Everyone in the hotel knows him, though no one has ever seen him in person. He was the one who provided the funds to build this place. Back when I was finishing my advanced studies, he arrived to recruit the PhD candidates of my generation. He knew our student loans would keep us in debt for years; the only things that moved us were our dreams. Mine was to find an alternative treatment for the botulinum toxin that was claiming so many lives at the hands of incompetent doctors.
When we met in those isolated laboratories in the north, I finally understood my situation. There were whispers that the most valuable minds were being monitored by corporations. Apparently, Mexican and South American brains weren't considered as high-value as Indian or Asian ones. Some Korean scientists even had tracking devices implanted to prevent what eventually happened to us: we were enslaved. The labs had every facility imaginable, except for safe food. In some sectors, the meals were treated so that if we wanted to eat, we had to make sure it wouldn't kill us first.
Today, the kitchen is serving a duck variant. I won't taste it, nor am I interested in knowing how it was obtained.
Walking through the administrative wings, I can't help but admire the work of everyone here. The project was sponsored by the most prominent tycoon. He brought me here to create something that would keep him alive longer; he had already exhausted every method, from artificial placentas to drugs harvested from living beings. He gave me food, water, and a five-foot bathroom with ten minutes of water a day. Walking through these halls reminds me nothing of where I started.
I walk until I feel the touch of a hand. Her slender features remind me of a chemist who lived as long as she could... But no, it's just Linnet, my secretary.
"Sir, are you alright?"
I don't fully register her question until I look around and realize I'm heading toward the original facilities where the first experiments were tested.
"I was traveling back to the old Luxor Empire."
"I wasn't heading there, Linnet." The truth was, I didn't know where I was going, but I couldn't afford to look weak. "I have to oversee the new research."
"Sir, you should have notified me!" She seems genuinely annoyed, which at least means she won't doubt my sanity. "The zone still has Level 6 corpses from a forced event this morning."
"Right, right. Did you handle it?" I couldn't believe anyone was idiotic enough to cave, but for the sake of my reputation, she would accept what is usually considered a breach of contract. "Who was it?"
"The Russian President's wife." Her response is laced with understandable hatred. Madam Ubiytsa owns the oil companies in her nation. Her husband is a sharp, powerful man who isn't interested in my business, except as a way to keep his wife entertained while he finds a way to strip her of her assets. A lovely marriage. "She arrived with a military contingent. Most of the guests didn't notice, but if I hadn't acted, it could have been a massacre." Many of our clients are oil magnates who despise each other, but only she has taken those rivalries beyond economic strikes. "What should I do?"
"Get the Russian President on the line." Hundreds of scenarios flash through my mind. This is the fifth time she's tried to bypass Level 6, and she won't make it. She always ends up using "blast-sticks"—final-resource weapons that mean immediate disqualification. In her last attempt, she wiped out her own teammates in a power-frenzied haze. "I'm heading to the operations office. I need to know how many assets we lost."
Upon arrival, I see grim faces. Many are just egotistical analysts who, on the outside, could only get humiliating jobs. I'd call them "overqualified" if they didn't lack imagination. They have all the alcohol they want and the money they brag about—I made sure none of them had families to miss. All the patents belong to them, but none will ever be published. The fear of being enslaved again, as I once was, is a powerful leash.
"Sir, the data on the suit is strange. It's likely been altered to enhance user functions, but it makes the wearer feel the pain of every attack... That woman is insane!" The monitors won't stop flashing. The suit is made of alloys; the chance of it being destroyed is minimal.
"Focus the monitors on the casualties!" The crawlers were supposed to be Level 2—possessing the strength and speed of a human, dangerous even without conscious thought. They use Version 3 of my research.
While I wait for the call, I'm surprised I can hear everyone talking. Before, when everyone was trying to steal uncontaminated food from me or designing weapons to kill me instead of researching how to clean the water, things were different. But until you're gathering acid in a potato bag and praying the activator capsule bursts upon hitting those who want to eliminate you, you don't understand how hard it is to have nowhere to go.
My hands-free headset rings.
"Mr. Topec, what a pleasure to hear from you! Don't worry, I know why you're calling. That suka of a wife must be making your life difficult. Rest assured, I will cover the expenses... and her funeral, if necessary."
"I understand, sir. Then I bid you a deeply regretful farewell upon your wife's passing." It's a risky move to ask for authorization for her death, but he said it himself: that woman is hard to handle. Something important must have happened for him to speak of a grave.
"I only ask that now that my little Illyuziya owns the companies, we spare her the spectacle of seeing her mother in a bad state. So, there must be no way to see her... DA ponimayu...?"
The Russians remain the reigning champions of being cold bastards.
On the screen, I watch her run from side to side. Her horrified retinue has fallen; I must emphasize recovering their corpses—they'll make excellent rivals in Level 5.
"What did she do? What's this about her feeling the attacks?" One of the inventors of the servo-conductors—Kaleb—explains that his team was setting everything up when her contingent arrived to tinker with the suit, making sure we didn't boycott their patron's "victory." "Did no one think to intervene?"
"Sir," one of them protests, "she eliminated Jeremiah, and he only asked her to be careful because they were risking the suit's neural integrity."
I don't remember Jeremiah. He was just another support staffer.
"Everyone, listen! This is one of our problematic clients. However, she has already been declared dead in our country. So, just like two years ago, it's time to reopen the Canyon of Despair."
While I oversee the preparations, I watch her. Her features and muscles are fine; she has an impressive height, but her manic laughter and the habit of dismembering her enemies ruin it. She will never be a Level 1 contender.
The screen lights up. She just killed an anonymous target. It could have been a farmer trying to flee; the poor man falls without a trachea. The sound produced is like a video game.
"Congratulations!"
"Access to Level 4 has been opened. Would you like to rest for two hours before we escort you? If you do, you will only have two hours to complete the level. A free offer for today's performance. Do you accept?"
When the translators decipher her screams of joy, they confirm she wants all four hours. She is going to beat these levels and be the strongest.
"Sir, she's asking who else has passed this level." The translator doesn't know and must not know; it's a secret no one is allowed to tell.
"Tell the lady that only three have attempted it. She is the first who might actually pass. Not even our founder could, and he wished for every strong person to try."
An unarticulated scream is heard as the transport truck hauls her away from where she has eliminated two shares of minor leaders—unless they agree to play Level 5 again. I hope they try. They always get overconfident when they repeat a level.