pieces till he found what suited: a chair leg whose bracket had come free. He pulled the tiny screws out but kept one in hand.

Closing his eyes, he felt for the main sensor on his collar. There, in the center beneath his chin, a bulbous segment. Carefully, he placed the tip of the screw against the smooth metal, and began to pinch, thumb under the collar.

At first, nothing.

His fingers burned, but still he pinched. The sharpness of the pain in his fingers grew, but then something in the collar cracked and the screw shoved its way into the bulb.

Hopefully that would be enough.

That done, he took up the chair leg and wedged the bracket’s edge under the palm sensor.

No good.

But that meant more force would be needed. He drew the leg back, aimed with careful precision, then struck like a fisherman spearing his prey in the shallows. The force was tremendous, and the edge of the palm sensor cracked. Again, and then a third time, and he’d made enough space to wedge the bracket under so that he could lever the whole plate free.

It popped out like an eyeball from a cyborg’s skull, to hang by two ribbon cables and a third slender wire.

Charoen tugged at the cables, but they didn’t have any more give. Nor did he know how to sabotage the wiring so as to open the door. He’d enough experience as a kid—or the real Charoen had—hotwiring and tampering with security devices to have maybe given this a go, but without even a paperclip he was out of luck.

So he simply tore the panel out of the socket altogether, tearing the wires free. If the door operated on a fail-safe protocol, it would open the moment it lost power or was tampered with in this manner.

But… no. Not a fail-safe. Fail-secure. The door remained closed even as sparks spat from the panel socket.

Charoen tossed the panel aside and approached the door itself. It was smooth to the touch, almost glossy, and hadn’t looked thick when it had opened and closed. He gently pushed, and felt a little give.

One of the old truths was that a door was only as strong as its hinges, but the opposite was also true: if the lock and hinges were reinforced, then sometimes it was just easier to go through the door.

Charoen knocked. It sounded hollow. He stepped back so that his hamstrings were against the bed, gauged the right place, and then stomped his bare foot where the lock should be. The plastic crunched, and a jolt ran up to his hip.

Everybody had been telling him what a marvel his body was. Time to put it to use. He stomped again, then a third time, but the mechanism within the door was surprisingly robust; the plastic cracked, but the locking devise was of sterner material.

So Charoen changed his focus to the center of the door, tucked his shoulder, and charged it.

There wasn’t much room to accelerate, but clearly whomever had designed this medbay hadn’t expected it to function as a true prison cell. Charoen ducked his head as he powered through the door, shattered the plastic paneling and bursting the frame within, to fall into the antechamber beyond amidst the wreckage of the door panels.

Not feeling much pain, he rose to his feet. A small red light was flashing in the ceiling, but he ignored it. The chamber was bare but for a stool set before a bank of monitors, all of which were currently displaying blank medical readings.

Dusting himself off, Charoen stepped to the front door and tried the handle. It opened. He pushed the door open, and emerged into the afternoon air. The dorms were arrayed before him along the path that led down to the stream, beyond which lay the tunnel entrance that led to the training complex. His was a new building, small as a cargo container and set down beside the hulking medical building. Up the path was the community center slash kitchen.

The sky was vast and gradating toward evening. The air was warm, the grass brown. The outside world. This was the first time he’d ever seen it with this set of eyeballs. The smell was beguiling after the antiseptic interior of his medbay, and the feel of gravel under his bare feet was prickling and strange and fascinating.

Two people had been walking up the path toward the community center. They’d turned to stare at him, eyes wide with shock and horror.

He knew them. A short woman and a man.

The woman had bangs and dark hair cut to shoulder length, her face freckled and pixie-like, her large blue eyes wide now with alarm.

Clovinn.

The man beside her was lanky and tall, his caramel brown hair hanging to his shoulders, his face lean and weathered. His shock was equally strong.

Lars.

“Charoen…?” Clovinn’s voice sounded thin and distant, as if it came from a land far away. She extended her hand to ward him, face paling then surfacing blotches of color. “Wait. Is that you? Charoen?!”

Lars was crossing himself, thumb to shoulders, lip, sternum.

Shouts.

Sindre had no doubt just entered the medical building, and he came out running only to stagger to a stop at the sight of Charoen just standing there. Dr. Bierhals emerged a second later.

“Easy, easy,” called out Sindre, raising his hands as if to placate a wild animal. “You aren’t supposed to be out yet, let’s get you back inside, yeah?”

“Is that—how can—” Clovinn tore her gaze away from Charoen to glare at Sindre. “You said we were getting a new teammate, not—is that—?”

“An Echo,” breathed Lars. “They made an Echo of him.”

“You’re fucking kidding me!” shouted Clovinn, her hands balling up into fists. “How—how dare you—and—!”

Charoen watched this play out, curious, but detached. Clovinn. Lars. People dear to the old Charoen. Perhaps to him, as well. But the sedatives were keeping those emotions at bay.

“Shut him down,” growled Sindre to Bierhals. “What are you waiting for? Activate the damn collar!”

“It’s not responding,” replied Bierhals, thumbing a disc again and again. “Look. He broke it.”

“Well, fuck.” Sindre spread his arms wide. “Charoen? Come with me, yeah? Whatever you want, we can figure it out.”

“Don’t do it,” snapped Clovinn. “Charoen. Don’t trust them. Don’t ever trust them.”

Her eyes were filled with tears. Perhaps the drugs were wearing off, because the sight of her emotion caused his chest to fill and a fluttery sensation where his heart was.

“Charoen. Listen to me,” began Sindre again, but that was enough.

An imperative seized him. He sighted along the tops of the valley, studied the buildings, and then his gaze landed upon the parking lot before the community center’s bay doors.

A handful of vehicles were parked there. Hovercars and a truck.

Charoen broke into a sprint. His legs grew in strength with each stride. The dry grass crackled underfoot. Around the community center, Sindre’s shouts trailing him, and then he was by the vehicles.

He moved to a familiar one. A Vyperion. Clovinn’s, and she’d granted the dead Charoen access.

As he approached, bioluminescent contour lines came to life and its gull-wing door slid up. It must have recognized his face or some other key marker.

He slid into the leather seat which immediately molded to his frame. The windshield came alive with a heads-up display.

People were closing on him, or trying. Clovinn was shoving back at Sindre, while Lars had his arms out wide, preventing a couple of strangers Charoen didn’t recognize and who had emerged from the community center from getting too close.

“G’day, Charoen.” The Vyperion spoke in an Australian accent. “Where we off to today, then?”

“Up,” said Charoen. “Just up.”

“Settin’ a course for ‘up’, then. Weird, but all right.”

The Vyperion lifted smoothly from the ground, and accelerated into a tight forward curve, growing higher and higher by the moment.

The last thing Charoen saw when he looked down at the training center was Virgil. The man had emerged from one of the buildings to gaze up at him, hands steady over the head of his walking stick, to watch him fly away.

And his expression was one of strange satisfaction.