Murderworld, p.8
Murderworld, page 8
Field: Then why do we need a government at all? Why run for president?
Dancyger: Very good questions. We only need a government for a few simple functions; in fact, basically just two things. Its first purpose is externally-directed. Since other nations still insist on maintaining old, broken models of running their countries, it means we need to have a government in place simply to maintain an interface with their old-world models. These countries aren’t comfortable relating to industry directly when it comes to matters like international agreements. So to the rest of the globe, the main function of the US Government is to facilitate international trade; and in doing so, should go out of their way to promote free and unrestricted trade.
Field: And its second purpose?
Dancyger: To uphold and defend the United States Constitution. That means it should protect our rights, like our freedom of speech and religion, or our civil rights, or our gun rights. Most corporations can’t directly make a profit on Constitutional issues, so they have no direct interest in defending them. But, and this is important, the government’s job should not be to make new laws that force compliance with these rights, but rather to remove or prevent laws that curtail these rights. Communities should be allowed to create and maintain their own standards of behavior. And if everybody carries a gun, these standards will be locally and constantly enforced without the need for police officers or other law enforcement mechanisms, which will also save money. And this is why I’m really running for President: to ensure that local standards will finally prevail over federal ones.
fifteen
The swirl of green light cocooned Perry, and when it unwrapped he stood at his clan spawnpoint. The room was circular and high-ceilinged, and the entire space was constructed of red stone. A partitioned glass dome overhead looked up into a perpetual sunset dotted with moving pink-orange clouds against an indigo sky. A ring of columns surrounded the room, each connected with a flying buttress to the outer wall and also linked to its neighbor by a small arch. It was a classic example of Geek Gothic, inspired less by real-world architecture than by historical dramas, horror movies, and sword-and-sandal epics. At the center of the room was a fountain, a shallow, tiled pool that held a towering 30-foot statue of a naked woman. She wore an expression of orgasmic anguish, and her cartoonish, pneumatic form stood in an awkward but arousing pose, her knees touching as she bent at the waist. The middle and ring fingers of her left hand were shoved into her shaved pussy, and her free hand squeezed her huge right tit. From this breast arced an endless fountain of blood that splashed into the pool below. If the clan had any female members, they doubtless would have objected to such an overt demonstration of puerile objectification gleefully frosted with old-school male-Gamer misogyny. But the Red Harvest clan’s strict “No Girls Allowed” policy had withstood the test of time—in large part because no self-respecting females had ever tried to join. The clan had been conceived, in part, as a retreat for socially awkward males. Although Perry now had a real relationship, he’d joined long ago as a gawky teenager, as unlike most other clans it ignored the glaring embarrassment of his low stats.
Perry walked the short distance into Hammett’s, the clan’s bar. It was one of the few tasteful places in the building, with redwood-paneled walls, cozy booths, and dim, incandescent table lamps with green glass shades, all in a 1940s style.
He ordered a drink, which were free to members. Taste was not an attribute that a game console was able to convey (though it could create a sensation similar to drinking), so beverages were designed with visual stimulation in mind, and swirled, sparkled, or bubbled with dancing layers of color and light. Perry’s drink, a Cliff Diver, was served in a tall glass ringed with brightly-hued bits of fruit. At the bottom of the container, blue liquor splashed like rough waves against jagged chunks of rocky ice that ringed the inner walls. The fruit took turns doing acrobatic jumps from the edge of the glass into the drink below, and then would creep their way back to the top on a tiny spiral staircase that wound its way around the inside. Perry set the beverage down at an occupied table just as a lime wedge did a reverse somersault with a tuck into the churning brine.
Across from him sat the dinosaurian Smackasaurus Q. His costume was an unusual shade of gray-green, rough and covered with fine bumps. He looked as if he’d slain a gigantic iguana then stepped into its skin, but his head was that of a handsome and rugged human, and he wore a matching lizard-skin mask over his eyes. He originally had a stylized golden “Q” emblazoned on his chest, the letter ringed by a black pentagon; but after a certain number of smart-asses had asked him if it stood for “queer,” he’d removed it. Q was really Lance Quink, a CPA living in Phoenix, Arizona.
To his right was Assassinato, whose outfit was based on classic Japanese tokusatsu heroes like Kamen Rider and Kikaida, and he wore a skin-tight leather motorcycle outfit topped by a face mask featuring huge, green, oval bug-eyes. Any inherent coolness in the design was ruined by the fact that it was made in red tartan. Perry couldn’t recall ever seeing plaid leather, but a big part of the Game’s appeal was that it let one’s imagination run wild, for better or worse. Assassinato was Wladyslaw “Vlad” Blazek, a dentist and Polish national from Krakow. Vlad’s mask covered the top of his face, but his square jaw held a stunning set of teeth that glinted in the dim light of the bar as if lit by hidden spotlights; he couldn’t help but allow his profession to flavor his character. Though Vlad spoke some English, he preferred to let the Game translator do the job for him.
Every Gamer heard the language of their preference emanate from the mouths of other players. Perry had set his own controls so that others’ original accents flavored their speech; giving everyone a region-free generic American accent was an option, but it was also less interesting.
Perry had no idea what his friends looked like ex-Loka, but in the Game, both men were perfect physical specimens: muscular, attractive, and fit beyond credible belief. Yet something about them was wrong. Just as when Superman disguised himself as Clark Kent and managed to suppress all traces of his masculinity and charisma, both of these men—just like Perry—had counteracted the virile sheen provided by the Game’s exacting engineered disguises. It was as if they were supermodels who’d been dunked in shit, but couldn’t perceive their own offensive smell.
“I am so fucked,” said Perry. He took a symbolic sip of his drink, and a maraschino cherry grabbed the edge of his tipped glass and held on for its life. “Five kills? I’ll be lucky if I don’t get snuffed fifty times this week. My stats will be in the toilet, I’ll be out of a job, and I’ll lose my expensive apartment. I won’t be able to afford to stay in the City. It’s an EEZ, you know—there are strict income rules.”
Vlad nodded in sympathy. “You need a good training program. Spend a day learning some new moves.”
“Yeah,” said Lance, “take one of those training sessions, like 50 Unbeatable Quick Kills. It’s easy to pull that stuff on chobos. You’ll have five in no time.”
Perry rolled his eyes. “My win/lose ratio is like one to fourteen.”
“One to 14.78125,” said Lance.
Perry stared at Lance like he’d just farted.
“What?” said Lance. “If you’re gonna round off the number, then round up to fifteen. That’s standard accounting, dude.”
Perry continued. “My point—no matter how we quantify it—is that I’m horrible. Don’t you think I’ve tried those tutorials already?”
Vlad flashed a gleaming smile. “That’s what Red Harvest is all about—losing in style.” He looked over at a scantily-dressed redheaded girl lounging at the bar. She tongued an olive while giving Vlad the eye, and her plunging neckline revealed physics-mocking D-cups over a narrow waist, impossible proportions generated by the masturbating clan manager who’d ordered her. She was a bimbot, a non-player sex toy for clan members: a programmable whore. The place was littered with them. For the many clan members who had incurable issues with real women, they were a reliable source of entertainment and succor.
“Yeah, there are like 178,000 clans, and our stats rank us at about 150,000,” said Lance.
“That’s not so bad,” said Vlad.
Lance shook his head. “At least 15,000 clans are inactive but not disbanded, so they’re still charted.”
“Oh,” said Vlad, downcast. He brightened again. “Then we’re the best at being worst! We’re number one!”
Lance laughed along with Vlad, but Perry stayed silent, observing the aquatic antics of the fruit in his drink. He nudged a backstroking strawberry with his drink stirrer. He considered stabbing it, as he knew that tormenting the berry would cause it to scream and die in melodramatic fashion, but to do so seemed needlessly sadistic. At the moment, Perry empathized too much with the pieces of fruit, trapped in a glass cage, forever running through their paces for the amusement of others.
“Maybe I should save myself the humiliation of being fired by preemptively quitting,” said Perry, half to himself.
Vlad slapped his back. “The sad fact is that in order for there to be winners, somebody’s gotta lose.”
“Easy for you to say. Your job doesn’t depend on winning.”
“Not true—I fight the scourge of cavities every day.” He gestured with his index finger. “Every mouth is a battlefield!”
Lance looked thoughtful. “Maybe you could go out in spectacular style, you know, set fire to your office or something.”
“Fuck, Lance, this isn’t a game—it’s my life!” Perry slammed his glass down on the table, and several pieces of fruit flipped into the air, pirouetted, and dove into the liquid in sync.
Lance jerked at the sound, as if Perry had kicked him under the table. “Then do something and stop whining about it. You got a problem only you can fix. Now solve it!” He stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go murder somebody. Because that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
Lance winked away.
“This is my life,” said Perry as he slumped into his seat. “Hanging in the world’s saddest bachelor pad.”
“Uh-huh,” said Vlad, distracted. The bimbot had just poured her martini down her front, which rendered her white top transparent and hardened her nipples. “See you later. Good luck.” He hurried toward the girl and she led him off by the hand to some dark corner of the building. Molesting a bimbot in public was not condoned inside the bar.
Perry sighed as he poured his drink out onto the table. The fruit bounced across the surface, then ran for their freedom. The lime wedge, the cherry, and the strawberry fled to the table’s edges, where they jumped off into the abyss.
sixteen
Perry picked a dojang frequented by chobos. He avoided combat zones, and instead sought a place where people went for casual one-on-one Formal Challenges.
He winked into a landscape of rolling, grassy steppes populated with desultory stands of jagged granite that ruptured from the ground. A steady breeze rippled the grass, and the landscape rolled like a golden ocean.
A few fights were already in progress. Nearby, two muscular barbarians threw themselves at each other. One wielded a battle-ax, its head the size of a motorcycle, as the other hacked away with a sword the length and width of a surfboard.
Perry saw that a few players circled the field, also scouting out potential opponents. He took readings on a few: 14,704 kills from the statuesque Amazon in the golden armor; 12,311 kills from the shaggy grizzly bear in the black motorcycle jacket; 32,937 kills from the yellow-skinned alien with five obsidian eyes and a pulsing brain inside a glass dome. No matter where he looked, Perry felt that the least of them were still far too good for him to beat.
He was just about to wink away when he got tapped.
Formal Challenge from ADOLPH HIPSTER: Accept?
He scrambled to view Adolph’s stats: 58,687 kills. Shit, thought Perry, I’m fucked.
With reluctance he confirmed the challenge, and his opponent’s location popped up on his tracker—right behind him. Perry whirled.
Standing on a boulder a dozen yards away was a tall figure dressed like a Prussian officer. He wore a military jacket, riding pants, gloves, and boots, but all were made from cherry-red leather. Atop his head was a red metal Pickelhaube helmet, topped with a gold spike and festooned with a gold Habsburg double-headed eagle. He had the nightmarish face of a huge blue praying mantis with soccer-ball-sized eyes that shone with oily luster. On one bicep was a black armband bearing a symbol inside a white circle: the flaming sword-and-snake logo of the SDP.
Adolph’s arm whipped out at Perry, pointing a Luger. Before Perry could react, Adolph pulled the trigger. Perry cringed as the Luger popped. A small white-on-red flag unfurled from its barrel that read, “BANG!” and in smaller letters below, “dancyger 2088.”
Adolph snapped his fingers, followed by a snappy disco spin that ended as he withdrew a small baton. With a press of a button the baton snapped open, telescoping out into a staff almost as long as he was tall. Made of polished brass, sparks of electricity danced along its surface. Adolph spun the staff with both hands, whirling it like a propeller around and over his body with menacing whooshes. He jumped at Perry from his rock, somersaulting mid-air, the staff helicoptering above his head.
Perry slapped his belt buckle to activate a force sphere, a new toy he’d purchased minutes before from a defense dealer. The sphere erupted from Perry’s body like a shockwave and froze into a shimmering bubble around him. The shield appeared just in time to repel the first of Adolph’s strikes, and his staff ricocheted from its surface with a loud electric crackle. As Adolph back-flipped out of the way to prepare his next hit, Perry saw that the sphere had lost a sizable chunk of its points on that first attack—it wouldn’t last long.
“Wake the fuck up, dirty chobo meowjelly—fight me!” crowed Adolph.
Perry scrabbled inside his coat to reach his shoulder holster. Shaking, he drew forth a pocket rocket, a pistol-sized missile launcher. It only contained a single fat bullet, but Perry’s plan was to inflict maximum damage on Adolph in the shortest amount of time. If he could drop the mantid down to only a few EV then a subsequent single finishing move could end the battle. Perry was heartened that Adolph looked like a large bug. His opponent’s lack of human features meant that he might be able to kill him without the imminent urge to sicken. He pointed his gun at the creature, who danced at Perry and again brought down the metal staff to whack the sphere with rapid, percussive strikes. The shield buzzed angrily, flickering, and Perry’s tac redlined as its points went crit; Adolph was bashing the crap out of it.
Perry pointed the gun at Adolph’s feet. He knew that the trick to causing greatest injury was to aim at the ground. Otherwise, if he leveled the gun straight at his target, missing meant no damage at all: splash damage rewarded shaky, inaccurate aim. And to Perry’s harm-averse mind, inflicting indirect hits meant that in a way he wouldn’t be responsible for killing his enemy.
Adolph leaped into the air to pummel the failing shield from above, then flitted away, untiring in his lethal ballet. Perry figured the bubble could take one more hit before failure; he now realized that it was a cheap piece of shit overhyped as an effective bargain from the storefront where he’d bought it.
Perry tracked Adolph and aimed with concentration. His stomach tightened, anticipating the kill, and blood rushed from his head to his gut making him lightheaded. Cold sweat beaded his forehead, and the familiar burn of rising bile tickled the back of his throat. In the corner of his vision, a warning flashed. Between resisting nausea and focusing on his target, Perry had no attention to give it.
Adolph did a hands-free cartwheel to one side, landing on his feet, the staff held in both hands over his shoulder like a bat, ready to strike. “Bring it, douchebunny crapstain!”
Perry fired.
His view exploded into solid red. His stats crashed hard, EV gone.
In usual dispassionate fashion his display gave him the bad news:
You’ve been murdered.
“The fuck?!” he yelled.
From Adolph’s perspective, Perry had liquefied when a flash of roiling flame turned his body into pulp within the boundaries of the sphere. Perry was now a bubble-shaped cauldron of blood stew.
As Adolph did a butt-shaking, taunting victory dance, Perry skimmed the tac for answers. His eyes fell on the warning that smoldered in one corner of his vision like a hot coal.
ALERT: The equipped shield prevents proper discharge of your active weapon.
The missile had never made it past the shield.
Perry wanted to cry. He’d blown himself up.
seventeen
Hosts Sage Six and Punch Kick.
Sage: Only two days in, and you guys are rockin’ the realm with buckets of beautiful barbarity. The carnage has never been sweeter!
Punch: Not so sweet for the loooserrrrs.
Punch guffaws as his mouth warps and stretches into a huge, toothy, stupid grin.
Sage: Tourney action is through the roof, with kill numbers at an all-time high.
Punch: Betting’s hot and heavy, and punters have cleaned up on some of their favorites.
Replay: Eraser X shoves the Icepick right through the eye of a stunned competitor, a winged, angelic creature wielding a poleax.
Punch: Fanbait Eraser X has taken a hardcore lead, slicin’ his way through more than seven hundred matches in the last 48 hours, easily crushing all comers. Does he even sleep?
