Virtual war, p.1
Virtual War, page 1
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
GLORIA SKURZYNSKI is the author of more than fifty books, including The Clones, the second book in the Virtual War Chronologs, Spider’s Voice, and most recently, Rockbuster. Her books have won many major awards, including the Christopher Medal, the Golden Kite Award, the Spur Award, and the American Institute of Physical Science Writing Award. She and her husband, Ed, live in Boise, Idaho.
You can visit her at gloriabook.com and e-mail her at gloriabooks@qwest.net.
Then came War Day Minus Four, when They threw in the civilians.
Women holding babies, old people who could barely walk, staggering along with their belongings, children fumbling onto the battlefield where land mines blew them apart. And beautiful girls, with haunting eyes, who held out their arms, beseeching him. He wanted to move the civilians to safety, but Mendor the Stern Father bellowed at him, “Forget those people! They are not your job. You are responsible only for your troops. Civilians mean nothing! Do you want to lose the War?”
The Virtual War Chronologs
Virtual War [Book 1]
The Clones [Book 2]
For Edite Kroll, friend and guide
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This Simon Pulse edition January 2004
First paperback edition February 1999
Virtual War
THE VIRTUAL WAR CHRONOLOGS BOOK 1
[GLORIA SKURZYNSKI]
Simon Pulse
New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore
Copyright © 1997 by Gloria Skurzynski
SIMON PULSE An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Also available in a Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers hardcover edition.
Designed by Russell Gordon
The text of this book was set in Aldine 401.
Printed in the United States of America
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Skurzynski, Gloria.
Virtual war / Gloria Skurzynski.
p. cm.
Summary: In a future world where global contamination has necessitated limited human contact, three young people with unique genetically engineered abilities are teamed up to wage war in virtual reality.
ISBN 0-689-81374-0 (hc)
ISBN 13: 978-0-689-86785-9
eISBN 978-1-439-11608-1
[1. Science fiction. 2. Virtual reality—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S6287Vi 1997
[Fic]—dc21 96-35346
ISBN 0-689-86785-9 (pbk)
Virtual War
One
The sky was golden.
Corgan could feel sand beneath his fingers. What were those trees called, he wondered, the tall ones that curved to the sky. Ridges circled their trunks all the way up, but there were no branches or leaves except right at the top, where fingerlike green blades stuck out….
What does it matter, he thought. Things don’t need names. They haven’t told me the names of lots of things, and I don’t really care. It’s nice to lie here like this under the sky and the trees and not have to practice for a while.
Someone came toward him—a girl, striding across the sand.
Her hair was more golden than the sky. As she walked, her long hair swung from side to side, swirling around her shoulders. A Go-ball racket dangled from her right hand.
She stopped right above him and looked down at him. “Want to play?” she asked.
“Sure!”
As he leaped up, he noticed with some surprise that his LiteSuit had begun to shimmer with the color of blood. Corgan knew what blood looked like. Once, a few months ago, as he’d walked along the tunnel from his Box to his Clean Room, a tile fell from the ceiling and hit his hand. His knuckles had bled, the first and only time he’d ever seen real blood.
The way the Supreme Council had carried on, it was as if Corgan’s arm had been chopped off or something. About a dozen times a day They’d examined his hand to make sure it wasn’t infected, even though it was only a little cut and it healed fast and felt fine. They’d moved him to a new Box at a different location—Corgan wasn’t sure where. The tunnel connecting his new Box to his new Clean Room was now made of polished steel, with no tiles that could fall off, and Corgan’s new Clean Room was so sterile his nose twitched every time he used it. He was just now getting used to the antiseptic smell.
“Who are you?” Corgan asked the girl as a Goball court materialized around them. It was a clay court—Corgan liked that. Even though Go-ball courts were created entirely from electronic impulses, virtual clay felt different underfoot than, say, virtual concrete or virtual grass.
“Sharla,” she answered. “That’s my name. Do you want to lead off, or should I?”
“Go ahead.”
She served the ball so fast Corgan was caught off balance. He recovered and shot it back, but right from the start his timing was off Sharla was good. Really good. They had been giving him better and better opponents over the past few months, even though Corgan’s specialty wasn’t Go-ball so it didn’t matter too much if he didn’t win. Sharla was the best opponent he’d had so far.
She ran, covering the court in wide zigzag leaps. She whacked the ball harder than anyone he’d ever practiced with.
She distracted him. Not because she did anything against the rules—Corgan felt off balance because he’d never before played against a girl his own age. Boys, men, women, robots, anything They could dream up to create an image of, no matter how unreal. But this was the first time he’d played against the virtual image of a girl who looked about—
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fourteen,” she said. “Same as you.”
Wondering how she knew that, he reached out to snare a wild shot and ended up smashing the ball into the net. Since the net was shaped from thin, intersecting beams of laser light, it sparked when the ball hit it. Brilliant reds and blues and greens arced and burst like tiny flowering comets that fell to the court, where they sparked again.
“Point!” she called.
Corgan stalled. “I don’t know why They bother with all those flashing lights and everything when a ball hits the net,” he mentioned. “It’s kind of a waste of laser energy—”
“Do you hit the net often, Corgan?” she asked. “The idea is to knock the ball over the net.” And she laughed.
The laugh sounded rich and impulsive and free; Corgan was so caught up in the sound of it that when Sharla served again, the ball flew past his ear.
He really was trying. But he couldn’t keep his eyes on the ball. Sharla’s pale green LiteSuit ended inches above her knees. All the females Corgan had ever played against before had been covered to the ankles with regulation LiteSuits. He wasn’t used to seeing female legs, and Sharla’s were … were … he didn’t have a word for them. As she raced across the court, he noticed how her arms and chest twisted with every swing, how her face lighted with amusement when she hit the ball so hard it ricocheted off his forehead. If They had turned on the tactile simulator just then—if the ball had actually hit him on the head that hard—Corgan would have been knocked flat.
She laughed again, bending forward with her hands on her knees as if to keep herself from collapsing with mirth.
There was no sense pretending. He’d lost the game, dismally! “Sharla, are you real?” he shouted.
“Yes, I’m real. But They’ve made me look better in this image than I do in …”
Immediately she vanished.
Corgan felt a stab of disappointment, quickly replaced by guilt as Mendor’s stern image materialized in front of him. This time Mendor was a man, the reproachful Father Figure.
“What happened?” Mendor asked. “That’s the worst you’ve ever played.”
Corgan shrugged.
“The War is less than eighteen days away.”
“I know when the War is, Mendor. Seventeen days, twenty-one hours, thirty-nine minutes and forty-seven and twenty-three hundredths seconds from now.”
“The War scene can contain any legal diversion, you know, including the image of a beautiful girl,” Mendor continued. “Are you going to be so easily thrown off when you’re fighting the real War?”
“No, I won’t be,” Corgan muttered. “But it was only Go-ball….”
“This is serious, Corgan. You lost your concentration. That can’t happen.”
“Then bring her back and let me play her again,” Corgan said. “I’ll do better next time. It’s just—I was lying on the sand, and the sun warmed me and the breeze felt good and those trees…. Mendor, what are those trees called? ”
“Palm trees.” Mendor’s look softened. “It was a test, it’s true. They were afraid you might be rattled by a pretty female. I told Them it wouldn’t happen. ‘Not Corgan,’ I told Them. ‘You can trust Corgan to keep his concentration, no matter what,’ I told Them. ‘Corgan always plays to win, no matter who his opponent is. You can count on Corgan,’ I said—”
“Enough!” Corgan shouted. “Let me play Sharla again, Mendor. I’ll crush her this time.”
“Not now.” Mendor’s voice grew lighter and higher. As Mendor slowly morphed into a woman, into the Mother Figure, Corgan felt a trickle of approval brush him. Then Mendor morphed completely, becoming Mother Comforter, Mother Nourisher, with gentle features and tender eyes. “You’re forgiven for losing,” she said. “Go into your Clean Room now. You raised some sweat in that game with Sharla, and you need sanitizing. We’ll see what happens after that. Maybe in an hour or so They’ll let you play a game with a different girl.”
“I want to play Sharla again.”
Mendor’s voice deepened. “Sharla is in Reprimand.”
“Because of what she said? She was telling the truth, wasn’t she? Don’t let Them keep her in Reprimand, Mendor! Not for telling the truth!”
Mendor’s maternal voice said, “I’m sure They’ll consider your request, Corgan. Now go to your Clean Room.”
Disgruntled, Corgan opened the door of his Box and stepped into the tunnel. He’d lost the argument with Mendor and before that he’d lost the game with Sharla. Corgan wasn’t used to losing. His straight black eyebrows pulled together in a frown.
The polished steel of the tunnel reflected his scowl as he strode to his Clean Room, only a few meters away. No curves in his path, no corners, no loose tiles. A sensor opened the Clean Room door when he came close enough to it.
Clean Rooms were always built in clusters. Corgan couldn’t remember where he’d picked up that bit of information; it wasn’t something he’d have learned in his regular lessons. One time, four years ago, when he was only ten, he’d let himself think about it: that on the other side of the walls of his Clean Room were other Clean Rooms with other people in them, maybe sometimes using them at the same time Corgan used his. That day he’d banged on the wall while he was being sanitized, just to hear whether someone would bang back.
Never again! He’d gotten into so much trouble—Mendor the Angry Father had used his deepest, loudest voice to chastise Corgan for a full five minutes, the longest scolding Corgan had ever known in his life. Corgan had cried for hours until Mendor finally relented and morphed into the Mother Comforter, wiping his tears away.
“Haven’t They given you everything a ten-year-old boy could ever want?” Mendor the Mother Figure had asked that day. “You have toys. You have games. You have me to love you and teach you. You can create whatever playmates you want—dogs or monkeys or dolphins or other children or anything at all that your imagination can picture. All you have to do is ask and they appear in your Box, one at a time or a whole roomful of images.”
All that was true. Corgan didn’t know what had possessed him to bang on that wall, just to see if there’d be an answer. In the four years since then, he’d never tried it again.
Now he moved to the flush tube to pass his body fluids and solids. From there it was just one step to stand beneath the vapor nozzle. Dropping his LiteSuit to the floor, he got a quick look at his body, reflected by the stainless-steel walls. Thin. Tall. Strong legs. Shoulders needed thickening, but Mendor said Corgan couldn’t expect that until a year or two more had gone by. After the War. Corgan’s hands looked too big, all out of proportion to his thin arms. The fingers were long, agile, and powerful. Not much hair on his body yet, but the hair on his head stood up thick and straight and black as midnight. He flexed the muscles of his back and upper arms, pleased by the swell of his biceps. At once, the warm, cleansing vapor flowed from the nozzle above him, enveloping him. Corgan could no longer see his reflection because of steam.
He felt his head gently lifted as his hair was laser trimmed; a week had passed since the last trim. Each hair on his head had to be kept precisely five centimeters long, because that was the ideal length for cleanliness.
Hair. He thought of the girl, Sharla, and her long golden hair that swung across her shoulders as she bounded around the clay court. Was her hair really that long, or was it just the way They made her look in the virtual image? And if her hair really was that length, then why were girls allowed to wear it like that? Didn’t they need to be kept clean, too? He’d have to ask Mendor.
As the vapor cleansing continued, lifting off his sweat, pulling it up into the remover pipe, Corgan pictured Sharla in his mind. The golden light had created shadows that sculpted her legs—they’d looked so lean and clean and smooth, from the calves to the thighs…. Was that part of her image real?
Suddenly the vapor that enveloped him turned icy cold.
“Hey! Stop that! I’m freezing!” Corgan yelled to his Clean Room. He was tempted to bang on the wall because the vapor cleanser had obviously malfunctioned, but he stopped himself just in time. Mendor might think Corgan was trying to communicate with someone in an adjoining Clean Room, the way he’d done four years ago. Mendor was already disgruntled because of Corgan’s poor performance in the game with Sharla. Corgan didn’t want to be criticized twice in one day.
His LiteSuit had dissolved and disappeared into the remover pipe. A new LiteSuit hung on a hook—shimmery blue, his favorite color. They must be trying to make amends for the icy vapor bath. Corgan frowned a little to let Them know, if They were watching, that he was still a bit unhappy with Them. After all, he was Their champion. He deserved better than a malfunctioning Clean Room and a cold vapor bath.
Back in his Box, Corgan suspended himself in the aerogel and relaxed, ready to have lunch. He turned on his favorite surround scene: ocean waves. Towering breakers rushed up to him, curled above him in crests of foam, and receded, soothing him with the throb of crashing water.
“Lunch?” he asked out loud. “Where’s lunch?”
“Not yet.” It was Mendor’s voice, nothing more than the voice, without any face or body showing. Mendor did that sometimes. “You need reflex practice, Corgan.”
Corgan sighed and turned off the ocean. Mendor was evidently in his Father Figure mode again. “Practice by myself or against a competitor?” Corgan asked.
“Competitor.”
The Box crackled with laser light. “Bees,” he told Mendor. “Make it bees to start out with.” Corgan liked swatting at the. golden bees when they darted at him, faster and faster, as they tried to sting him. They never hurt. It was just a game to check the speed of Corgan’s reflexes, to challenge him at each escalating level as the program became faster and more complex. He’d never lost yet. “Bees, Mendor? Okay?”
But Mendor wasn’t in an agreeable mood. “You’ll practice on whatever They decide you need,” he said sternly.
All right, Corgan thought. I’ll show the Supreme Council. Let Them throw everything They’ve got at me. I’ll beat Their program like I always do. I’ll destruct it so bad they’ll have to design it all over again.
“State your pledge,” Mendor ordered.
Corgan raised his hand. “I pledge to wage the War with courage, dedication, and honor.” He’d said the words so many times he no longer thought about them. “Ready!” he shouted.
“Right hand!” Mendor barked. “In place! Go!”
Lasers bombarded him, the points of light crossing his field of vision so rapidly they were almost invisible. One after another Corgan hit them with his fingertips, making them flare and die the instant he touched them.
“Left hand, middle finger!” Mendor yelled. “Faster!”
Corgan was surprised. To go straight from right hand to left hand, middle finger with no index-finger warm-up of either hand was unusual. This had been an unusual day right from the start, and it wasn’t yet lunchtime. But even without a warm-up, he had no trouble making fingertip contact with the points of laser light.
“Both hands, little fingers!”
Ordinarily it wouldn’t have been a difficult exercise, but suddenly they doubled the speed of the laser-light points. Corgan had to block everything else from his mind, had to focus intently on the split-second light attack. They tried to trick him by adding colors—They weren’t supposed to do that. According to the rules, no more than four colors could appear on the field at a single time. Still, he never missed a point.
