Chapter TenGo to chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 ==February 18, 2096, 21h Lang’s position as head of the public relations department gave him a large office on one of the top floors, and (by far the more important) easy access to the elevators. High rank meant nothing if one had to climb dozens of flights of stairs. Today, however, Lang parked his rover inside one of the cavernous garages and ordered the elevator to his office with hardly a thought. He had more important things on his mind: namely, the massively popular Mantis Project. Lang had originally planned the Mantis Project as a combination test run and publicity stunt, to prove that when one company attacked another the HARs could handle the stress, but as the fights wore on, he began to realize its true potential. He was already in a position of strength in the WAR heirarchy; if he managed to make HAR fighting a successful sport, he could be catapulted right to the top. President of WAR! To utilize this gladiatorial phenomenon to its fullest, he needed to harness the best of the best, make sure none of them won too often. Lang was already mentally planning strategic, tension-filled matches, the creation of “factions” and rivalries between each fictionalized pilot, how best to market WAR’s latest models in action. Starting with the Mantis of course; obviously whoever won would have to fend off challengers for the title using his prototype. All he needed was the cooperation of the “talent”, humanity’s best pilots. Pushing the door open, giving a halfhearted smile to his secretary, Lang sat down in his imported leather chair and touched the button for voice control. “Computer, call up the Mantis Project tournament brackets, please.” Crystals embedded in his window rotated, lit up, and Lang’s window became his computer display. A few seconds of whirs and blips from his computer, and the lineup for the tournament appeared. Scrolling through the list of competitors and his extensive dossier on each, Lang reflected. Only five significant fighters remained: Jonus Augardi, Dr. Ibrahim Hothe, Raven Menaza, Trent, and himself, Shirro Lang. Since each had fought only once before in front of the news media, it was too early to tell the ultimate victor. Fortunately, given that he himself wouldn’t be victorious (he had only entered so he could oversee it personally), all the others would be fine champions (or competitors) in his planned “sport of the future”. He was fairly sure he could handle Hothe, since the amiable Asian would agree to anything as long as it gave him the chance to play with his precious Mantis. Augardi wasn’t much more of a problem; he understood the price of fame, and having been second fiddle in the Arena, being a fictitious champion would take to him well. Menaza and Trent were going to be rather more of a problem. Menaza in particular was dangerous and unpredictable, and while Trent hated WAR, he was likely to see reason when threatened. The fool had dedicated himself to finding out his past, and when Lang had the power to put that data forever beyond his reach, with some smooth talking he could play Trent along until he had found another to take his place. Perfect, Lang thought contentedly. As long as Menaza is defeated, I will have the latest phenomenon in my hands. PR will become the most powerful department in WAR, under my supervision. And from there it’s only a short step to President… Idly, he ordered the computers to call up any current broadcasts regarding the tournament. He was unpleasantly surprised when he found three of his top five competitors on interplanetary television together, yammering about HAR comparisons. Worse, they were on Eliza Laim’s show. He didn’t like the way LBC was making all the right guesses: first, they had beat all the major networks to Aidoann Traillieu and her daring victory, then they maneuvered their way into semi-exclusive coverage of Augardi, now they brought Menaza into the limelight. Next, they’d be catching on to his own plans, and that was always dangerous for anyone outside WAR. He’d have to think up something to quiet them down, make them back off from the tournament. Regrettably, announcing some other event in WAR would be ignored (since WAR was now associated with “Mantis Project” in the minds of the public, at least temporarily), so something else had to be found. Perhaps if he could elicit the services of a minor fighter, Kijap and Laim would be drawn astray. Although, he mused, they haven’t caught on to Trent yet. If they knew what I knew, they wouldn’t air it anyway, so I don’t need to worry. Trent has good reason to hate us, but our little genetic tampering has ensured he has to stay in the HAR business. Starting over now would be all but impossible, even for someone with his talents. He’s blind with revenge and ambition, making him easily manipulated. I should have no trouble with him… Dragging himself back to reality with an effort, Lang called in the first of his visitors for the day, one of Ibrahim’s underlings demanding to know why the Mantis was suddenly being ignored. Ten minutes later, the man left with orders to prepare footage of the Mantis in action… just in case one of his pilots began to have second thoughts. Shirro Lang had the situation firmly in control, and it felt great. * * * * Marcus Faraday lived in an unassuming split-level home in what was once the state of Florida (now a region of the conglomerate Japanamerica) which looked perfectly normal from the outside, an easy commute away from WAR’s American offices. Inside, apart from the usual shabbiness of a home occupied by a bachelor constantly on the move, was a room containing some of the most sophisticated computer equipment available to a private citizen. Two tables stood in the center of the room, illuminated by harsh halogen lighting and connected with innumerable wires to twin monitor screens, displaying the vital statistics of the table’s occupant. Today, lying prone on them were Aidoann and Trent, engaged in simulated HAR combat. Faraday’s machinery was theoretically able to recreate an entire battle, complete with artificial opponents, but in Trent’s opinion, no amount of training could compare with the real thing. Still, this was better than nothing. Faraday sat in a chair, looking at holographic displays showing the fight; by now, Aidoann and Trent (working in tandem) had defeated six computerized opponents and were facing the seventh. Inside the machine, Trent was completely immersed in his combat. A voice in the back of his mind told him that Faraday wasn’t being quite forthright with him, that these endless fights against Shadow HARs could mean only one thing: Faraday knew he would have to face Raven Menaza, and soon. Although none of the computer opponents sported Menaza’s trademark black-and-red color scheme, their fighting style increasingly approached that of WAR’s lunar security chief. In Trent’s opinion, Aidoann had enough worries already without telling her this kind of thing, so he kept his suspicions to himself. A warning from Aidoann, more felt than heard, entered Trent’s consciousness. Acting on instinct, he pivoted faster than the eye could follow and lashed out with a heelkick to the probable enemy location. The Shadow robot was interrupted while charging its mysterious “duplicator” by a blow to the face and backfired, overloading its system with energy and stressing the capacitors to danger levels. Aidoann’s Electra followed up immediately with an electric shock. What Trent’s brain interpreted as a horrendous explosion filled the air with a wall of sound as the Shadow’s internal micro-fusion plant exploded, washing the other robots with a stream of deadly radiation and a shower of sparks. A gaping hole in its chest heralded the defeat of the seventh enemy. Before the eighth Shadow could appear, Faraday’s voice cut into the simulation. “Sorry, but time’s up. I’m going to need the processing power to finish up my presentation for Systex today.” Faraday touched the controls and Trent’s sensation of being a HAR faded slowly, as if the world were receding into a distant tunnel. His senses shut off, then he awakened inside his own, fleshly body. Trent felt a slight twinge of disappointment, like every time, his subconscious wishing he could remain in a computer-generated land of power and glory forever. Just like each time before, though, he pushed that thought down, refused to think about it until he had acclimatized to the sensations of muscle and sinew rather than piston and control rod. Opening his eyes, Trent gingerly plucked the electrodes from his head and sat up, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brilliant lights. Beside him, Aidoann shook her head, perhaps clearing some vestige of false information, perhaps only loosening her neck, and allowed Faraday to help her to a standing position. Trent got up of his own volition, then walked over to where the other two stood, near the stairwell leading out of the house. “That was good,” said Faraday, “but it could have been better.” Trent and Aidoann exchanged long-suffering glances, then regained their composure and paid attention. “Aidoann, you’re supposed to be watching out for yourself first and Trent second, not the other way around. You nearly lost halfway through when that Jaguar got you in a hold. Remember, this isn’t some novice you’re training; Trent is more than capable of taking care of himself.” “And you, Trent,” he continued, “you’re thinking too much. You’ve got superb reflexes—“ “Of course I do. I’m designed that way,” muttered Trent. He appreciated what Faraday was trying to do for him, but he guessed nobody could really understand the way he worked. Critiques meant nothing; the only thing that would really make a difference is practice, being able to act and react the right way, every time. By now, Faraday was saying something about “spatial awareness” (another area Trent automatically excelled in) and “overanalyzing,” but Trent’s mind was on other things. “Thank you, Marcus,” said Trent, “I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. Just call me if you have something you want to discuss.” “Aidoann, it’s been a pleasure fighting with you.” With a smile and a wave of the hand subconsciously mimicking Jonus Augardi’s posture, Trent was out the door before either of the other two could react. It was only a couple blocks’ walk to the bus stop, and besides, it was best he leave this way, so Faraday couldn’t catch on until it was too late. He was sick and tired of people second-guessing his every move, trying to make him in their own image. It was time to confront Augardi. * * * * Faraday's only comment on the situation was a raised eyebrow towards Aidoann and a sigh. "Well, that was productive." The older woman responded with characteristic optimism, laying a hand on his shoulder, "Don't worry, Marcus, Trent knows what he's doing. He just needs to blow off some steam, that's all. He'll be back; he's got nowhere else to go." "I guess you're right. Above all else, he wants to win, and with us he's got the best shot at doing that. And he seems to be fairly receptive to my reform ideas as well... he's got a good shot at the championship, and with a bit of luck, that'll give us all the leverage in WAR we need." Aidoann responded with a cheerfulness she did not feel. Something was wrong with Trent: perhaps he was holding something back, still not willing to trust her and Marcus, or perhaps someone else was using him for his own ends. Either way, she didn't like it. Making a pithy excuse to her friend and a mental note to call Trent in his apartment a little later, Aidoann left in a cloud of thought. |