Game, Set, Deathmatch Read online

  Fade in from black with a swell of dramatic music.

  Cue title sequence.

  Words with large blocky letters that almost appear to crumble under their own weight drop ominously from the top, booming into place, center screen, with a powerful, echoing reverb.

  GAME

  (boom)

  SET

  (boom)

  DEATH MATCH

  (big boom)

  Seconds later, the letters are shot to fragments in a hail of artillery fire.

  GAME, SET, DEATHMATCH

  Copyright © 2018 by Edwin H Rydberg

  ISBN-13: 978-1-912882-01-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Quantum Dot Press

  QuantumDotPress.com

  Cover Designed by Lightspeed Dreams

  LightSpeedDreams.net

  First Edition: November 2018

  Cue Montage of violent sports:

  From ancient Roman gladiators slaughtering each other and Mayan ball games where the losers are sacrificed, to mixed martial arts, zg fight clubs, and Running Man events, where hordes of the public hunt down violent criminals, a history of blood sports through the ages is accompanied by hard, driving music.

  Friendly, 200kHz, Voice Over:

  “Ever since humans began their spread across the Earth, they have loved sports. And they’ve always kept a place in their societies for blood sports. As humanity continued to expand and advance, this brought new opportunities for ever more creative, bloodier sports. Even during the short periods when blood sports became unpopular, they still existed underground as mixed martial arts, and then zero g combat fight clubs. Later, during periods of authoritarian control, they manifested as Running Man games, making the public complicit in, and therefore silent about, the murder of state enemies.”

  Dedicated

  to those who play

  for the love of the game.

  The montage continues, now showing images of human development and space exploration, the colonization of other planets, and the discovery of new civilizations.

  “As humans expanded into the galaxy, advancing in territory, technology, and knowledge, the discovery of new species, the creation of androids, bioengineering, rapid cloning technology, advanced building processes, and flexible sporting legislation all came together to provide the perfect storm for the creation of The Death Match. This game system, with its voluntary violence of unparalleled levels, proved to be the most universally successful game in history.

  “It also created the perfect vessel for the end of their world.”

  The montage ends with a rocket streaking toward the viewer.

  Cut to black.

  Ambiance goes silent.

  Fade in to the soft sounds of gunfire in the distance.

  Contents

  PART 1

  Some Bruuzs Never Heal

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  PART 2

  Genilon and On

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  PART 3

  Knee Deep in Nekroid

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  End Credits

  About the Author

  PART 1

  Some Bruuzs Never Heal

  1

  The distant sounds of mayhem and destruction met DaemonS as she translocated from the clone tank. The world formed around her and she found herself in the valley of the first capture platform. Its characteristic sheer walls of granite and steel surrounded the spawn pad she stood on and two vehicles in her teams colors waited nearby. The Apocalypz Cowgirlz must have lost the central platform in the ten seconds she’d been dead and the arena had reset her translocation target to here.

  “Time for some payback,” she said, accessing the weapon cache before jumping into a nearby Stinger. She floored the accelerator and the light hovercraft leapt into the air, rapidly devouring the distance to the strategically crucial central platform.

  Screaming through the narrow canyon, both wing turrets blazing, DaemonS shredded an unsuspecting Black Hole VinDicator, before soaking up a rocket from another BHV who was waiting in the shadows. Gunning the Stinger straight for him, DaemonS jacked the air brakes half a second before the vehicle would have cleared his head. The momentum carried her forward, while the back of the Stinger bottomed out, smearing her opponent all over the dirt path.

  “Roadkill!” she said to herself, smiling.

  She slammed the throttle in reverse and the Stinger leapt backward, enough to allow her to bring its rapid-fire pulse laser cannons to bear on the enemy vehicles. Coded to her opponents, those vehicles would be useless to her team, and clearing them would reset the capture point faster. In moments it was done and the capture point changed to a neutral grey.

  DaemonS leapt from the Stinger and rushed into the detection column of the metallic square on the ground. As it changed to red, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the rest of her team arriving in support: a heavy-armoured Tortuga ground-crawling and a medium altitude Falcon for air cover. The new vehicle transporters came online just as the Cowgirlz arrived and a pristine Stinger materialized beside her. With the strategic, central platform secured, they began pushing forward en masse.

  “Bring on the Apocalypz!” she yelled. Leaping into the new Stinger she floored the accelerator and sprang ahead of her teammates, leading the charge. One more platform to capture and the shields to the enemy base would be down, opening the way for a direct attack on the BHV base. The game was all but won.

  * * *

  The six Apocalypz Cowgirlz transponded into their safe zone amid a cacophony of chatter. DaemonS was pleased with the result. A strong showing in their last friendly match before the tournament.

  As they passed deeper into their home zone, the team strode past rows of clone tanks. The tall cylinders, filled with translucent green fluid, stretched off into the distance of the facility to either side of the aisle. Each tank contained a genetically identical replica of a team member. The large, stylized logo of Genilon Corporation, their sponsor and the sole manufacturer of all Death Match cloning facilities, emblazoned the metallic sealing ring at the top of each cylinder. Plainly visible from the path, the logo was a constant reminder of who they owed their loyalty to.

  Behind her, the team was laughing, joking, and generally carrying on. Alas, as captain, her responsibilities kept her more subdued. They reached the lounge area and she waited for them to take their favorite seats before beginning the ‘well-earned victory, stay focused’ speech.

  “Good work, ladies! That means you, too, GeneSlicer.”

  “I represent neither sex of your fragile organic species,” answered the blue drone of vaguely humanoid shape standing in the corner.

  “Keep it in your shell, metal head, you were on the receiving end of your share of frags today, you’re not any less fragile than the rest of us,” she answered, to many agreeing shouts.

  “Anyway crew,
great match today. The Death Match starts in three days and it only gets tougher from here. There are some nasty teams this year, including the other two Genilon teams, filled with the latest Phalanx and Legion, not to mention the Bruuz, Rakurai, The Helldivers.... We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

  She waited for the burble of conversation to fade before continuing.

  “Alright, before we hit the showers, just a few comments.

  “Defcon, nice rocket work. Your aim still needs a bit of work as we’re taking too much splash damage.”

  “Right-o boss,” the large, square woman sitting comfortably in the easy chair to her left answered.

  “Pincer, good work on the ion cannon, push forward a little faster once we’ve secured a node, we can usually use the backup.”

  The petite redhead, buried in the middle of the couch answered with a soft, “Will do.”

  “Geneslicer, you’re one mean machine, a natural bloodhound. I’m glad Genilon sent you to my team, but you need to temper that aggressiveness with a little more concern for your teammates’ actions and the overall goals.”

  “Request received. Compliance is a function of primary programming.”

  “I’m never sure if that means yes.... Vorpal,” she continued, addressing the tall, lithe and surreally calm brunette who stood easily near the far wall, “you were born to snipe, but keep working to increase your proficiency with some of the heavy artillery. We’ll need the versatility in the tournament.”

  “Thanks captain, I’m on it.”

  “And Bodybag — what can I say? Keep up the good work, don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Thanks ‘oman, I jus’ feed the need. Frag’em and bag’em,” the squat bundle of energy on her left answered, hopping from foot to foot. She was clearly born for the Death Match. Probably had hypersensitivity disorder from dodging too much artillery, but she was meaner’n hell and harder to hit than a Denarian desert rat in mating season.

  “Well ladies, our work is before us. We can succeed if we stay focused. With a good showing many of you will even get your own teams in the next Death Match, if you want. But that’s enough shoptalk for now. Tonight, you deserve to let loose for a hot time on the town, all expenses paid, courtesy of Genilon. Party-hearty ladies, you’ve earned it.”

  * * *

  Figment waited in the darkness of the narrow alley. Duracrete walls stretched in either direction before and behind him, uninterrupted by such amenities as doors or windows. Still, he knew this alley well, and knew it was the entrance point to his meeting. So he waited.

  He was used to waiting. Waiting for employers to receive him, waiting for contacts to supply information, waiting for his ship to come in. If everything came to him who waits, Figment felt he must have a very promising future. He repeated the calming mantras of Faru He to stay focused, while simultaneously scanning for bugs — for the third time. Mastering the Xo He’Tan martial art had allowed him to ascend to the pinnacle of his elite profession, and the heightened awareness and enhanced reflexes that came from a fusion of mind and body had kept him alive on more than one mission.

  “Enter.” A single word sent in the toneless voice of a computer came softly over his earpiece. No answer was given, none required. Finishing his mantra he removed the trigger from beneath his cloak. The secure room had no doors or windows; the only way to gain entrance was by translocating. If you were invited, you had to trust your host implicitly. As Figment activated the trigger his surroundings blinked out to be replaced almost immediately by a small, square room. After fully materializing, he retrieved the small translocator disc from the floor and deactivated it before pocketing the device and taking in his surroundings.

  The room was sparse except for a large display on each wall currently set to play different scenes from the city, presumably to lessen the feeling of being enclosed. The only other furniture were three chairs surrounding a round table in the centre of the room. Two of them were occupied.

  Of the two other men in the room, Figment had met one many times before. He was, officially, Vice President of Halandri Technology Procurement Division. Unofficially, he led the Halandri covert ops and used the moniker Preemptive Strike — PS. The other man Figment had never met, but knew by reputation to be the Nouveau-Industrial Global Earth Liaison, code named NIGEL.

  “Now that we’re all here,” PS said, “let’s begin.”

  “Gentlemen,” he continued, “this meeting is not happening, and this man,” he added, pointing at Figment, “does not exist. Now, if you would be so kind as to deliver your report.”

  “Of course,” Figment answered. He was careful to leave out any phrases of deference so as to not give a false impression of allegiance.

  “A short time ago my contact inside Genilon Corp. notified me of what he called a ‘worrying shift in management directives.’ He sent me these,” he said, removing several folders from under his cloak and laying them on the table for the other men to peruse.

  “Paper?” asked NIGEL.

  “It is the most secure form of communication these days,” Figment answered. This was true. Paper left no electronic signatures, was unobtrusive and unexpected and thus rarely searched for.

  “As per our arrangement, I notified you,” Figment concluded.

  Preemptive Strike flipped through the documents, before passing them to NIGEL as he asked, “has this been confirmed?”

  “To the best of my ability. The documents appear authentic by any tests I can perform, the images are not doctored,” answered Figment, “and my other sources corroborate the key aspects of the story.”

  “Those blasted bugs!” NIGEL said.

  “I agree, but we’ve never been able to trust Genilon. Their motives seldom correlate with those of the NEG or the human race,” answered PS.

  “No, I meant the Bruuz,” said NIGEL. “They must be up to something. They’ve never forgotten the wars. This must be another attempt to destroy us — from within this time,” he continued.

  “You may be right....” Figment could hear doubt in Preemptive Strike’s voice. It mirrored his own.

  The first war was almost a hundred years ago. The Bruuz had been badly beaten and the embarrassment had left them with a bitter taste in their collective mouths. That was followed forty years later by their catastrophic defeat during The Two Weeks War, where their seemingly unstoppable fleet had been incapacitated by exploiting a control flaw. It had been a tough blow for them to accept. Then, fifteen years after that, a military training exercise in the rim went wrong, crashing on Cidris where the survivors discovered, and subsequently destroyed, a Bruuz expeditionary force. Those losses didn’t sit well with the proud Bruuz, but it had been forty-five years since any hostilities. Could a race hold a grudge for so long in this universe of rapidly changing allegiances? And just what could they hope to accomplish by an alliance with Genilon anyway?

  Figment’s thoughts were interrupted as PS continued. “Regardless, what we have to decide now is what to do about it.”

  NIGEL looked through the documents again before placing them on the table. “Although we don’t know what they’re up to, one thing is definite — they will attempt to use the Death Match as the springboard for their plans.”

  “For now, we can only wait and hope the Halandri team is in place when the time comes,” PS answered. “The new Helldivers are completely loyal and almost unstoppable.”

  Figment didn’t think it was prudent to note that The Helldivers had not managed to win the tournament in the last two decades. Even with the new Ch’Kandra model, smart money wasn’t on them.

  * * *

  DaemonS pulled the team uniform over her flawless torso, marveling again at the perfection of the cloning technology. She also noted the other obvious... physical augmentations… suggested by the team agent. The made-for-televisual chest enhancements were largely advantageous for building fan support through photo-ops and interviews. They were also completely nat
ural, having been coded into the DNA of her clones and designed to be unobtrusive during match play. She tucked in her shirt, made a last check of her hair, and turned, leaving the captain’s office and striding down the aisle.

  Hard to believe it had already been two days since the Cowgirlz had qualified for the tournament and her hangover was only just subsiding. What a night! She’d had no idea that Pincer could cut loose like that. For such a quiet woman, she was a wildcat in the clubs. Anyway, after chugging five shots of that glowing, blue concoction, DaemonS was amazed she still had enough brain cells left to remember her name, let alone what her teammates had done. Remembrances aside, however, there was work to do. If they did it well, there would be more nights like that one.

  DaemonS stepped onto the translocator platform and targeted her predesignated location for the opening ceremonies. It was show time!

  2

  “On behalf of Halandri Industries, Genilon Corporation and the Okijuza Conglomerate, I’d like to welcome all the teams, Global Earth representatives, corporate sponsors, and fans watching throughout human space, to the forty-seventh annual Death Match.” The deep, booming baritone of the Master of Ceremonies saturated the filled-to-capacity stadium, which stretched hundreds of meters above ground. Each tier of seats appeared to float above the lower one, and every seat was filled. Over twenty million beings surrounded the circle of team captains, each one of them on their feet cheering. DaemonS was completely overwhelmed.

  The sea of faces stretched around her, reaching upward into the sky, almost out of sight. Team captains stood in a loose circle on the central stage amid the raging maelstrom of fanatics. The newer captains, like DaemonS, waved or postured while the veterans stood calmly, basking in radiant admiration. Although experienced enough to be considered a veteran Matcher, this was her first captainship, and her first direct experience with the throngs of screaming beings cheering and jeering the various teams.