the floor. I fire a short burst into the dark hole beneath his feet and the thing explodes down there in the dark. Drake’s avatar screams. Nice touch, WarWorld.
“I’m down to 25 percent,” notes Drake over the chat.
The whining death pitch of the dropship’s guns recedes.
“C’mon, we are leaving, Marines!” says Apone.
It’s a small fall out through the shards of the window and into the mud and rain. I take 2 percent damage. Rain falls across my HUD as my avatar gets to his feet. Ahead of me the others are already scrambling toward the APC. It’s an identical version of the APC used in the Drive-by streak earlier. Above us the hovering dropship swivels, its chain guns dispensing a blurring barrage of death in a wide arc at multiple closing targets all around us. Over in-game ambient sound, I can hear the dying screeches of the prehistoric-like aliens mixed with the howling wind and splashing rain.
An alien comes charging and thrashing out of the dark, tackling Drake’s limping avatar. The other marines and AwesomeSauce are firing at a swarm of aliens trying to cut them off from reaching the APC. I close with the one on top of Drake and execute the hand-to-hand kill option by clicking both mouse buttons at once. I can’t chance shooting the thing, it’s all over Drake. A quick cut-scene plays out as my avatar reaches one hand out and grabs the thrashing head of the alien. My long-barrel .45 comes into frame against the skull of the alien and fires, putting a hot bullet through the elongated skull. Its jaws snap shut, then open, going slack in death.
I get Drake up and we’re moving. We barely make the red emergency-lit interior of the APC as the vehicle’s autoturret fires madly at the swarming aliens. The dropship above us turns, engaging multiple unseen targets. Like I said, we barely make it.
We’re moving fast over dark terrain. AwesomeSauce is driving. I check the CommandPad and mark the location of the distant atmosphere processor.
“ETA in five,” she shouts over the chat and the rumbling drone of the APC.
“You think there’ll be more of those things out there?” I ask Apone.
“Can’t say, sir. Can’t say that at all. But my guess is that most of the aliens are probably based around Hadley’s Hope. The only thing we’re for sure guaranteed to find at the atmo’ processor is the queen.”
The queen is probably what we need to defeat to gain the tech option.
Dietrich’s running the Medic perk so we get our health back. The APC also contains a full-reload supply point. We can’t swap out our weapons, but we’re totally rearmed. Magazines and ’nades.
The APC pulls up in front of the massive sloping pyramid that is the atmosphere processor. Outside it looks like we’ve traveled to another world. The jungle and the mountains are gone. Here, there is only twisted rock and fast-shifting clouds of purple blue and shadows that almost seem to streak across the low sky. Small red and white lights twinkle and blink from the superstructure of the plant, signaling in the gloom of the storm.
“In there,” says Apone over the chat. “ ’bout nine levels down we should find the nest … and the queen.”
We move in. Tactical formation.
The place is crawling with aliens.
The marines seem to know where the access stairs leading down are.
“We’ve run this mod on our own, several times. ’Cept this is way better,” says Drake calmly over the chat as he cuts down three warriors with a burst from his auto rifle.
At level five, strange growths, almost like the bone structure of some ancient dinosaur, cover the tight passages and narrow descents. At level six, things move from intense to insane, as aliens start crawling along the walls and ceilings, leaping in at us. But we stay tight and figure the shifting AI out. In time we’re working as a team, cutting them down as they come at us in sporadic waves. We’re calling out targets, burning through ammo just to keep them back. At level eight we find nothing. Just a wan red light and darkness covering the entire empty level.
“We made it,” says AwesomeSauce. I don’t hear the bubble gum.
“Yeah … ,” says Drake, his voice high pitched and triumphant. He’s cruising on a cocktail of success and gunfire. “Sometimes things turn out way different than you thought they would. In the movie we all …”
“Sulaco Uplink, established,” interrupts the game announcer abruptly. “Orbital Strike, imminent.”
“ … died,” finishes a much subdued Drake. Then, “Man, Orbital Strike’s like game over for all of us. Both sides.”
So that’s what that was, I think, remembering the intel point back on the first map.
RangerSix told me that if I couldn’t get the tech, then I was to make sure WonderSoft didn’t get it either. I guess the WonderSoft commander had the same orders.
“One minute to Orbital Strike,” says the gravel-voiced game announcer.
“Those cheaters,” swears AwesomeSauce, her voice petulant, bitter.
“Yeah,” says Frost. “Losers gotta lose.”
We’re done. Nothing survives an Orbital Strike. The only reason you use it is to make sure the other team doesn’t win. No matter how good they are. Or how hard they played.
“Listen up, Marines,” says Apone over the chat quietly. “We made it this far. Let’s go down there and finish this thing now. Who cares what happens after that.”
Silence.
“Straight up,” says Crowe. “Let’s do it to it.”
We rush. We rush the stairs to level nine and find the shadow of a massive alien queen looming like some otherworld prehistoric nightmare in the mist, surrounded by large elongated eggs. She hisses, then roars, her jaws opening and snapping shut.
“You guys did great tonight,” I say over the chat just before it all goes down. “Good job.”
“Hey, Question,” says Dietrich. “You’re no Gorman … thanks, everybody, that was the best game of my life.”
I didn’t get that Gorman remark, but everyone agrees in their own way. It reminds me for a moment that games are supposed to be fun. Just fun. That’s all. We were terrified all the way. Nervous. Laughing. Solving the riddle of the game together. Y’know … fun.
Then …
“Marines!” yells Apone as we enter the ninth level.
We’re firing, bullets smashing into the rushing, looming queen. Acid splashes everywhere, away from and into us. Her tail is whip-snaking up and then down upon us. Claws wide …
“Stand by for Orbital Strike,” says the game flatly.
And the screen turns white … then gray, outlining everything in drifting ash. Slowly freezing. Dissolving. I’m looking into the jaws of the alien queen.
Game Over appears across my screen.
Sancerré doesn’t come home from the shoot that weekend, or the club the crew was going to afterward, for that matter.
Sullen gray morning light reminds me I came home late, after standing outside Burnished, trying to catch a glimpse up at the candlelit club entrance that led to an interior I’d never see. I’d stood outside in the snow, listening to the sound drifting down from the floors above: clinking glasses, too loud bar chat, and a coy laugh that reminded me of another one I knew all too well. I came home and drank scotch and watched a replay of Sunday night’s battle. I drank and tried to focus on the business of work. I lost myself in memorizing WonderSoft weapons charts, APC hard points, and everything else that might give me an advantage. If ColaCorp ends up defeated