“By
latest estimates you’ve got
the blood of seven hundred twenty-three
people on your hands, Mr. Snaera.
How do you justify this?” asked
the grapefruit-sized drone, floating
a half-meter off the left shoulder
of the Tri-Sys reporter. She just
smiled innocently and gave a faint
shrug, as if to say the machine
had a mind of its own.
“If
it’s to be good cop, bad ‘bot,
consider our exclusive interview
over.” Gamesman Snaera shot
over his shoulder as he turned
to look over the arena. It stretched
enormously below their position,
darkly tinted by the observation
room’s heavy screens. At
its center, framed by two heavy
chairs, was a fine antique table
upon which the bargezi boards
waited, pieces arranged neatly
for the starting move. Already
the crowd was filing in, as somber
as mourners.
“I’m
sorry about that Mr. Snaera, but
it is the question everyone wants
to know. The live warship crews
of the Armada games, the death
forfeits, people are calling it
monstrous.” She was pretty
in the way that only people who
stuck with their real faces into
maturity could be pretty, and it
lent her a trustworthy quality
that Snaera found intensely threatening.
“People
are saying that, or infosys medi-drone
chasers such as yourself are?” Snaera
never raised his voice, never lost
his composure. Ever. He turned
to regard the reporter with a mild
disdain. “Those crews were
volunteers.”
“Members
of a suicide cult which you fund
generously Mr. Snaera.”
“People have
a right to their beliefs. And I have
a right to live my life as I see
fit. Everything I do is legal, and
no one has ever died in my games
that didn’t sign a plethora of waivers
and sit through a barrage of psych-drone
evaluations. Such as the one I’ve just
endured.” Snaera turned again to
look out over the arena--it was almost
time.
She seemed angry
now. “Really, Mr. Snaera, no one
thinks for a second that you are
putting yourself in any real danger
in these forfeit matches. You control
every aspect of these games, from
the venue and security to the merchandizing.
Of course your organization will
find opponents you can defeat with
little risk!”
“Risk, miss,
is my principal form of compensation.
I cannot expect you to understand
this--but to advantage myself would
be to ruin the experience. Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I have a bargezi match
to play.” Snaera stepped neatly through
the room screens and onto a hover
platform.
“Wait!” the
reporter poked her head through the
field, shouting as Snaera slowly
descended to the stadium floor. “What
do you say about the outrage professed
by certain members of your own family
over what you do?”
Snaera ignored
the question, his mind lost in the
moves of bargezi as he sank
into the great bowl of the arena.
Today was the last match of the weeklong
tournament he had sponsored, and
he wondered what manner of opponent--lured
by the promise of winning Snaera’s
immense personal fortune--his agents
had procured. The last match was
always special, and the player would
exemplify both the sensational aspect
of the games (such as the celebrity
vid-host whose uncloned king he had
captured in seven moves on day two)
as well the competitive (such as
the cyborg bargezi champion
he had narrowly beaten yesterday).
The crowd was eerily focused and
silent, a vast mosaic of faces, as
the hover platform clicked onto the
polished hardwood floor and Snaera
strode to take his place tableside.
As he sat down
straps snaked across his chest, legs,
and hips, binding him to the chair.
He kept his
head down, replaying moves and gambits,
concentrating even as the murmur
of the crowd announced the entry
of his opponent. Above him camera
drones arced and info screens flashed
data. He heard the snick of metal
as his antagonist settled into the
execution chair, and he savored the
suspense one last moment before raising
his eyes.
“Hello uncle.”
Impossible!
When he had last seen her she had
been a precocious child, the very
image of his sister. He had shown
her her first simple games which
she had rapidly outgrown, and had
thrilled at the nimbleness of her
mind as she progressed to the heights
of competitiveness. That darling
Luran should be here, facing him,
looking at him with such hate . .
.
“I don’t expect
to win, but I do expect, one way
or the other, that this will be your
last death match uncle. What you
do is--”
“Just move!” he
snarled.
