Side Quest Read online

  SIDE QUEST

  CHRISTOPHER KERNS

  OLD BALLARD PRESS. LLC

  Copyright © 2017 by Christopher Kerns. All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781522029571

  Old Ballard Press LLC, PO Box 842, Manchaca, TX 78652

  Cover art by Jake Clark

  Edited by Lauren Ellerbee

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  I dedicate this book to video games.

  Video games rule.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  The Skirmish Manual: Introduction

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  The Skirmish Manual - Roles, Part 1

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  The Skirmish Manual - Roles, Part 2

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  The Skirmish Manual - Roles, Part 3

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  The Skirmish Manual - Roles, Part 4

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  The Skirmish Manual - Roles, Part 5

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  The End, review ask

  Acknowledgments

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  ONE

  Early’s Got an Agenda

  IT ALL STARTED WITH A MESSAGE. A message just sitting there in Mitch Mantock’s inbox. Taunting him, pulling him in like a big, shiny gift-wrapped box slid under the tree on Christmas-fucking-morning. A message Mitch was expecting, but not today.

  What the hell? Never been early before. Why would he—

  A piercing GAME OVER horn sounded through his headphones. He scurried back to his mission screen, frantically checking each data point, trying for the life of him to figure out what the hell had just happened. The stats displayed on his Karma Systems control panel were dismal. No progress, no medals, no leveling up. One thing was for sure—the practice mission Mitch had drifted off from had been short and to the point. Every member of the team had been turned into virtual lunchmeat, fast, no thanks to him.

  As the tour guide for that afternoon’s third—Christ, was it the fourth?—group he’d led through the virtual battlefields of Skirmish, the outcome was just another kick in the nuts. He knew the group of newbs didn’t stand a chance, but still, they were paying good money—Karma Systems credits he’d already spent. It was his job to teach them, to mentor them, to show them the ins and outs of the game that could make anyone on Earth famous, if they just had what it took.

  Famous like Mitch used to be. But that was a long time ago.

  He’d spent that afternoon the same way as yesterday and the weeks and months before: letting his tour groups run on autopilot while throwing out generic bits of wisdom over the comm channel, just enough to keep his students coming back the next week. The stretches between firefights left plenty of time for his mind to wander, to plan his next big thing. But lately, even his daydreams were coming up short, just uninspired flashbacks to a now cooled spotlight—interrupted by reminders of the next group of punks to guide through the same old missions, again and again.

  He flicked his inbox back up, the message header staring right back at him. As he drifted off, sifting through what could have caused Mac to hit send two weeks early, the Skirmish status chime signaled the arrival of the final mission summary. As it scrolled across his primary screen, the lime-green text mocked him more with each new line. Sterile. Final.

  TEAM: BLUE FIRE

  SKIRMISH MISSION: CRESCENT RISING

  FIVE (5) MEMBERS ENTERED

  FIVE (5) MEMBERS DECEASED

  MISSION FAILED

  WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY AGAIN? YES/NO

  Mitch brought up a view of the game arena, now suspended in time, cold and lifeless. This afternoon’s tour group—a team that called themselves Blue Fire for reasons Mitch had never bothered to ask—stood waiting in the static. Five bloodied, tired, seriously pissed off looking Skirmish players stared back at him. Five virtual rifles still in their hands, five skull and crossbones indicators hanging in the virtual space over their helmets. Five players who’d been counting on him.

  Seriously, though, why would he send the message early this year? Doesn’t make any sense.

  When something arrives late, it’s no big deal. People get busy. Things come up. Life pushes you to the back of the line, which most of the time is right where you belong. Late things are a vital reminder that you aren’t as important as you thought you might be.

  But early? Early’s different. There’s an urgency with early.

  Early’s got an agenda.

  Mitch brought his lips to the microphone, carefully pressing the bright green button on his dashboard. He forced a smile, hoping the sentiment would carry along with his voice. “Great job, everyone,” he said. “Really good work down there today.”

  The control room speaker crackled back at him, a kid’s voice tinged with a healthy heap of hostility. “What do you mean, great job? Weren’t you watching? We just got our asses handed to us.”

  Crescent Rising was one of the easier missions in Skirmish, placing teams deep in a shell-shocked desert village. Dirt roads led to bombed out buildings, a handful of enemies waiting in a nearby courtyard. The mission was designed like a set of virtual training wheels, to allow players to start learning the game world while scoring some cheap, early wins. To build confidence, to grow an understanding of more advanced game mechanics. But there wasn’t any of that going on today.

  Mitch scrambled to rewind the mission footage, playing it back at two-times speed. He covered the microphone to mask his groans as he reviewed the train wreck of a mission. Bodies flying against walls, landing doubled-over like rag dolls, withering into digital nothingness. The snare-drum beat of machine gun fire filled the air, sprinkled with screams and panic from a frantic team getting its collective ass whooped. Grenades skipping across the dirt under a blanket of thick, choking smoke. The enemy soldiers closed in slowly, methodically, unmercifully. Those left living crammed themselves into corners and huddled behind bodies, like cockroaches scurrying from the light. Like rats. A better team could have won this battle, but this wasn’t a better team—and today, that was on Mitch.

  He poured through the replay, struggling to find encouraging words. With all of today’s runs, not counting a few private cash sessions he’d snuck in here and there, he was running out of new ways to tell players the same
thing over again without sounding like a broken record. Coaching Skirmish players on the same details, the same maps, the same dos and don’ts and don’t-even-fucking-think-about-its each time, well, it’d wear on anybody.

  “You’re supposed to be our coach,” another member of the team, this one calling himself Blue One, shouted up through his speaker. “Maybe try that out for once?”

  “I’m giving you the best coaching of all,” Mitch argued, sliding his microphone back into place. “My gift to you is freedom—the freedom to fail. A lot of coaches don’t have the faith in their teams that I have in you. You guys can thank me later.”

  “I’ll thank you now if you can stop me from getting my head blown off,” Blue One said. “This is getting old, man.”

  Kid’s got a point.

  Mitch couldn’t remember the exact day, or even year, when he’d decided to start taking tours through Skirmish. It wasn’t the worst gig in the world, but at the same time, it was no virtual picnic. With the game as popular as it was, it wasn’t hard to find people wanting a leg up, and who were willing to pay for it. These kids would never be superstars—Mitch knew that within minutes, seconds, really, of seeing each in action. But Skirmish was more than just wins, he always told his students—it was about learning and teamwork and being good sports. It was a community where you could find a new tribe, a new adventure, and maybe even yourself, if you were lucky.

  Did he believe any of that bullshit? Not really. But honesty was bad for business.

  “I’m sure you guys did fine,” Mitch said, scouring the stats table. “I mean at least you got ... one kill? That’s all you got? One goddamned kill?”

  “I knew it,” Blue Four said. “He wasn’t watching. Bet he was sleeping again.”

  “Guys,” Mitch said, buying time while he traced back through the footage from another angle. “I could tell you all about what you did wrong, but I feel like you’re smart enough to know that already. Right?”

  “The only thing I know,” Blue One said, “is that I can get killed in this game without your help. For free.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” Mitch muttered.

  “We’ve got ten minutes left on the session,” Blue Three called out. “Can we get on with another round? Please?”

  “All right, all right,” Mitch said, bringing up a new Karma Systems game menu. “Let’s try something new. Because you’re my favorite team, I’ve got something special on the menu today. I don’t let just any team take on ... ” Mitch paused for dramatic effect and brought up a screen showcasing the next mission, activating a hologram in the middle of the group. “ … The Chinatown Docks!”

  A loud, collective groan rolled through the speaker. “Not the Docks,” Blue One grumbled. “That’s supposed to be the worst mission in the whole game.”

  “Nobody survives the Docks,” Blue Four whined. “Everybody knows that.”

  “That’s because nobody practices the Docks,” Mitch said. “And you’re not nobody. You’re Blue Fire, am I right?”

  “Are you actually going to help us through this one?” Blue One asked, looking up at the camera. “Instead of jerking off up there?”

  “I swear,” Mitch nodded back. “I am your coach. I am here. I am with you. One hundred percent.” As the reluctant team looked on, Mitch prepped the mission, loading maps, equipment inventories, and enemy position data. As the Karma Systems load screen rendered the environment, he closed his inbox with an eyebrow still raised. Mac’s message—early or not—would have to wait.

  TEAM: BLUE FIRE

  SKIRMISH MISSION: CHINATOWN DOCKS

  FIVE (5) MEMBERS ENTERED

  SKIRMISH - FIND YOUR NEXT BATTLE TODAY

  TWO

  A Phenomenon

  THE BLUE TEAM exchanged stories in the post-game lobby as Mitch reviewed the mission stats. He divvied up the experience points and loot to each team member—fifty to Blue One for finally coming around, thirty over to Blue Three for making a few shots on that final run—until the remaining balance hit zero. He submitted his mission log, shaking his head with a grunt as he noted the date: September 16th, just like he’d thought.

  Two weeks early.

  In two weeks—September 30th, 2055, to be exact—the virtual reality game Skirmish would celebrate its thirtieth anniversary. Over the years, it had grown into a first-person shooter game that had seized the planet’s attention and had never let go. A seemingly never-ending series of missions that challenged players to join teams and attack outposts, rescue hostages and infiltrate bunkers. But Skirmish had grown into something else altogether—a game that bred a new generation of celebrities, performing as the world watched online and in packed arenas.

  With each annual release since its founding, Skirmish managed to grow its market share with new maps, weapons, and challenges. Sure, there were other VR platforms out there—Kon2 and Levelgreen and even Spark Online—but nothing like this one. The last time Mitch checked the numbers, seventy-eight percent of souls living on Earth had an active Skirmish account.

  Seventy-eight percent.

  Do you know how hard it is to get seventy-eight percent of people to do anything together? If you polled the planet asking what color the sky is, at least thirty percent would write in some douchebag answer like “aardvark” or “UR Mom sucks LOL.”

  Skirmish was an anomaly. A phenomenon.

  As he closed out the loot menu, Mitch saw Blue Two approaching with careful steps.

  “Mr. Mantock—I just wanted ... I wanted you to know ... ” Blue Two fought to get the words out.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mitch said, snatching Blue Two’s Razor pulse rifle from his hands and checking the chamber for active rounds. The Razor had been Mitch’s go-to weapon over the years. It could be stuffed full of stacks of ammunition, had a precision zoom for targeted attacks, and could even be shot from the hip for random spray fire. He knew that rifle inside and out, better than he knew his own face some mornings. “Everyone has bad days. It’s just a game—play it enough times, and you’ve seen everything. The key to Chinatown Docks is to look up. Those guys on the catwalks surprise everyone the first time, but you’ll know they’re up there next time.”

  “No, sorry, it’s not that,” Blue Two whispered. “My credits ... they’re gonna be a bit late this week. Just need another day or two. But I’ll get them to you, I promise.”

  Mitch paused. “You sure you don’t have some lying around somewhere?”

  “We’re just a bit short this week. My mom, she finally landed a new job ... character mining ... but there’s a delay with the paperwork. As soon as she gets them, I’ll have them transferred over to you. And if you need me to—”

  “Don’t worry about it, kid. Just keep practicing, stick with it. Get me the credits when you can.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Mantock,” Blue Two said. “You’re the best game guide I’ve ever had. The only one, really, but ... I think you’re great.”

  “You keep working hard, and we’ll get you where you need to be.”

  “Mr. Mantock?” Blue Two continued. “There’s something else I’ve been wondering ... ”

  “Call me Mitch.”

  “How ... how do you know so much about Skirmish? It just seems impossible to know as much as you do. Every weapon, every mission. You know what’s behind every corner without even thinking about it.”

  Mitch laughed. “Game’s been around a long time. So have I. That’s all it is. Just time and pressure.”

  “That’s not it,” Blue Four said from the far side of the lobby. He approached with a slight swagger in his step, his rifle still dangling from his avatar’s shoulder. “It’s more than that. After last week’s walkthrough, I looked him up.”

  Mitch turned to cleaning his laser pistol, keeping his eyes pointed down.

  “This avatar, it’s just for us tourists, isn’t it?” Blue Four asked. “You used to be known as someone else in Skirmish.”

  The group fell silent as they waited for Blue Four to dro
p the bomb.

  “Spitfire.”

  An almost comical gasp filled the room as they closed in around Mitch with careful footsteps.

  “Spitfire?” Blue Three whispered. “The Spitfire?”

  “From the Nefarious Five?” Blue One asked, stumbling over every other word. “The original five? Oh my God, it is you. You—you and the team—you were the champions as long as I could remember. Legends. My dad ... he watched all your tournaments. Every single one. He had posters, t-shirts. Hell, everyone did. You dominated the leagues. You led that team through some of the toughest—”