The Game (5 page)

Rob takes another step—then another. His left
leg, the artificial one, contacts the ground with a heavy
thud.

Beside her, Potter can’t contain his glee,
“This is so exciting!”

What in the world?
He’s moving—he’s
walking, but he’s not the one doing it. He attempts to turn his
head and survey the rest of his surroundings, but his neck muscles
won’t obey. He fights desperately for control, but that part of him
is disconnected from his consciousness.

“
Oh my, God,” he screams. “I’m a
puppet!” The worst part is he has no idea who’s controlling
him.

“
Oh, wow.” Paul can’t believe the
clarity—how real everything looks. He takes a few tentative steps
forward and the sphere glides beneath his feet, turning with each
step. He takes a few more steps to orient himself.

He’s standing in a small dirt yard. Around him
is what appears to be a plywood city. He can’t tell how large, but
judging by the one alley he can see down, the buildings stretch for
at least a hundred yards. He moves toward the alley’s entrance. He
puts his right hand against the rough plywood and is surprised when
he feels pressure along his palm—as if there is actually wood there
to touch.

“
What’s he doing?” Potter
asks.

“
He’s testing his surroundings.
Remember, the boy isn’t interacting with physical wood. To him,
even though it may look real enough, his subconscious still knows
he’s seeing an illusion.”

“
But he can feel the
wood?”

“
Yes. All the sensory perceptions
feed from here and are relayed through the conductors built into
the fabric. When the computer announced established polarity,
that’s just another way of saying that their consciousness’ are
connected—so what he feels here…” she points to Rob below them,
“…the boy feels there.” Wherever
there
is, she
thinks.

An alarm begins to blare out in the simulation
course and the yellow lights change to red. A computerized voice
announces, “Eliminate enemy targets.”

“
This is where it gets weird,”
Potter says. For once, Georgia agrees. With the exception of Rob’s
body and his physical surroundings, the participants of the
upcoming battle are only going to appear within the program. The
only way for them to see it is to watch the action is the video
feed as it blends with the software within the computer
program.

They move away from the window and take their
seats. Somebody dims the lights and a projection screen slowly
retracts from the ceiling. An image appears—a first-person
perspective through Rob’s eyes—the same view the boy sees a
thousand miles away.

“
Eliminate enemy targets,” says a
female voice. Paul checks his gun. There does not appear to be any
cocking mechanisms to load bullets—the only moving part appears to
be the trigger. Multi-colored graffiti covers the plywood
buildings. One wall, about twenty yards away, sports a man’s black
silhouette. He pulls the gun to his shoulder, aims, and then
fires.

The gun does not move, but a heavy force pushes
against his shoulder as if it really did fire. A flaming streak of
purple light flies from the gun’s barrel and strikes the silhouette
center mass. Chips of wood splinter away from the point of impact
and a wisp of dark smoke curls from the newly formed
hole.

A quick shadow darts from one side of the alley
to the other. Paul tenses and brings the gun back to his shoulder.
He waits. There’s a doorway about ten feet away on the right side
of the alley. He darts into it. It’s a single story structure, but
he sees light streaming in from the back. There’s another door back
there.

Paul slides out the rear door into another
alley—and there in front of him is an armed man. He’s facing away,
staring intently down another alley. The man stiffens as if
suddenly realizing someone is behind him. He begins to turn,
swinging his rifle around toward Paul.

But Paul is ready.

He fires and the projectile strikes the man
just below the sternum. It makes a tiny entrance hole, the uniform
barely scorched—but the mass of flesh and blood that sprays onto
the far wall tells a different story concerning the man’s
back.

“
Eeww,” Paul says. As the man falls
toward him, he ducks back into the doorway and scrambles back to
the other end of the building. He storms out the door, into the
main alley, and then shoots through another doorway on the other
side. Weapon’s fire peppers the wood somewhere behind him but he
keeps running, ducking from one building to another in an attempt
to keep the enemy guessing as to his whereabouts.

He comes to his first multi-storied structure
and scampers up a sloped ramp to the second floor. He tucks himself
into an outside corner and peeps through a window to his left. It’s
more of a rectangular hole cut into the wood than a window—there’s
no frame and no glass, just the hole. He doesn’t see anyone so he
moves to the window on his right.

This window’s line of sight is long, stretching
the length of six or seven buildings. As he watches, another man
steps out of a doorway and, hugging tightly to the wall, begins to
make his way toward Paul. Paul shoots and the man slumps into the
wall.

Paul rushes down to the first floor and
scampers again from building to building.

What’s going on here
? His body moves
from building to building, seemingly of its own will. All Rob can
do is watch. He finally catches a glimpse of his left arm and
solves the mystery as to why it feels so cold. It’s made of
polished metal. There is no hand—it’s been replaced by a built-in
weapon, like some sort of automatic assault rifle.

He scampers from one plywood structure to
another, a passenger in his own body. He’s not sure what is
worse—consciousness of his surroundings but unable to move; or
being able to move, but unable to control it? Again, he’s reminded
of a puppet.

If that’s the case—then who is the puppet
master and where are the strings?

Potter fidgets. “This is moving too slow. Can
we turn up the intensity a little?”

Georgia says, “We have to ease into it,
General. We don’t want to fry their brains.”

“
I don’t believe that. I think we
can increase the number of enemy fighters and not risk jeopardizing
the conscious filters between them.”

She was afraid this would happen. How could
they put a military man in charge of this project? All they want
are fast results and to hell with all the time and manpower put
into the project.

She flips her hand toward Potter. “Do what you
want.”
This is it
, she thinks.
After this, I’m
done
.

Potter scrambles from his chair and takes a
telephone handset off its cradle attached to the wall at the back
of the room. “Potter here. How many enemy combatants are active in
the current scenario?” He listens for a second. “Let’s increase
it…” He pauses again and makes a decision. “Triple them,” he says
and hangs up the phone.

He plops back down into his chair, oblivious to
the disgusted glare painted on Georgia’s face. “Are you crazy?” she
asks.

He snickers. “What? It’s not as if he’s going
to get hurt or anything. It’s a simulation for Christ’s
sake.”

Georgia shakes her head slowly. “Hurting him
physically isn’t the issue here, General.” Her voice rises with
each word. She no longer cares. Potter can go screw himself for all
she’s concerned. “We’ve already established that the program
works—this…” She points angrily at the screen. “…is about
maintaining the delicate conscious balance between two individuals.
Why do you think all the others failed?”

“
Now, now, Georgia. Let’s calm down.
This is no place—”

“
This is the
perfect
place!
You’re about to increase the stress on an already stressed mental
connection. Let me ask you again…why do you think all the others
failed?”

Potter shakes his head.

She points to the screen again for emphasis,
“Because they’re
not
brain dead! And once they realize
someone’s attempting to control them, their instinct to survive
takes precedence over anything else and they fight
back.”

Several of the other spectators fidget in their
seats. One man steps out of the room, probably to find a Military
Policeman or two—but Georgia is beyond caring. She’s a civilian
employee working under contract for the Department of Defense; she
doesn’t fall under military chain of command and isn’t subject to
military discipline—so to hell with them. If they bring civil
action against her then so be it.

At the back of the room, the door opens and an
MP steps inside. Potter turns at the sound of the door closing and
he holds up a hand, “We’re okay.” The MP doesn’t take that as a cue
to leave, so instead, he steps to the left and remains at attention
by the door. Potter turns back to Georgia. “I’m still in
disagreement about those men but let’s just say, for argument’s
sake, that you’re right. Isn’t that the whole reason we decided to
use a child? In the hopes that if Rob is indeed still in there,
he’ll recognize the child and be less likely to retaliate against
the mental intrusion?”

“
In theory, yes. But we can’t know
for sure Rob will recognize the intrusive consciousness as that of
a child.”

“
My case in point,” Potter sneers.
“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“
Are you kidding me? If Rob reduces
that young boy’s brain to a useless pile of jelly, you’re telling
me that you can live with that?”

“
Yes.”

Georgia slaps him and seeing the angry red
whelp rise on his cheek is only slightly satisfying. Potter’s eyes
turn to the MP and in a matter of seconds, Georgia’s arms are
pinned to her side.

“
Get her out of here.”

“
Yes, sir.”

Georgia doesn’t put up a fight. She’s through
with Potter anyway, but before she exits, she steels a quick look
back at the screen. Rob’s enhanced body, controlled by the young
boy, is deep in combat against several enemy combatants. Somehow,
someway, she hopes that Rob heard her plea concerning the
boy.

So where did all these guys come from?
Paul shoots another one, this one in the head from fifty yards. His
previous method of shoot and scoot is becoming more difficult.
There’s just too many enemy combatants. Now he’s running and
gunning from one building to the next, barely taking time to rest.
He’s not part of a team, which makes the task of eliminating the
enemy simultaneously difficult and simple. Difficult in that he has
no backup—no comrades to cover him as he ducks from one doorway to
the next—simple
because
he’s not a part of a team—if it
moves, he shoots.

Paul pants and holds his side. This game
demands more physical energy than any other he’s ever participated.
A body darkens the window and he shoots this one too.

He runs. Another injection of adrenaline
courses through his veins. He’s lost in the game. The interactive
quality sucks him in and the outside world has completely faded
away. Right now, it’s all about him, the gun, and his next move to
guarantee his survival. It’s nothing like the game in the arcade
where he stood motionless, relying on the software to determine his
next move. With
An Act of War
, his only job was to shoot.
This time is different. His surroundings are entirely under his
control. It’s completely up to him to make each decision, to hide
in this building or that, to let the enemy pass by and take them
out from behind, or to step out in front of them and seeing the
surprise widen their eyes as his bullets mow them down.

He can’t last much longer. He’s sure of it. The
amount of energy he’s expending to maintain survival is steadily
draining his resources, making him slow. He rests more often. He’s
finding it harder to maintain silence when he’s panting and out of
breath.

“
Hello?”

Paul holds his breath; cocks his head to the
side. Surely, that wasn’t one of the enemy combatants. The voice
was too close, almost as if it were right next to him.

“
Can you hear me?”

Paul whispers, “Who are you?”

“
Oh, thank, God!”

Paul closes his eyes. This is getting weird, he
thinks. Now I’m hearing voices in my head.

Unable to do anything but watch, Rob can’t
stand being a passenger in his own body. If he could just close his
eyes to the dizzying, confusing actions of his own body, he’d might
just feel better.

Helpless, his body rushes to a window, thrusts
his gun inside, and sprays the far wall with burning projectiles.
Then he’s running again; round one corner, down an alley, through
one building and into another before settling into a corner to
rest. He pants and clutches his side as if there is a hitch there;
but there’s not. He listens intently to the sound of his breath. He
concentrates on his body.

He shouldn’t be panting. Neither should he be
clutching his side. He’s not out of breath. There is no pain—by
every outward indication, he should be fine—still running easily
from one building to the next, still jumping through windows,
cutting around this corner or that, or sprinting up and down ramps
between floors. He’s a soldier after all. For years, the military
molded his body—conditioned it to maintain hard physical
activities.