But that we’d be playing Level Two.
Icehammer took the podium during the wild applause and cheering that followed our announcement.
“This is extremely unwise,” he said, still stiffly clad in his mobility frame. “Level Two is hardly tested yet; there are bound to be bugs in the system. It could be exceedingly dangerous.” Then he smiled and a palpable aura of relief swept through the spectators. “On the other hand, my shareholders would never forgive me if I forewent an opportunity for publicity like this.”
The cheers rose to a deafening crescendo.
Shortly afterward I was strapped into the console, with neuro-effectors crowning my skull, ready to light up my pain center. The computer overseeing the game would allocate jolts of pain according to the losses suffered by my population of Strobelife. All in the mind, of course. But that wouldn’t make the pain any less agonizing, and it wouldn’t reduce the chances of my heart simply stopping at the shock of it all.
Zubek leant in and shook my hand.
“For Angela,” I said, and then watched as they strapped Zubek in the adjacent console, applying the neuro-effector.
It was hard. It wasn’t just the pain. The game was made more difficult by deliberately limiting our overview of the Arena. I no longer saw my population in its entirety-the best I could do was hop my point of view from creature to creature, my visual field offering a simulation of the electrical-field environment sensed by each Strobelife animal; a snapshot only updated during Strobetime. When there was no movement, there was no electrical-field generation. Most of the time I was blind.
Most of the time I was screaming.
Yet somehow-when the computer assessed the fitness of the two populations-I was declared the winner over Zubek.
Lying in the couch, my body quivered, saliva water-falling from my slack jaw. A moan filled the air, which it took me long moments to realize was my own attempt at vocalization. And then I saw something odd; something that shouldn’t have happened at all.
Zubek hauled himself from his couch, not even sweating.
He didn’t look like a man who’d just been through agony.
An unfamiliar face blocked my view of him. I knew who it was, just from his posture and the cadences of his speech.
“Yes, you’re right. Zubek was never wired into the neuro-effector. He was working for us-persuading you to play Level Two.”
“White,” I slurred. “You, isn’t it?”
“The very man. Now how would you like to see your wife alive?”
I reached for his collar, fingers grasping ineffectually at the fabric. “Where’s Risa?”
“In our care, I assure you. Now kindly follow me.”
He waited while I heaved myself from the enclosure of the couch, my legs threatening to turn to jelly beneath me.
“Oh, dear,” White said, wrinkling his nose. “You’ve emptied your bladder, haven’t you?”
“I’ll empty your face if you don’t shut up.”
My nervous system had just about recovered by the time we reached Icehammer’s quarters, elsewhere in the building. But my belief system was still in ruins.
White was working for the IWP.
ICEHAMMER was lounging on a maroon settee, divested of his exoskeletal support system. Just as I was marveling at how pitiable he looked, he jumped up and strode to me, extending a hand.
“Good to meet you, Nozomi.”
I nodded at the frame, racked on one wall next to an elaborate suit of armor. “You don’t need that thing?”
“Hell, no. Not in years. Good for publicity, though-neural burnout and all that.”
“It’s a setup, isn’t it?”
“How do you think it played?” Icehammer said.”
“Black really was working for the movement,” I said, aware that I was compromising myself with each word, but also that it didn’t matter. “White wasn’t. You were in hock to the IWP all along. You were the reason Black vanished.”
“Nothing personal Nozomi,” White said. “They got to my family, just as we’ve got to Risa.”
Icehammer took over: “She’s in our care now, Nozomi-quite unharmed, I assure you. But if you want to see her alive, I advise that you pay meticulous attention to my words.” While he talked he brushed a hand over the tabard of the hanging suit of armor, leaving a greasy imprint on the black metal. “You disappointed me. That a man of your talents should be reduced to cheating.”
“I didn’t do it for myself.”
“You don’t seriously imagine that the movement could possibly pose a threat to the IWP? Most of its cells have been infiltrated. Face it, man, it was always an empty gesture.”
“Then where was the harm?”
Icehammer tried a smile but it looked fake. “Obviously I’m not happy at your exploiting company secrets, even if you were good enough to keep them largely to yourself.”
“It’s not as if I sold them on.”
“No, I’ll credit you with discretion, if nothing else. But even if I thought killing you might be justified, there’d be grave difficulties with such a course of action. You’re too well known; I can’t just make you disappear without attracting a lot of attention. And I can’t expose you as a cheat without revealing the degree to which my organization’s security was breached. So I’m forced to another option-one that, on reflection, will serve the both of us rather well.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll let Risa go, provided you agree to play the next level of the game.”
I thought about that for a few moments before answering. “That’s all? Why the blackmail?”
“Because no one in their right minds would play Level Three if they knew what was involved.” Icehammer toyed with the elegantly flared cuff of his bottle-green smoking jacket. “The third level is exponentially more hazardous than the second. Of course, it will eventually draw competitors-but no one would consent to playing it until they’d attained total mastery of the lower levels. We don’t expect that to happen for at least a year. You, on the other hand, flushed with success at beating Zubek, will rashly declare your desire to play Level Three. And in the process of doing so you will probably die, or at the very least be severely maimed.”
“I thought you said it would serve me well.”
“I meant your posthumous reputation.” Icehammer raised a finger. “But don’t imagine that the game will be rigged, either. It will be completely fair, by the rules.”
Feeling sick to my stomach, I still managed a smile. “I’ll just have to cheat, then, won’t I?”
A FEW minutes later I stood at the podium again, a full audience before me, and read a short prepared statement. There wasn’t much to it, and as I hadn’t written a word of it, I can’t say that I injected any great enthusiasm into the proceedings.
“I’m retiring,” I said, to the hushed silence in the atrium. “This will be my last competition.”
Muted cheers. But they quickly died away.
“But I’m not finished yet. Today I played the first two levels of what I believe will be one of the most challenging and successful games in Tycho, for many years to come. I now intend to play the final level.”
Cheers followed again-but they were still a little fearful. I didn’t blame them. What I was doing was insane.
Icehammer came out-back in his frame again-and made some halfhearted protestations, but the charade was even more theatrical than last time. Nothing could be better for publicity than my failing to complete the level-except possibly my death.
I tried not to think about that part.
“I admire your courage,” he said, turning to the audience. “Give it up for Nozomi-he’s a brave man!” Then he whispered in my ear: “Maybe we’ll auction your body parts.”
But I kept on smiling my best shit-eating smile, even as they wheeled in the same suit of armor that I’d seen hanging on Icehammer’s wall.