Heir of G.O'D. Revelations Page 16

  “How the frack did you see him?”

  “He’s got a round head,” I reply. But I refuse to tell Denver anything else.

  -23-

  Unlike Io, which is peppered with so many Arenas around its surface that it looks like a bubble wrap-covered ball when viewed from Solspace, most of the activity on Amalthea centres on the massive impact crater, Pan. Pan is about a hundred kilometres across and wherever you look, you can see the towering mountain walls that form the crater edges. Pan City has grown into a sprawling metropolis covering the entire basin floor, in contrast to Io which has neither a central city hub, nor a real sense of community.

  I arrive at the northern-most teleport of Pan City and make my way to the registration point. Trade shops surround the registration HQ, selling everything a person might need for target shooting; from bows to pistols, crossbows to rifles, and ammunition for everything. Amongst the weaponry merchants there are the usual food and utility companies, haptics shops and a massive store owned by the shooting events’ sponsor Huawei from the Chinese Republic. This is by far the largest retail zone outside of Mars.

  Ignoring everything else, I join the rear of the queue. Having spent all day fighting, I’m already weary. My preferred preparation on a Monday is to relax by watching movies or shows, then warm up for about an hour before the competition starts. Today I’m already fracking worn-out, suffering from lack of sleep, the after-effects of yesterday and the increasing stress of raising enough $uns to pay Nyffenegger’s fee. I push all of that aside and force my mind to concentrate on the Marksman event. As if that wasn’t enough, there’s still the Mass Rumble later, which is perhaps the most challenging and exhausting event of the whole year (maybe I will need one of Denver’s ‘delicious’ energy drinks).

  Whilst the Arenas are completely automated, shooting events on Pan are arranged to feel more like they did back in late 20th-century realworld, with queues of people registering and real avatars running desks (instead of Sol-generated ones). The registration clerk takes my cyber-gun from me and checks it over. I’m asked to confirm each of the enhancements—which must be approved every time —and then I’m given my number; range Pavlichenko, booth one-twenty. Of the six ranges, all named after historical snipers, I always take receiving Lyudmila Pavlichenko as a good omen because she’s the only female sharpshooter on the list. By the time I’m sorted out with my range ID and number, Denver is waiting for me.

  We head to the train terminal and wait for a hyperfast shuttle to dock. Across from the station the biathlon tournaments are underway, with the athletes undergoing a gruelling combination of skiing and shooting disciplines. To mimic the realworld version of the sport that existed back before the Devastation, the biathlon range is coded to translate each athlete’s treadmill speed to ski speed, whilst measuring their pulse rate, blood pressure and breathing rhythms throughout the race. This complex set of data is then converted using algorithms to determine the contestant’s ski speed, stability, and accuracy on the range. I tried biathlon once, but I was too exhausted to shoot straight after skiing one single lap.

  The shuttle arrives, and we clamber on board. It reminds me of a giant brown metallic worm with windows. We pick an empty cabin and settle back into the plush velvet seats with wood and chrome trim. Outside, the scenery flashes past. Shops and stores, trade posts and gambling huts cluster around the numerous shooting ranges and courses. Unlike most of Sol, the entire Pan crater boasts a fully functioning weather system, which is further customisable inside each of the event zones. It snows at the north end and can rain anywhere else inside the crater. The basin is also subject to winds of varying strength and direction. The unique coding on Pan creates the closest simulation to realworld shooting conditions in the whole of Sol. Clay pigeon, pistol, even team ‘storm the town’ ranges zoom past as we travel towards the southern area.

  “How are you doing?” Denver asks, as we head through one of the few tunnels on the journey.

  “Fine.”

  “Did you…” he starts.

  “I need to concentrate,” I snap, interrupting him. There’s still something buried uneasily in the back of my mind, but I can’t expend energy on it now. At the forefront of my mind right now is keeping Denver from finding out about the deal with Nyffenegger, and the fake ID. So many secrets. He would likely kill me himself for giving up my rough location and DNA so carelessly to a stranger, let alone an agent of COGOD. I clench my jaw and determine to say as little as possible for the remainder of the journey.

  It’s been a few months since I last won a Marksmanship tournie, but that win earnt me a qualification credit for Sunday’s annual final. Today’s competition is another invitational, like Wednesday’s Bounty Hunter.

  “Dad asked me to double check that you’re coming over for the celebrations this year?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “Tell him thanks, but sorry. I’m focusing on my competitions.”

  “It’s not a request, Ana. You know that. After the Invitational, like usual?” Denver counters. He sits back in his seat, and his expression glazes over. His avatar adopts this look whenever he takes a call realworld. He’s in the container with me, but he doesn’t speak. “Sorry. Got to go. Something’s come up.”

  “No problem.”

  I could do with the peace, I think to myself, and there’s less chance of you working out what I’m doing.

  “Later,” Denver says stepping out.

  I hear him leave, but I’m focused on getting into competition mode. The train pulls into the station, and I disembark, joining the small crowd of avatars heading towards the ranges. Most will be competitors, but family members and friends often turn up for support (and on the off-chance they might get lucky and snag one of the sponsor’s spot prizes - Mika won a salvaged kettle with a built-in purifier once; it was worth way more than most of the cash prizes on offer for competing).

  The wind is constant, but not strong, as I make my way to Pavlichenko and flash my ID at the barriers. The red gate swings back, and I step inside. The competition consists of ten rounds of ten shots, each at a target a kilometre downrange. It’s a standard white square target of ten alternating red and white concentric circles, each broken down into ten smaller segments. Each of the rounds is scored out of one hundred, down to one decimal place, and after each round everyone moves to another lane number drawn at random, within their designated range. I reach my allocated starting position and set my Barrett M99 up on its stand. I used a custom mod colour palette to paint my gun in jungle camouflage of rich greens, deep browns, and tans. The custom scope, extra-tensile trigger and a trimmed buttstock all cater to my smaller frame and improve the weapon’s overall accuracy. I kept the rear monopod, which drops out of the padded buttstock, for added stability and to balance the weapon so I can rest between shots.

  As with all shooting events, the range makes full use of my haptic suit, detecting fatigue, breathing and microscopic movements. The coding somehow converts these into the tiniest of adjustments on the flight of the bullet. In a matter of seconds, I’m ready. I fire my five zeroing shots, making the minutest of adjustment clicks, until I get an almost perfect ten on the final two shots.

  I’m not sure why, perhaps it’s the mush that’s currently standing in for my mind, but my usual pre-range nerves are absent. Round-one starts, and my allocated time of three minutes to fire ten shots begins. To reduce the pressure, I reconfigure my HUD to hide the counter until there’s only a minute left. I spend the first few seconds checking the wind and watch how it’s affecting the flags fluttering every fifty metres along each lane. It’s blowing a constant five kilometres an hour from my left. I make one more click, focus on my target and breathing and softly squeeze the trigger. The recoil strikes my shoulder through the haptic suit, but it’s such a familiar feeling that I shoot through it. I hit 9.8, which is high, especially this early on. Towards the end of the time slot the wind picks up, but even so, I manage to hit at least 9.7 or better with each shot. I’m
elated when I check the scores; 98.1 is my second highest start ever. I reward myself with a Witchetty-Cricket Pro-Bar whilst I wait for the next lane draw.

  Round-two follows the same pattern, although my lane is further to the left and closer to the wind source. I overcome the challenge from that too and manage a respectable 97.4. In third overall, I head to lane one for the next round. Not only am I handicapped by the increasing wind, but this is the first of the kneeling rounds. I spend the first minute getting comfortable and stable, and even manage to check out the shooter next to me. Their first three shots all go right, the worst in the eight-ring, and I make a minor click adjustment before firing. My adjustments are not enough, and my shot still strays right into the low nine’s. I click again and steady my breathing, managing 9.6, 9.8, and then a couple of 9.9s. When the round is over, I’m pretty satisfied with my 97.0 dead in the worst of the range draws.

  To even the effects of the winds, the automated lane draw algorithm adds the lane draw numbers together. At the end of the ninth round, all competitors will have the same net total when the lane numbers are added together. Having all low numbers so far, I relax in the knowledge that I will enjoy some high lane draws later. Round-four and I’m drawn in another low lane, eighteen, and face the first of the annoying obstacles. A metal barrier emerges from the floor until it soars ten feet from the ground and stretches the width of the lane. Several angled and numbered holes are cut into the panel, in addition to a stepped edge on each side, like the side of a house built of Lego. The lane display, which confirms name, round, total score and place, also informs competitors of which hole or step to use. Failure to comply is an automatic disqualification. This round demands that we use a slot cut at a forty-five-degree angle. Because of my shorter stature, I can still kneel in my regular position, so my score is still pretty good; taller competitors, including most of the men, are forced to duck or contort at uncomfortable looking angles. Across the range, many scores dip and some of them plummet. I manage to hold my form and win the round with the best total of all 1,500 competitors, taking my 389 total through to round-five.

  The third and last of the kneeling positions is on an angled ramp which drops away behind me. By wedging my left foot into the lowest of the holes in the barrier, and hooking the feet of the gun’s stand over the fourth step on the right side, I avoid the slope. I also get a higher draw, ideal as the wind picks up. Another low-scoring round for many sees competitors leaving early. Although I had my lowest round total so far, exceeding 95 is still terrific in these conditions. Halfway through and I top the leader board.

  The next three rounds are all in the standing position. I struggle to cope with the increasingly challenging hole positions, growing wind speed and fracking unpredictable gusts. For the eighth round, I end up with both my feet wedged in lower barrier holes just so that I can see the target through the assigned firing hole. Fracking stupid barriers! I struggle to make 97, and whilst I still lead overall after eight rounds, most of my advantage has gone.

  Round-nine and all I need to do is finish in the top three in Pavlichenko to qualify for the last round. The random position for the final mass shoot is in the prone position and requires the lowest hole (the same one that I used for a foothold earlier). The strong wind is a real problem now, but I get lane two-forty and avoid the worst of the conditions. I lie on my side, my shorter height meaning that I don’t breach the edges of the lane, and release all ten shots within a minute. As I suspected, the force of the gusts only increases and scores around me drop like house bricks.

  I take full advantage of the hour break to walk around my container as the judges validate scores. I drink some water and scoff another Pro-Bar, then make my way back to my rig. Thanks to the luck of the draw and my alternative and creative positions in the range, I’m ten points clear of the rest going into the last round. The top three from each range now shoot it out in rounds. Because I’m leading, I get to choose the range and the lanes; much to the annoyance of the other competitors I select one-through-six in my favourite range, Pavlichenko. Starting at lane one, the eighteenth to twelfth-ranked competitors line up, and we begin again.

  Thanks to my full-shot lead, the pressure is off. For the remainder of the competition, I relax and focus on getting mid-to-high-nines with each shot. My lane, six, is somewhat sheltered from the wind, but the conditions are woeful. It even starts to cyber-rain at the end (although no puddles form of course). By the time my last turn arrives, I’ve already won. I consider not shooting, but this would be one of my highest scores ever, even in these appalling conditions. I take my position, standing on a barrel and shooting through a circular hole the size of a tennis ball. Much to my delight, I hit a 9.8 and get my third-highest total ever.

  Fireworks explode in a multicoloured extravaganza above the range, but there’s hardly anyone left to enjoy the display. Even the remaining corporate sponsor frackhats are itching to get away while St@rbur$t, the Marksman event host and commentator representing the B3atThe0ddz Corps, rushes my interview through in a record twenty-eight seconds. With the Mass Rumble under an hour away, everyone else has left to prepare. I collect the byte-balls and leave St@rbur$t, who dresses like a Spanish Gypsy, to interview the rest of the top three. I’m fortunate; a train is just pulling into the platform.

  I spend the entire excruciatingly slow four-minute journey back to the reception area—and the only port in and out of Pan—examining the byte-balls. Every time I take the Pan shuttle, I cuss at the designers of Pan for their attachment to realism. I guess the journey would be kind of quaint if I wasn’t in such a hurry, though at least this year I have a distraction. The design of the byte-balls is, in my opinion, in poor taste, because they’re tiny replicas of Halley’s Comet, complete with shimmering tails. As the winner, my byte-balls are gold and, despite what they represent, the balls are undoubtedly the most precious thing I’ve won in years (that is, if Sol survives).

  From Huawei I won a 30,000 $uns voucher to spend on any of their connectivity and communications devices. Haptical Illusions have given me the code for a free Immersive Suit, which I already own of course, and B3atThe0ddz surprised me with a super-generous 50,000 $uns slip. Not bad for a two-thousand entry fee and a couple of hours in the cyber wind and rain.

  The train arrives and I hurry to reception to cash in the B3atThe0ddz voucher, then head to the port, passing through the promenade of shops. One store in particular catches my eye, and I have an idea, a eureka moment. They likely won’t go for it, but I’m desperate – even with the marksman prizes I’m struggling to reach 100,000 $uns (let alone the additional million I need). Desperate times require desperate measures. I leave the store a few minutes later wearing a small smile, having successfully negotiated an exchange for the byte-ball prize. Whilst the value of the item I secured is worth considerably less than the original prize, I’m praying to G.O’D. that it will prove to be priceless to me.

  -24-

  Unlike the sparsity of betting markets available on the ridiculous fracking level-two Bounty Hunter qualies, the Mass Rumble is awash with them. Each of the three betting corporations permits a bet of up to 1,000 $uns on any of the competitors, with a return of up to 100,000 $uns if the person wins, 50,000 $uns for a top ten and 10,000 $uns for a top hundred. Reaching the top thousand gets the gambler their money back, consequently almost everyone in it will bet on themselves. I bet on myself with all three betting Corps, for all levels, on both mine and Valette’s accounts.

  The location map dings into my inbox, and I check my starting position with nervous trepidation. I exhale loudly when I see it because my starting place is good – not perfect, but I can make it work. I have a plan, a cunning plan, as cunning as a fox who's just been appointed Professor of Cunning (as I heard once on some old comedy programme). I place a string of other bets, spreading them over the two accounts. I even get a bit reckless and make a couple of combo bets. After those are confirmed, I place extra ones on people I know should do well. Of course, n
ot many (if any), will pay out, but I spread on Denver, the Mouse, Samir, Musa and a few others. With my target so desperately big, I also swallow my pride and place bets on Shuzo and some of the other Disciples. Right now, I don’t give a frack. In all, I gamble just over 100,000 $uns over the two accounts. If my plan works, and just one other person places in the top thousand, I’ll get my $uns back. Any more than that, or if my plan is super-successful, then I’m in profit!

  The Mass Rumble is slightly more generous than standard Arenas, allowing each contestant to carry five items and limitless ammo. My sneaky plan requires sniping, so the Barrett wins over the G28, along with the PPK and the three other items essential for it to work. Preparations complete, I teleport to the holding area on Callisto, home of the Festival Arenas. Talking to other players is the last thing on my mind, so I block comms and study the map. The designers that construct the Festival Arenas have more creative license than the standard weekly templates allow. Festival maps are always unique designs, with different terrain and challenges that mean they are generally nothing like the standard Io events. Today, the Mass Rumble will take place on a replica of the island of Mauritius, which I’m guessing they somehow managed to reproduce from Sol’s source-code. I familiarise myself with the small town of Dagotiere, focusing on Dickson Lake. My allocated starting position is on the north end of the small promontory in the centre of the lake.

  With five minutes to go, entrants are automatically ported to their starting spot, where they remain invisible to all other players until the Arena siren blares to start the competition. I plan to use this time wisely. First, I change out of my usual Arena outfit–which my competitors may have seen me wearing when I teleported into the holding area–and don a full military ghillie suit. Next, I spend a couple of precious minutes plucking foliage and grass from the ground and surrounding bushes. I’m unable to move from my assigned starting point, but anything within reach is mine. With the netting woven together with a cursory layer of greenery, I scan my surroundings and calculate my route and plan of attack. From the draw, I knew that I would be close to the spur’s centre, but to be dropped so close to one of the respawn spots is like nirvana. Normally I prefer to start from the edge of the map, gradually working my way towards the mayhem in the centre. Today though, I’m not interested in trying to win – finishing in the top thousand would be a minor miracle!