War Games (2 page)

I STARTED
running
away from home when I was ten years old. I’ve forgotten how many times I’ve been caught and returned. Only to run away again at the first opportunity. Why was I running? The usual reasons.

I still remember the first time. After they beat me nearly to death, my parents lay in their usual stupor, minds gripped tightly in narcospasm. They were naked; dawnlight shone from mahogany skin. Their bodies sprawled at the edge of a marble swimming pool, like toppled Greek statues. They had the same build, lean and lithe, although my father was taller and heavier. They both had amber curls cut short, and wore earrings and necklaces of sonic gems. Sonic jewelry glittered from fingers and toes as well. Her breasts were faint swellings, scarcely more noticeable than his. His penis, though limp, was still red-streaked.

I’m not sure how old they actually were–over a hundred anyway–but they appeared young, with a physiologic age of twenty.

I had crawled from the house and made it halfway to the pool before passing out from pain. My back was a network of welts, blood dripped between my legs. As I gathered strength, I knew I had two choices: drag my parents’ comatose bodies into the pool and watch them drown, or get away myself. I decided I lacked the strength for the former. Or the courage.

So I ran instead.

You learn a lot on the street. When you get hungry enough, you do things you never thought you’d ever do. Ironically, they’re quite similar to the things at home you’re running from. After a while, they don’t seem nearly so bad.

But hustling on the street is not without risk. There are still lots of antiquated laws on the books. And plenty of unimaginative vice varks around to enforce them. You’re a little green at first.

My first time away, I was pinched in a public park with my pants down, squatting over the face of a woman old enough to be my grandmother. Such a harmless perversion, really. Her dog had recently died. She paid well, so the varks let her go. I had nothing to bribe them with, so it was off to jail for me. Shortly thereafter, I was home again.

AFTER THAT FIRST
time,
I ran, away from home regularly. I gradually became more street-wise. Each time it took them a little longer to catch me. But catch me they did, until I found the timestone. I’m coming to that part later. Now let me tell you more about me. A real sob story. Got your crying towel handy?

I was the youngest of three brothers; twelve years younger than Henri, eight years younger than Robrt. I was the only one of us left. I was the last of my line. Robrt was dead and burned. Henri was off with the Legions, which was as good as dead.

How did it happen? The usual way. As a result of a game.

Henri made Robrt and me play Hide and Seek with him. Sounds innocent enough, doesn’t it? But not the way he played. Robrt and I always had to try to hide, then Henri came looking for us. When he found us, he played a different game—the Executioner Game. He would pretend to shoot us, or gas us, or electrocute us, or cut off our heads. Real fun.

The game evolved into something nasty. After finding us but before his mock executions, Henri would bind our limbs. When we were helpless, he would lower his trousers to show his erect penis. Then he would make use of our rear passages or make us take it in our mouths, or both.

One day he got a little carried away. He had tied us up and made us stand on a fallen log. (We played the game outside, on the grounds of our estate.) Then he placed nooses around our necks and threw the ropes over an overhanging branch, before making their ends secure around a tree. We had to stand on tiptoe to keep from choking. Henri proceeded to bugger us from behind. I was first, then Robrt. His thrusts were a little too vigorous with Robrt. They pushed him off his log. The noose tightened around his neck. His eyes bulged and his tongue protruded blue. But Henri was too caught up in his sexual frenzy to notice. He kept up his sodomy. His thrusts continued. By the time his tension was relieved, Robrt was dead.

The authorities came and took Henri away. They gave him a new psyche and conscripted him into the Legions.

That left only me to receive the tender ministrations of my parents.

My parents were Lord and Lady Detrs. Even now, I don’t blame them for their cruelty. They were as much the victims of the aristocracy as I. Heir to incredible wealth, recipients of both longevity and antiagathic genes, they had all the time in the world to accomplish nothing.

My parents had long since become bored.

Maybe they should have set themselves goals: power, wisdom, even possessions. But they didn’t. They escaped ennui with decadence. There was no perversion they hadn’t tried at one time or another. Procreation was only another form of depravity. How well I came to understand that. And peptide addiction was the most depraved affiiction known. But it only gets part of the blame.

Let’s take a little jump in time now. Like an image glimpsed on the surface of the timestone when I still had it.

I was riding in a police cruiser, skimming over the treetops of my parents’ estate on the outskirts of Nyssa. To the west icesea shimmered blue, pierced by the silver needle of a gravchute. A vortex of pseudograv surrounded the chute—incoming ships spiraled down in counterclockwise helices, like pinballs going down a drain. Outgoing gravships hurtled up the chute like photons streaming out a glass fiber.

I was twelve at the time. I’d been on the run for over ten weeks that time before I was caught. A silly mistake. I’d rolled a pepbead for his chargering. I hadn’t realized how quickly the credit computers would discover it had been stolen. I’d tried to use it to pay a hotel bill with room-service charges. Needless to say, I was perturbed when the charge console wouldn’t register. But the dog-hair machine wouldn’t release my finger, either. To get away I’d have to leave my pinky behind. I decided it wasn’t worth it. I’d learned another lesson the hard way.

The bunco varks quickly figured out who I was. They knew my parents were good for the bills I’d run up. They figured there was likely to be a reward for my return. In a matter of hours, I was on my way home.

The house was visible now. It perched on the edge of a sandstone cliff, like an aggregate of rhomboid quartz crystals. The cruiser swooped low and landed in front. Sonic manacles were unclasped and I was pushed out. They watched to be sure I went inside.

My father waited there. His eyes were dark and hollow, but endocaine burned within their depths. He held an alphawhip in his hand. Ions dripped to the floor and bounced around like sparks from a grinding wheel. I knew it was going to be bad when he didn’t scream at me. The whip did his screaming, crackling with ionic fire each time he swung it. I did the only thing I could, what I’d learned to do a long time ago: covering my face with my arms, I fell to the floor and rolled into a protective ball, letting the whip land on my back and legs. It felt as if liquid fire were being poured over me. Each time the lash cracked across my back, I yelled in agony. Between swings, I wailed pitifully. But Father was not to be satisfied easily. Fortunately, I lost consciousness before his rage had dissipated.

When I woke, I was lying on the floor of my room. My right ankle was shackled to a chain bolted to the floor. I winced at the stabs of pain as I sat up. My skin still glowed with alpha particles. Every muscle was sore as Pittsburgh. But I knew I’d be OK. That was the good thing about an alphalash—it didn’t leave scars. And it did no permanent damage. The chain rattled when I moved.

“I heard you were back,” someone said from behind.

Grychn sat on the edge of my bed. She tried to smile. Rather unsuccessfully. Her eyes were amber, her hair as white as ermine fur.

Grychn Willams lived on a neighboring estate. She was the same age as I. We’d played together for as long as I could remember. I’d tried to get her to run away with me once. I really needed her then. She wouldn’t go. I’d never asked again. You only got one chance with me. Sometimes not even one.

“Just for a visit,” I answered, shaking the chain.

“Oh, Marc. Why make it so hard on yourself?”

“That’s the way I am.” We’d gone over all this before. She knew how I felt.

Grychn wore a cape of spun gold and nothing else. She crossed her legs awkwardly—they were too long, as she was in the middle of her adolescent growth spurt. The skin over her breasts was blue and taut, stretched by their rapid growth. She noticed me staring and was embarrassed. I smiled and stood up. I walked over to the bed, trailing my chain, and sat beside her. She began massaging my aching back muscles, fingers soothing away the hurt. She was good; she’d done it many times before. “Are you here to stay this time?” she asked. “I guess you’ll have to now, won’t you?”

I said nothing.

“I miss you when you’re gone.” Her arms circled me, pulling my body against hers, while her fingers kneaded my chest and belly muscles. She bit my ear, then let her tongue trail down my neck. “I need you,” she whispered. Her fingers found my penis; it stiffened to their tuggings. “I want to be with you. Don’t leave me again.”

I turned my head. Her tongue slipped into my mouth. There was brightness in her eyes. She lay back, pulling me with her, opening her legs wide to receive me. My chain rattled in synchrony to my thrusts. Grychn whispered over and over: “Don’t leave me... .”

But I did leave her again. It was easy. As easy as running away the next time. The penultimate time. Chains couldn’t hold me. I waited for my chance. It came eventually, as I knew it would, when my parents made the mistake of passing out within my reach. I then seized my father’s limp hand and pressed his sonic ring against my shackle. In a second, I was free. In another minute, I was on the run again. I won’t say I didn’t think of Grychn. But there was no time to gather excess baggage. There never would be.

THREE MONTHS
later
found me back in Nyssa. I’d been around the world in the meanwhile. I was quite proud of my ability to survive the rigors of low-living. Especially avoiding the press gangs. They were everywhere. It seems good old Mother Earth was running short of warm bodies to turn into combrids. The Hybrid Wars were going badly. The dog-eyed colonial vermin weren’t giving up their silly rebellions. You couldn’t divert too many criminals from the cyborg factories, or you wouldn’t have enough slave minds to run them.

So groups of entrepreneurs roamed the streets, grabbing pepheads or those overcome by mnemone fumes, and hauling them down to recruitment stations. Bartenders spiked both drinks and dope, for a percentage of the take. When business was slow the gangs grabbed even alert victims and gave them a shot of something to make them sleep. That was the beauty of free enterprise.
Caveat emptor!

I’d learned a few tricks during my travels. I met lots of people willing to pay to see those tricks. Travel was a broadening experience.

But there was something about Nyssa that drew me back. Part of the attraction was the spaceport. The constant bustle was exciting. The crowds were easy for a twelve-year-old runaway to blend into. Pockets were easy to pick—off-worlders were naive. Perversions were easy to pander to.

Port of Nyssa was a collection of permaplastic spheres that lay beneath the icesea, clustered around the base of the gravchute like giant frog eggs. Huge pneumatic tubes snaked through dark water to connect the port to Nyssa proper. Nyssa was a duty-free port, so large numbers of shops catered to visiting off-worlders. There were also the usual amusements: mnemone dens, peptide parlors, orgasm emporia, casinos. Jaded tourists could purchase anything or anyone they desired. Everything had its price. Nothing was unavailable.

In short, Port of Nyssa was an ideal place for a street urchin to do a little hustling.

Which was exactly what I was doing. I’d pinched a bellhop’s uniform and was wandering around a hotel casino, carrying a silver tray with a folded sheet of gold foil imprinted with an impressive seal and reeking of pheromones. I didn’t bother to page a name; that way it would appear the person to whom I was delivering the message was known to me by sight—notoriety implied importance. That way, the bell captain was less likely to bother me. Wouldn’t want a V.I.P. not to get his message. Especially if it was from a sex-friend. Like I said, I’d learned a few tricks.

The casino’s floor was the inside surface of a hundred-meter sphere—a field of pseudo gravity created this orientation, in which gravitational vectors were centrifugal rather than centripetal. The floor was transparent—through its ten-centimeter thickness could be seen a myriad of marine creatures attached to the outer surface: kelp, anemones, shellfish, starfish, coral. Beyond, sharks cruised with mouths agape through dark, shimmering sea. Above, players stood around gaming tables, like flies hanging from the ceiling. Naked servants plied the guests, offering mnemone, peptides, and assorted alkaloids from trays. If chemical temptations failed, breasts would brush against backs, penises would be pressed against buttocks, tongues would lick what was proffered. The servants were well trained. Anything to distract a winner’s concentration.

Wheels spun. Dice rolled. LED’s flashed. Crystal facets glittered. Chips skittered. Tongues licked cracked lips. Sweat beaded on tense faces. Mnemone fumes rose to form a haze in the center of the sphere.

Business had been brisk. My pockets were crammed with chips and tokens I’d lifted from gamblers.

I should have taken my loot and run. I knew the key to success in either larceny or gambling was knowing how far you could push your luck. My luck was at its limit. I’d had a good take. I should have already been in a hotel room counting it. But something made me linger in the casino. There was a frantic energy in the air. I could almost smell it—like ozone from wires leaking electricity. And there was another energy below the first, something subliminal urging me to stay. I knew better, but I stayed anyway.

I looked straight up, across the casino, through blurring fumes. A crowd of people surrounded one of the craps tables, watching a shooter throw dice. Even the servants had abandoned their trays to watch. They sat on each other’s shoulders to get a better view, Most of the house dicks had also collected around the periphery—like the jackals they were, Each time the player rolled, a murmur came from the crowd. This would be the perfect time for me to leave unnoticed.

I started walking toward the door, meandering past gaming tables with their monomaniac players. I pretended to be looking for someone to give my message to—had to keep up my disguise. If I’d had more pockets, I could have cleaned up. But I restrained myself. Another minute and I’d have been out the door. Then all I’d have to do was find someone to cash in my chips for me. That would be easy. I could always have my way with certain ladies. They found me adorable.

Yet for all my good intentions, I didn’t leave then. Without realizing it, I had circled toward the crowd and now found myself mingling in its edges, slowly infiltrating deeper into its mass. I let myself be guided by this strange new volition. What the Memphis, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Soon I was squeezing between two women and pushing next to the dice table. The women glared angrily when I forced between them, but when they saw me they smiled and patted me on top of my head. I smiled back, resisting the urge to bite their fingers.

On the other side of the table, a player was throwing dice. He was a sailor—a hybrid bioformed to survive the hazards of deep-space sailing. He stood the standard two meters. His arms and legs were somewhat out of proportion in length, giving him a lean, angular appearance. Monomer sweat glistened from skin as black as obsidian with intra-dermal antiradiation granules. Nictitating membranes covered his eyes like silver monocles. His scalp was bald and convoluted into ridges by wires buried beneath the skin. It
gleamed with conducting gel. He wore only a formal cape of spun gold—hybrids were proud of nakedness, having need for neither clothing nor modesty, An earring dangled from his left ear. The only other jewelry he wore was a platinum ring set with a stone I could not identify. A sonic knife in a sheath was strapped around his left thigh. Fingers and toes were long—each of their tips had a suction pad so the sailor could climb polished surfaces like a tree frog.

Now his fingers cradled a pair of crystal dice. He shook them in his hand and crooned to them as dice players had done for millennia. A huge stack of chips stood before him. He let them ride on his next throw. His hand went back, then forward. Diamond dice were flung into a field of pseudograv, where they were caught and held. They tumbled in midair. Tiny oscillators in the center of each die flip-flopped randomly between six choices. The dice stopped spinning. LED’s lighted up each facet: two on one, five on the other. Seven. A natural. The crowd murmured. The sailor grinned.

A croupier pushed neat stacks of chips across the table. With one hand the sailor added them to his other stacks of chips. With the other he gathered up his dice and shook them again. He bet all his chips. I did a quick mental calculation. There was at least a million in front of him.

I whispered to the woman standing next to me: “How long has he been letting them ride that way?”

She laughed. “For ninety-eight straight passes. All naturals. All the easy way. Quite incredible, really.” A pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. “They say he’s cleaned out a different casino each night for a week. Always shooting craps. Always throwing naturals. No one can figure out how he’s doing it.” Her eyes narrowed. “He’ll need someone to help spend it.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Corne with me, just in case. You can’t be sure. He might prefer boys.” She began elbowing her way around the table. I followed behind her.

The sailor brought his arm back again, shaking the dice in his hand. Light glittered off his stack of chips. There was a distant look in his eyes, a look I found disturbing.

He snapped his arm forward, throwing the dice. They ricocheted in midair, skittering into the crowd. Something was wrong. They were supposed to enter the pseudograv field of the table, not bounce off it. The field strength must have been increased. The croupier retrieved the dice and handed them to the sailor. He threw again. Again the dice skipped in midair above the table.

An uneasy murmur rose from the crowd. The croupier made an unobtrusive hand signal. Almost immediately the casino manager stood at his side. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as the sailor, but well built. Her hair was short and the color of wheat stubble. Her eyes were emerald. “There seems to be a malfunction with the table,” she said. Sonic earrings amplified her voice. “Technicians have already been summoned to repair it.” She smiled, nodding toward the sailor. “I’m afraid our lucky guest will have to take a break while the table is being repaired. Shouldn’t take too long.” Mirrored fingernails flashed as she waved her hands.

“There’s nothing wrong with the table,” the sailor said softly. The crowd quieted.

“Of course there is. You saw for yourself.”

“I saw what you wanted me to see.” There was something wrong with his voice. The same wrongness lay in his eyes. “You’re afraid I’m going to break this casino like I did the others. You turned up the field on the table. You want to check it out. Can’t figure out how I’m winning, can you? What’s the matter? Don’t you believe in luck? You’ll find nothing wrong with the table. Or the dice. I’m sure you’ve already looked me over with sensors. You can’t find any force generator on my person. Why don’t you save some time and turn the table back on so I can resume winning? My luck won’t last forever. Maybe I’ll lose on my next roll.”

The crowd muttered. They knew the sailor was right. They didn’t like having their fun interfered with. Most of them had been betting on the sailor.

“Nonsense,” the manager said. “A circuit’s shorted. Or a diode’s burned out. My technicians will have it fixed in no time. Meanwhile, here’s a chit for your present winnings and a room key, on the house, so you can refresh yourself while the table is being serviced.”

She tossed a platinum token and a sonic key to the sailor. He caught them both with one hand. Then he looked carefully at the manager. He suddenly seemed to recognize her. The chit he placed in his cape pocket. He threw the key back to the manager. “You’d like me to go to that room, wouldn’t you, Kramr? Make your job that much easier.” His lips were pulled tight across his teeth. “Are you sure you’ve got enough? Three is all? Not very good odds for the house. Besides, the other one is here too.” He seemed to look at me when he said that. I wondered what he meant,

Servants appeared, carrying trays loaded with intoxicants. They began plying the crowd, offering their wares. Soon laughter wafted from the crowd. It wasn’t long before they forgot the sailor.

The woman I was following had made her way to the sailor and now stood beside him. She put her arm around him, pressing her body close to his. He didn’t notice. He was examining the back of his hand, staring into his ring. She leaned close, whispering, and then stuck her tongue into his ear. He pushed her aside, as though she was just a minor irritation. He turned suddenly and bulled his way through the crowd. Clinging hands reached for him. He shook them off, revealing surprising strength in his lean frame. All eyes watched him,

That meant they weren’t watching me. It was time for me to make my move. Past time. I followed in the sailor’s wake, unnoticed. I slipped out the door of the casino without difficulty, ducked into a public toilet, and got rid of the bellhop uniform. I was safe. I should have holed up with my loot. But I didn’t.

Something still bothered me.

Something about the sailor.

When I came out of the restroom, I could still see him. He was just ahead, aimlessly walking down the street. He seemed to be muttering to himself. Every once in a while he would look at his ring. I could just glimpse his eyes then. A strange fire was reflected from their depths.

I followed him.

He was easy to trail. I could have tailed him for days. But it was so easy, I got sloppy. The next thing I knew, he was running and dodging down side corridors. All of a sudden, following him wasn’t so easy. Those damn hybrids were fast. The only thing that allowed me to keep pace was that it was easy for me to weave through the crowds. I’d had lots of practice doing that. I tried to keep him in sight, but he changed corridors enough to make it difficult. He steadily widened the gap between us. I didn’t think he was running away from me. That would be ludicrous. I was unarmed and alone. He could have broken my neck with one hand. Besides, he had a knife. I slowed down a little, thinking. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t sucked into a trap.

Far ahead, the sailor darted into another connecting corridor. By the time I reached it, he was nowhere to be seen. The corridor was deserted. A dozen others opened into it; the sailor could have ducked into any of them. He had given me the slip, all right. Then I paused. Sweat beaded along my spine. I smelled a trap. He was probably waiting for me, hiding in one of the corridors, ready to jump me from behind. If I was smart, I’d turn back. No sense taking needless chances. But then I wasn’t smart, was I?