“And Tal?”
“Tal didn’t make it,” I answer. “They shot his transmitter. He died protecting me.”
“As we all would have done. We are a family, here. Once you are part of Kronos, you are family forever.” Niko’s words, omniscient and authentic, his tone, deep and inviting. I find myself beginning to respect this man out of reflex.
“Where do I start?”
“Vulcan, let’s get Eros strapped into Lotus, shall we? It’s time for his initiation.
“Initiation?” I ask, not liking the sound of it.
“Before you can overcome fear, you must first overcome yourself,” Vulcan answers in riddle, smiling like a psychopath.
“What the fuck does that mean? What’s Lotus?”
“Lotus is our virtual home away from home, a place where time has no meaning. More importantly, a place to train a thousand troops without Lethe knowing about it. Think of it as a better daughter to the Delta.”
He signals for me to follow, leading me downstairs to a vacant chair. I have no idea what to expect.
He plucks a hair from my head and with a crooked smile, he guides the network cable into the glowing port in my arm, presses a button, and I’m gone.
Lotus.
From a dark, smoky preset of obvious virtuality, something evolves from the floor in front of me, surrounding me. It’s soundless. Alive. Metallic liquid like altered mercury rises from a vibrating pool, shaping into something huge. It grows taller, expanding to where the night’s stars should be. Its edges and surfaces stretch into the smooth, fluid walls of a colosseum, gathering more detail each fleeting second. Silver bleachers rapidly manifest around the elevated and bubbling octagon tile I’m standing on. Then, the cage springs from the floor like metallic vines, growing and twisting around me.
With a loud snap, the spotlight fixtures overhead flitter on, sending the shadows and the liquid away, leaving behind solid structure anchored into existence, indistinguishable from the real thing. Pankration. I’m center ring.
My frantic eyes find Niko sitting behind the cage in the front row of the arena. He nods reassuringly. Between us, my opponent begins to pixelate into form. A shiver of chemicals run through me. I can feel my entire body begin to sweat.
His feet spawn first, barefoot like me. Then his legs and chest. We’re wearing the same clothing, a white cloth kimono. His shoulders form, then his chin. Then, his face, and I realize what Vulcan meant. My opponent is me.
Niko teleports to the corner of the cage. “This isn’t some artificial intelligence program, Eros. This is a virtual reconstruction of you, created entirely from your memories and your DNA. Every thought you have, he has. Every instinct. Every reflex. Being part of Kronos means you adapt and overcome anything that’s in your way. You must always be ready. You must always be smarter. Only one version of you can survive. You have ten minutes. Good luck.”
With the click of his pocket watch, a massive countdown appears at the peak of the arena. My opponent and I both are caught staring at it in dismay.
Our eyes lock. Neon lights strobe over us as the virtual crowd goes wild. The energy is overwhelming.
He charges first.
Knowing he would go for the takedown; I step left and throw everything I have into a fight-ending uppercut.
He sees it coming and rotates into a leg sweep that sends my head bouncing off the canvas.
Immediately, he takes the mount. He’s fast, stronger than I expected. The virtual copy of myself shoves his knees into my throat and swings.
I block the first hammer fist from my back, but his next three land even quicker. Little specks of white and purple hinder my vision, but not enough to miss the elbow he’s looking to close with.
He overextends.
I curb his blow to the mat and use the momentum to flip over him, swinging my legs around, pinning him to the floor with a reversal.
My first strike splits his eye. Bright red blood spills from it to the canvas like paint stuck in the clouds. He parries my second and squirms out from under me as we scramble to our feet and face off again upright.
The only way I can beat him is to stay one step ahead. Think about what I would do and do the opposite. Of course, he’s probably thinking that too.
He wipes the blood leaking from his eye as we circle each other, panting and pacing under the heat of the spotlights. There is an anger in him that pains me to recognize. He’s hungry. Desperate. Fed up.
I lunge forward, closing the short distance between me and my virtual copy.
He does the same.
Our fists strike each other mid-flight, deflecting back to our sides, as shockwaves power through us from the impact.
We fire again with the other fist, faster.
Another collision. Even more powerful. Our punches meet again and crumble astray.
The bones in my hands burn. In pain, I attack again, and again. With each block, I swing more erratically. Every strike is parried. Every movement’s countered. How can you defeat someone who knows you as well as you know yourself?
I spin, slinging my extended heel around with deadly force, but it too crashes into his kick at the same time.
Reposition.
Exhale.
Kick.
The same fate as before.
Sinking in frustration an idea floats by, something that might just give me the slight advantage I need to finish this.
He lands his fist across my jaw and I taste blood.
Gritting my teeth, I return a shot to the cut above his eye. He stumbles back, wincing. New blood blinds him.
Now’s my shot. It’s risky, but I see the opportunity and go for it, swinging as hard as I can. As predicted my haymaker is stopped by his, and my strategy begins.
“Ahhhh!!” I scream, grabbing at my hand like a wounded animal, back peddling to the corner of the ring.
Glancing up to see if he’s buying it, he’s glaring back at me, performing the exact same routine, cupping his fake injury. Are you fucking kidding me?
We both abandon our ideas at the same time, sprinting towards the
