The Game Read online

  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 There is no hand—it’s been replaced by a built-in weapon, like some sort of automatic assault rifle.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?”

&
nbsp; 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.

  Yet, he’s out of breath…

  …he’s clutching at his side.

  Phantom pains, he thinks. I’m not the one hurting. It’s whoever has control of my body.

  Words float to him, a hazy memory from when he first realized he was still alive. A woman’s voice, asking him something—but what? Just when he thinks he remembers, the words slip away like smoke in the wind. He tries to turn his thoughts inward. If he is a puppet, then there must be strings, and if there are strings, then there must be a puppet master controlling them—controlling him.

  “Hello?” he says, testing the theory. Silence greets him.

  Silence! His body has stiffened. He’s holding his breath as if listening. Excitement floods through him.

  “Can you hear me?” he screams, the sound of his voice bellows through his skull.

  Finally, a breakthrough. Another voice fills his minds, a voice that is not his own. It’s tiny and far away, but clear and melodic. “Who are you?” it asks.

  “Oh, thank, God!” But that’s as far as he gets. Pain shoots through his mind. Memories that are not his own flash through his consciousness like a single-edged razor. His own mind splits open and his memories pour like gasoline to a flame—his screaming voice is not the only one in his head—the other joins, creating a duo of undulating sound. Whatever is happening to him, it’s happening to the puppet master too.

  Then, just as it began, the pain stops and in a moment of crystal clarity, the words he couldn’t remember come to him and shine on his consciousness like neon light.

  “If you’re in there, please, please go easy on the boy.” It was the woman, Georgia Cobb. She knew—rather, she suspects! She tried to warn him.

  His body lies unmoving on the floor of one of the plywood buildings—his eyes slowly close, enshrouding him in darkness.

  “Paul? Are you there?” he asks.

  Yes, answers the tiny, quiet voice. Rob can hear the fear.

  “Do you know who I am? Do you know what’s happened to us?”

  Yes. I think so. He pauses to gather the new memories, to put them in some semblance of order. You’re Robert Daley. You were hurt while on military deployment.

  “Yes, that’s right. And now I need your help.”

  My…my help?

  “Yes. My body is dying but I want to live.”

  What can I do? I don’t know what to do?

  “I’ve got a theory about that. Where are you?”

  I’m lying inside a game.

  Rob already knows that—he knows the answer to his next question too, but asks it anyway. He needs to keep the boy talking. “Are your eyes closed?”

  Yes. The pain…your memories…the light hurts my eyes.

  “Paul, listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you anymore. I think we’re both beyond that point now.”

  Are…are you sure?

  Rob doesn’t want to lie to the boy, especially if his suspicions prove wrong. “No, Paul. I’m not sure. I’m not going to lie to you—but I need you to be strong for me and try to open your eyes, okay? If what I believe is true, we both might be in more danger if we don’t act fast.”

  Da-danger?

  “Yes, Paul. I need your help. Open your eyes for me.”

  Light floods into his/Paul’s eyes, confirming his suspicions. Somehow, their individual personalities and memories have merged—molded together like Siamese Twins. Rob tries something—he scratches his nose. Paul’s arm lifts and his finger rubs along the bridge. The movement confirms Rob’s suspicion—he can control Paul’s body just as if it’s his own.

  My head hurts, Rob.

  “I’m sure it does, Paul. You’ve just lived my entire life in the span of a few seconds.” This is a good sign for Rob. If Paul is concentrating so much on his headache, then maybe he didn’t notice when Rob took control for that brief moment to scratch his nose.

  He says, “We need to get out of here, Paul.”

  I can’t…I can’t. It hurts too bad.

  “I need you to Paul, please.”

  No. I can’t. You do it.

  So much for him not noticing, but Rob can’t do that—not without absolute confirmation that the kid doesn’t mind—that he truly understands. “Are you sure?”

  Paul’s head nods—of course, it’s not just Paul’s head now—it’s their head. “I promise I won’t take full control from you—if that’s even possible. But just till we’re safe, okay?”

  Yes, okay. I just don’t want to get in trouble.

  “You won’t. I promise.”

  Rob takes over. The transition feels almost like changing places in line—at first, Paul is in the lead, but Rob takes a mental step forward, pushing Paul’s consciousness backward.

  Rob scrambles to his feet and examines the sphere around him. The door is to his left, cocked at an odd angle. He takes a few steps to the right to turn the sphere and position the door at a more user-friendly angle.

  * * *

  Singleton steps away from the observation window to answer the phone.

  A voice shouts into his ear, “Singleton! What’s going on over there?”

  He’s not sure what to say—why is Potter in a panic? “What’s wrong, sir?”

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong is I have a dead stick over here.”

  “Dead stick?” Then it hits him. Something’s happened. He rushes back to the window and looks down at the glowing sphere below. As far as he can tell, everything looks normal. The simulation is still running. Because of the bright video playing across the globe’s surface, he can’t tell if the boy is moving or not. As far as he knows, young Paul might be lying on the floor unconscious—or dead. They warned him at the beginning what might happen—what did happen to all the other test subjects.

  “I’ll call you right back,” he tells Potter. He sets the handset down, missing the cradle in his haste to exit the observation booth. He takes the stairs two at a time and bursts through the door and onto the main floor. He bypasses the first sphere and rushes through into the other room.

  “Paul?” he calls, slowing to a walk. He passes by the computer console at the rear and to the door, which stands open like a doorway into an alternate reality. “Paul?” he calls again, expecting to find the boy lying on the floor, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolled back as his brain tries to process the mental bond; but no, the sphere is empty.

  Paul is gone.

  * * *

  Singleton sits in the chair behind a cheap, metal desk. He rises, paces a few times, then returns to his seat. The phone rests on the desk before him, taunting him, daring him to either use it, or
run. He told Potter he would call him back, but he still has not done so. He’s afraid what might happen, what Potter might do. Then again, it really doesn’t matter now, does it? The boy is gone. It wouldn’t be hard to find him, even in a city this size. George might even have the boy’s home address.

  But that’s not his call. All that would fall on Potter’s shoulders. He reaches for the phone, rests his hand on the smooth surface. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, lifts the receiver, and dials the number.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Looking for the boy.”

  “So he’s gone?”

  “Yes.” He lets the word hang in the air, waiting for Potter to reveal his intentions. He can almost hear the General’s wheels turning through the phone.

  The General asks, “How old is he?”

  “I don’t know—sixteen, maybe seventeen.”

  “How long’s he been gone?”

  “Thirty minutes, at least.” Potter silence is unnerving. “So what happened, General?”

  “I wish I knew. The good thing is the kid survived. It’s the most progress I’ve had so far.”

  “Do I need to find him?”

  “No,” says Potter. “If he comes back, that’s all well and good, but I have a feeling we’ll not be seeing him again.”

  * * *

  Potter couldn’t have been more wrong. Here’s a seventeen-year-old boy with all the memories, experience, and knowledge of a thirty-year-old warrior—to say he was scared is an understatement, but once Paul overcame the mental shock of absorbing Rob’s consciousness, the planning began—Rob didn’t have to press the issue either.

  The first problem Rob encountered was that the boy is thin and weak—a scrawny thing with no endurance, much less muscle-mass. He had a hard time believing Paul was really a senior in high school. His body is completely underdeveloped—forgoing most physical activities for computers and gaming consoles.