Devil's Waltz Page 4

  A thought struck like lightning falling from the heavens: what if it had fudged Rowan’s special directive, and this was its way of fixing a mistake by dialing back his insanity… because it had either made his character too powerful… or because Vincent’s intended design for his personality was impossible to work with. The former was more likely, of course. Vincent rarely, if ever, made mistakes.

  Though it still didn’t explain Gabrielle’s part. She’d been given an equal role, highlighted by that bizarrely titled world event. They were labeled as a couple for the masses to see, except she had long been psychologically conditioned to detest such weaknesses. Marital and intimate relationships were only useful for strategic gain or pleasure. It’d been whipped into her well. There was no chance she’d grow emotionally attached to the boy.

  Unless the weaker side of her genealogy was resurfacing. She was a bastard child after all. The Roth family line carried unique genes for higher intelligence and stronger, colder personality traits, and half of her genetic material was of sheep-like peasant stock. It had taken years of conditioning to bring out her better side. It could be that the boy was ’her type’ and awakened that suppressed part of her psyche.

  Perhaps the AI had turned her into an amalgamation as well and paired them off. Emotionally attached couples were easy to manipulate and control. It could be its way of keeping a leash on them. Threaten one and the other would fall in line.

  Yes… It all made sense. If Rowan’s character had indeed been made too powerful, the logical result was the gameworld’s inevitable destruction, assuming it couldn't decrease his character's power without contradicting existing directives or game mechanics. One logical solution was to move the game in a direction which promoted a stable dark-themed civilization aligned with Gabrielle’s long-time desires. For that, a saner Rowan was required.

  Vincent grimaced. She was far too attached to the game. It was simply the first of many means to an end. New game worlds could always be generated. It looked like the girl would never be a full Roth, something halfway between a laboring serf and a ruling elite.

  Nevertheless, this new dynamic meant the implants’ programming couldn’t be redone. It’d set Gabrielle off on a psychotic episode; her mental conditioning was a fragile balance. Even now. That would be the start of a domino-effect mental breakdown. They’d turn on each other, and they’d be more of a joke than a pair of nefarious villains.

  Vincent breathed through an incoming headache, pressing tightly against his facial pressure-points. This was going to be a long, long month. Gabrielle had finally chosen a mate, partly by her own free will at least, and Rowan was no longer a patsy as a natural consequence of that. Perhaps it would be easier to simply dispose both of them. Vincent would’ve if she wasn’t a Roth.

  Count on a pair of eighteen-year-olds for derailing a plot to push FIVR tech and enforce tight regulatory laws over its accompanying quantum network at the same time. But not all was lost. A different angle could be taken. Her angle. A cultural angle as well—the dark continent that she’d been yammering on about during Order meetings.

  Why not? The masses had grown quite irate lately. They needed something to blow off steam onto.

  * * *

  The hospital welcomed Gabrielle with dreary whiteness, the white florescent lights far too bright. White. White. White. Everywhere white—apart from the blue vinyl floor. At least it was clean. She hummed a merry tune and ignored the sick and elderly.

  Through a restricted access door and down a spiral stairwell, she arrived at room J-1. Convenient. The underground section was a labyrinth.

  Punctually, the airlock hissed open and Uncle Vincent came strolling out. Good to see the hidden cameras were working.

  "Heya," Gabrielle said with a touch of respect.

  He nodded with equal respect. "I’ve already forwarded you the reports." His nose twitched. "You are here to see the boy." A statement. Not a question.

  "Yup."

  "Why?"

  "Why not? Always good to learn new things." It was part of the Order’s doctrines.

  "True, but the technology is far beyond your current understanding, assuming this is your field of interest. I hadn’t thought it was."

  Gabrielle shrugged. "It’s not really. Still reading around and choosing."

  "I advise you to choose quickly."

  "Kay."

  "However, it’s advantageous, for you, that you have come. There are matters of importance to be discussed."

  Gabrielle’s toes curled in her sneakers. This couldn’t be good news. "Hmm?"

  Uncle Vincent adjusted his glasses, his finger touching the Order’s symbol at the hinge. "First off, what are you intentions with Rowan Black?"

  Gabrielle’s lungs slowly deflated. Hot air wafted from her parted lips and smelled of fruity breath freshener. What a relief. Just some small talk. "I dunno. He’s fun though sometimes dumb and grouchy, I guess."

  "I see." He took a breath through his pudgy nose. "I will need your answer soon."

  "Huh? Why?"

  "It is best for your… mental health if you remain ignorant on that."

  Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh. That decoded into only one thing, and that one thing wasn’t a thought Gabrielle wished to entertain: they were going to kill her Rowan! Meanies! But he could be saved with a special veto. Gabrielle slapped on a happy face. Best to hide her growing attachment to the boy. Play it safe. "Hmmmmmmm. In that case, I’ll let ya know shortly. Through mail."

  Uncle Vincent studied her with an unreadable look for agonizing seconds. He flashed a smile that didn’t rise above his cheeks. "I shall be waiting on it."

  Relief washed through Gabrielle’s tingly fingers. "Kay, gotcha."

  He cleared his throat. "As for the second matter, the decision has been made that your dark virtual reality civilization is a go-ahead—"

  "For reals?"

  "Yes, for reals." He chuckled. "Think of it as a social experiment. I suggest you to read up on civilizations throughout history and why they failed."

  Well-lubricated cogs in her head whirled. "It’ll have to be a dictatorship. That’s the most hated type."

  "Unstable."

  "I’ll throw in some individual freedoms."

  He shook his head. "Sort it out yourself. I have work to do."

  Hehehe. He was almost as grouchy as Rowan. "Can I see him?"

  "Tomorrow." His tone was final. He turned and presented his palm to the scanner. The airlock clicked open.

  "Hmph." Gabrielle whistled and headed back to the stairwell. Time for some research.

  Chapter 4

  Jellyfish

  Rowan found his body floating among a sea of clouds under a dark-blue evening sky. A blanket of fatigue pressed down on his chest. Invisible bonds constrained his limbs, allowed for less than jerks and twitches of his fingers and toes. He felt as though he could fall asleep after every breath of wintry air, but a prickling sensation sprinkled on his face kept his eyelids open and his mind from sinking back into a peaceful slumber. The first stars were appearing overhead as he drifted into the horizon.

  Is this the afterlife? I’m in Hell, aren’t I?

  If this was Hell, it was oddly peaceful and serenely painless. Comforting, even. He had imagined the person known as Rowan Black was destined for fiery depths and a personalized eternal torment for all the suffering he’d caused over the last few years. From the coldness Mother and Father had endured to the day of chaos at Westwind High, it was all Rowan Black’s doing out of his free will. Even if he’d been brainwashed by those implants, it was still his actions—mostly. The real life gods were clearly not the forgiving kind like in that game…

  Aeon Chronicles Online. The name had escaped him for too many heartbeats.

  Gabrielle was going to carry on by herself and build up a dark continent without the support his Undead. Would she miss him? Or would she move on, only caring about the loss of his cracked amulet? Part of him hoped she was devastated. Another wished her to forge
t about Rowan Black for better or worse. Maybe she’d mourn, and maybe she’d come to the funeral and give a few words. It’d be quite the eulogy. Her phantom, cutesy voice tickled his ear canals, ‘Ahh… I didn’t know Rowan for long. He was mean and really grouchy at first, but then he was nicer. Hmmmm… he also liked to spank me. Yup, that’s all.’

  Laughter boomed into the heavens above. The stars shined brighter. Rowan’s glee echoed from all directions as a polyphonic concerto. One star, brighter than the rest, twinkled and spun till it grew to the size of a coin held at an arm’s length. Its rays intensified, pulsating until Rowan could withstand the lux no longer. The surface layers of his skin heated to an uncomfortable degree; only the surface. He couldn’t advert gaze; his body was defying commands.

  Is this the beginning of my torment?

  The star went supernova and filled the heavens with white light. A beam of condensed energy struck Rowan in the forehead. He yelped, high-pitched. The familiar aching sensation of a hyper-charged information download pushed outward from within his skull. First, it came as a drop of knowledge—he wasn’t dead.

  Then the floodgates opened.

  “Ahhhhh!” he screamed through gritted teeth.

  In three-quarters of a second, he knew what was happening.

  This was another one of Roth’s bloody simulations for medical purposes. The asshole was too lazy to explain with his God-given mouth, so he re-purposed the pods’ direct information transfer technology to explain for him. The idea had sprung for him while Rowan had more or less recovered, and Roth had volunteered him for this experiment. It worked flawlessly and also helped confirm a theory on why Rowan had collapsed.

  It was because of the time compression and the effect it had on the implants. A ten-fold compression meant the brain needed to processes ten times more sensory data; the implants couldn’t handle that magnitude of bio-electricity. Roth had miscalculated the implants’ throughput, and it just so happened that Rowan had been logged in for roughly twenty minutes too long. The implants had overheated and ruptured many surrounding blood vessels. It made sense, more or less.

  As a result, the game’s time compression was to be reduced. There was no other alternative other than finding a replacement Rowan, which was off the table. Fortunately, the ten-to-one compression was a long-time issue that had plagued alpha and beta feedback. To this day, many players felt it was too extreme and burdensome to schedule around. Often times, raiders would call it a night, and they’d find the battle had long been won or lost the next morning. Even leaving for lunch or dinner could result in missing out on up to twenty hours of in-game events.

  However, more casual players felt they needed more than a ten-to-one compression. The technology added hundreds of extra hours of gaming to their packed weekly schedules. Plus, not everything had to be game-related when there was an in-game browser. They could also do other activities. Catching up on paperwork or binge-watching ten movies in a row to name a couple.

  All-in-all, it was a tricky balance with daily heated debates roaring both in-game and in the forums, but the overall feedback indicated a reduction was probably needed for the game’s launch. Now was a good time to test such a change.

  Combined with the recent development of player World Bosses, an offline maintenance period was suitable for while Synaptic analyzed the game with help of the AI. Extensive system and balance changes were expected for this impromptu ‘final phase of beta’. Rowan agreed on all counts—though any nerfs to him or his Gabrielle weren’t welcome, thank you.

  Oh, the hearing with the psychiatric board in the coming weeks had been retroactively held yesterday. His bloody mess in that office had caused a shouting commotion in the ward and adjoining hospital, enough for many nurses and doctors to press questions. Questions which Roth did not want answered. He’d pulled some more strings through that all-encompassing secret society. The board members were either part of said society or paid off, and poof, Rowan was a free eighteen-year-old.

  Well, as free as he could be with that contract still in effect. He was to proceed to the safe house if Synaptic confirmed the leaker’s story in case the playerbase resoundingly rejected player World Bosses other than him and Gabrielle. A smart, flexible change of plans, Rowan had to admit.

  A dialog appeared.

  Exiting simulation. Please hold.

  The supernova’s radiance faded. Every other pinpoint dimmed as well, followed by the clouds and sky and the world itself, everything fading out as though he were logging out of Aeon Chronicles. He panted, his bound body swimming in relief. That download was real. And he hadn’t been sent to Hell. Thank Draesear.

  A second later, around him faded-in the inside of a hospital room similar to the one from two years ago. White walls, white sheets, white curtains, and Roth’s white coat greeted him in such a mundane way. A helmet-like device in hand, the brainwashing doctor was looking down at him with a flaccid—or masked—expression behind those rimmed spectacles. His society’s tiny logo was engraved onto the hinge as before.

  Roth placed the helmet next to a medical automaton with a domed top, then picked up a cup by a pitcher. “Water?”

  Rowan hesitated before accepting. “Thanks,” he said through a dry throat and mouth. The polystyrene squeaked against his fingernail.

  Sipping slowly, he weighed options to approach this conversation. Best to remain cordial—and ignorant. Roth didn’t appear suspicious of Draesear’s tampering. The taunting god had said they’d been in an unobservable bubble during the class-change ritual. By pure speculation, the bubble might’ve also done something to obfuscate henceforth memories. After all, Draesear was an advance AI running on a billion-credit quantum supercomputer.

  Rowan emptied the cup, scrunched it with tired muscles, and flung it into the bin at the far corner. His aim was still good.

  “The direct transfer operation was a success, I assume?” Roth’s grayish-brown eyebrow arched.

  “Yeah. Implants overloaded, maintenance, and retroactive hearing. Is that all?”

  Roth clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Undoubtedly excellent.” He picked up a clipboard and pen. “Apologies for the rush, but I do have other patients to tend to.” He gestured to the cabinet at the side. “Your clothes are in there, and your other possessions will be shipped to the safe house within the week. Your driver, who happens to be your handler and point of direct communication to us, is waiting for you in the lobby. Look for a purple hat and black coat. Questions?”

  Blinking, Rowan held back amazement, then inwardly smirked. It looked like Draesear had bested this old geezer. “Not any that I can think of now.”

  “Very good.” Roth checked a machine connected to one of the head sensors. “I do—”

  A thought popped, and Rowan blurted, “Does the house have a pod in it? What about food and stuff?”

  Roth chuckled. “Everything has been taken care of. We are not incompetent.” He emphasized that last part with a hint of antipathy. “As I was saying. There are some conditions to your early release and continued accommodation…” He scribbled a few final lines and put down the clipboard.

  Tensing for the worst, Rowan held a neutral gaze against Roth’s darkening facade. “Yeah? What?”

  “Although it needs not be said, I feel it is best we are clear as it was not in the written agreement.” He took an audible breath. Loose facial muscles compressed. “You are not to leave the premise of the property until the mission is over, and more importantly, you are not to cause any trouble such as unnecessary murders like the one two years ago. Do you understand?”

  The ‘unnecessary’ murder two years ago was debatable, but Rowan heard the meaning. He was on a short noose-like leash. “I understand.”

  Roth’s demeanor relaxed by a small measure. “That’s reassuring… because I would hate to cover up a trail of bodies, especially if one was my second-niece.” He smiled maliciously, and Rowan couldn’t hide his surprise at the turn of the conversation. “Although we
may not care for the unwashed masses, we do value our own. She is a Roth, and one Roth is more valuable than a thousand Blacks put together.”

  What a shithead. Rowan’s face contorted painfully. He spat with barely suppressed hatred and sarcasm, “Yeah, I get it, Doctor Roth.” How could a fucker like this be Gabrielle’s family? They were nothing alike.

  “Very good, Rowan. Very good.” Roth peeled off the sensors one by one, too slowly.

  Rowan restrained himself from punching those damned spectacles with every last drop of willpower in his blood. He could likely get away with it, seeing as how their plan was riding on Rowan Black’s cooperation. But he still held back. For whatever stupid reason, Gabrielle always referred to her Uncle Vincent with such gooey affection. He held back for her sake, not anyone else’s. At least the old man seemed to care for her in the slightest—in his own twisted way.