Scene 3
¨Moron.¨ Gorn tapped a button on his keyboard to shut off the live ´net broadcast with a disgusted sigh. Dazzle me with your sniper, eh Malcom? he thought. You think this 1v1 will be easier because I'm old? Man, at least try to make some original errors in judgment. He shook his head absently, smiling a little to himself. You better pack your brain along with that rifle, because flashy young CTF players aren't known for beating experienced duelers in the 1v1 arena.
Gorn chased away these thoughts and got up, heading into the kitchen of his modest city apartment for a drink. He surveyed the impressive collection in his liquor cabinet for a few minutes, mulling over the choices, then turned away from it and got a beer out of the fridge. Some days you wanted to sip an exotic beverage from some newly-discovered civilization in the far reaches of the galaxy, and some days you just wanted a nice, cold beer. Today fit into category B.
He popped the cap absently with the metallic side of his jaw and spit it into the garbage chute. A cheery female voice issued from a tiny speaker near the chute: ¨-zero-point one- credits have been added to your account. Thanks for recycling!¨ Hell, Gorn thought, don't thank me. Thank the huge fine I get if I'm caught throwing stuff away. He took a pull off the beer and ambled back to his living room.
The place wasn't large, but Gorn had it set up with all the accoutrements that an active gladiator could want - weights, spa, and a computer with a nice big screen and military-grade hacking software to research every hidden detail about his opponents. Being a war hero had its advantages, and having connections with military hackers was probably his favorite one. Well, besides getting exotic alien booze sent to him by friends still in the forces, obviously. He walked over to the spa, shedding clothes as he went, and slipped in. He reached to the window behind him and pulled back the drape, staring out across the lights of Vancouver which twinkled and wavered through the murky smog that blanketed the city. Gorn tried to relax; the beer helped some, but his thoughts kept returning to the duel tomorrow.
He finally gave up and hopped out of the spa, toweling off quickly, dressing and grabbing another beer before parking himself once again at his computer. He clicked through the menu to bring up a popular 3d puzzle game called Crazy Blocks. When it was loaded, he hit a four-key combination, waited a few seconds, and tapped the same combination again. An innocuous-looking blank window appeared, with the word ¨halcyon¨ in its menu bar. Gorn tapped a key and this appeared in the blank space:
USER IDENTIFY
Gorn pressed his thumb onto the pad built into his keyboard, and said ¨Gorn¨. More text appeared.
VOICE-PRINT MATCHED. HELLO GORN.
HELLO HAL he typed. INFO NEEDED ON A GLADIATOR.
The reply was instant, as always. OH, THAT GUY MALCOM THE NEWS CHANNEL REPORTS YOU ARE DUELING TOMORROW?
YES. BASIC PROFILE.
SURE THING.
Gorn maximized the window, and a second later it was full of text:
GLADIATOR: MALCOM
NAME: SALIF YELE DOUSSU
BIRTH:NAIROBI, KENYA, AFRICA, 2350
CURRENTLY: NEW YORK
TEAM: THUNDER CRASH
TEAMMATES: RIKER, ARYSS, OTHELLO, AZURE
Brief information about Malcolm's parents and teammates followed, but Gorn skipped it and entered:
AFRICA? HE ACTS VERY AMERICAN.
HE WAS NOTED FOR ATHLETIC ABILITY AT AGE 7 AND TRANSFERRED TO A PREPARATORY ACADEMY IN VIRGINIA FOR A CAREER IN SPORTS.
SCHOLARSHIP?
YES. NOTABLE INSTRUCTOR COMMENTS: ¨EXTREMELY TALENTED¨, ¨ADAPTABLE AND CLEVER¨, ¨CALM UNDER ANY PRESSURE¨, ¨GIFTED LEADER¨.
NOTHING ABOUT RASHNESS OR BRAGGERY? Gorn quizzed.
NOT FROM HIS ATHLETIC DAYS.
SPORTS AND OTHER COMPETITIONS?
BASKETBALL, FOOTBALL, RUNNING, BIATHLON, ARCHERY, RIFLERY, CHESS.
AWARDS? DISTINCTIONS?
TOO MANY TO LIST; CAPTAIN OF MOST SPORTS TEAMS HE WAS A MEMBER OF.
Gorn frowned worriedly. The image that he projected to the public these days would suggest otherwise, but Malcom appeared to have a very solid base in leadership and strategy. KNOWN VICES? PERSONAL WEAKNESSES? he pressed.
LIKES TO PARTY LIKE ANY NORMAL RICH 25 YEAR OLD. NO DRUGS BUT LOTS OF COMBAT STIMULANTS AND SUCHLIKE FOR THE TOURNAMENT.
Gorn tapped the metal plate in his chin thoughtfully and sighed. All pretty standard stuff, really, nothing he could exploit in a fight. Some battle stims made fighters erratic, but that was only in the case of home-dopers who didn't do it right. Malcom was highly sponsored by on of the biggest companies out there - FenTech - they would make sure he got the correct treatment. Still, it wouldn't hurt to explore this avenue a little.
WHAT STIMS? he typed.
REFLEXON, ENDURO-3.1, SENSOBOOST, COORDINATUM. YOU KNOW, THE USUAL.
WHAT ABOUT STUFF THAT ISN´T PUBLIC KNOWLEDGE? Gorn insisted.
NO INFO AVAILABLE FROM NEG SOURCES.
ACCESS FENTECH'S NETWORK.
SAME AS PUBLIC INFO.
Gorn pressed on. NOTHING UNUSUAL?
SCARCITY OF DATA ON FENTECH NETWORK SUGGESTS PHYSICALLY ISOLATED PRIVATE DATABASE.
Gorn sighed again and twirled in his chair. That might be useful information to have, but getting it would be impossible. It might also be useless information. Malcom was obviously more than your average chem killer on his own merits. He asked one last question.
ANY OTHER RELEVANT PERSONAL INFO?
MAYBE. HE IS MARRIED AND HAS A DAUGHTER.
What a chump, Gorn thought. Got his college honey knocked up and now he's trying to be a family man AND a gladiator. I bet he's a great dad. FAMILY STATS? he typed.
WIFE: SHYLEEN DOUSSU, 26, HOUSEWIFE.
DAUGHTER: NARA DUSSOU, 7, PRIVATE SCHOOL.
OK. THANKS HAL.
ANYTIME.
Gorn shut down the program and sat back, drumming his fingers on the desk. Information about their family might distract a fighter in a match if they were foolish enough to have one, but it was a cheap trick that he considered himself above and probably wouldn't work anyways. The fact was that this might be a difficult match, but he'd faced many tough opponents before and liked a challenge. Still, he couldn't respect Malcom much as an opponent. Real fighters kept their mouths shut and let their skills do the talking. And a family - what the hell was he thinking?