Ghost Platoon: Armored Souls, #3

By Xavier P. Hunter

A dying game. A tournament for the ages. One last chance for glory.

After a glorious run as the world's first full-immersion VR mega-game, Armored Souls is on its last legs. Competitors are on the rise, and the company's own projects are surpassing it. In a last-ditch effort to inject new life into the game, Valhalla West announces a tournament with such an awesome prize that no player can resist.

Reggie has led Wounded Legion to the top ranks of the factions on the Armored Souls servers, but the game has gotten easy for him. Too easy. When Valhalla West announces their tournament plans, Reggie springs into action to prepare for it. His motives are twofold. First, it's the most excitement he's felt in years.

But more importantly, Armored Souls is Reggie's entire world. He's willing to fight to keep it going as long as he can.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magical Scrivener Press
• Release date: Feb 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781942642749

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Reggie King sat in the cockpit of Vortex, looking out over a scene of fire and mechanical carnage. All around the giant juggernaut were the carcasses of his fallen opponents and loyal juggernauts of Wounded Legion, victorious once again. All around its pilot, scattered across the console like a trucker’s dashboard, was various bric-a-brac accumulated over a long, colorful career. There was a tiny golden chalice that he had won in the Markovius Campaign, a series of ribbons automatically awarded for a variety of in-game achievements, and several cheap, amusing decorations purchased from the Valhalla West gift shop. The most notable of these was a tiny plastic hula dancer that wobbled every time Vortex took a step.

[Primary Objective Complete: Enemy Juggernauts Destroyed 118/118]

There was still a secondary objective to be completed, but Reggie was in command here more than he was participating. Wounded Legion was a galactic bully these days, terrorizing the galaxy’s lesser factions with impunity. The pilots on this mission were mostly newcomers, none of them above level 15. While it wasn’t technically a training mission, it was still good practice and good XP that would be wasted on Reggie. Despite the maximum level being raised from 20 to 30 to 40 and finally to level 50, he was still bumping up against the point where XP no longer mattered to him personally.

Find the generators, Reggie radioed to the squad of 25 he commanded. Anyone think to pack a class-4 sensor package for this run?

It was a long shot, but Reggie wanted to see if his people were forward thinkers, or if they were just the sorts who got a mission and saw what happened. Reggie didn’t object to the latter; it was just that having spare brains around was good for an emergency. Not that he expected any emergencies on this trip. These days, a mission like this held all the danger of a grocery run—and not even the kind to a bad neighborhood.

One of the younger recruits chimed in. I’ve got a class-two. Would that help?

Reggie sighed and reminded himself that he could’ve delegated this to any number of faction officers. Wounded Legion wasn’t hurting for manpower. In fact, bringing in new people was sort of pointless when he really thought about it. It wasn’t like adding a few warm bodies was going to be the difference between Wounded Legion being the number five faction in all of Armored Souls and being number one. Defense was a little easier—make that a lot easier—than launching an offensive. Wounded Legion could easily hold out against even the largest faction in the game, Omnus Domini.

Reggie had checked, and that name wasn’t even proper Latin. He supposed that the top dog got a little leeway on spelling. He also supposed that if you were the new guy in the number five faction on the server, you could get a little leeway on knowing the kind of sensor package it would take to scrounge out a tachyon decay signature amid the rubble of a faction base you had just leveled.

He could run the scan himself. It wasn’t as if Vortex wasn’t equipped with the latest and greatest of everything he could’ve needed for this mission—or any other, frankly. And if he got bored, he would. But back at headquarters all that awaited him was digital paperwork managing over 1,100 players and the various planets that Wounded Legion had accumulated over the years.

That’d be great if we were prospecting for oil, kid, or iron ore, but this is a little bit more complicated than that, Reggie said patiently. Now, if no one actually has a class-4 scanner, we’re just gonna have to go digging with our hands.

As tedium ensued for the players who had buried the real prize of this mission under 1 million tons of rock, steel, and debris, a rescue came for Reggie.

Hey, boss, Chase radioed from headquarters. Got a minute?

[Secondary Objective: Retrieve Energy Cores 1/6]

Reggie rolled his eyes. Only 17 percent of the way there. Sure. In fact, I might have half an hour.

Chase chuckled. That bad, huh? Well, this won’t take half an hour, but it might cheer you up.

The sound of Particle Blaster fire was a momentary distraction. What the hell were they doing out there? Reggie shook his head and focused his attention on Chase. What have you got?

We’ve got an incoming strike force headed for Kembek IV. Wanna go bust some heads?

It was tempting.

More Particle Blaster bursts came from another direction. All the enemy juggernauts had been destroyed, so it wasn’t as if Reggie was actually under attack. It was his own knucklehead troops using the weapons for demolition work. Part of him—the part that felt invested in this mission and didn’t want to see this entire trip go to waste—wanted to scold them.

But Reggie didn’t need the money. He needed functional troops.

[Secondary Objective Failed: Retrieve Energy Cores]

The announcement popped up simultaneously with the explosion of one of the energy cores. He didn’t even bother checking to see which of them had done it.

The culprit self-identified almost instantly. Shit!

Reggie didn’t switch channels. He stayed connected to Chase. Nah. Send Frank and whoever Frank wants along for fun. He did a little mental math, built up over years of in-game experience. Should be able to make it there in time.

Don’t you want to hear who’s attacking us? Chase asked with a leering voice.

Reggie shrugged, even though Chase wouldn’t see it. I guess.

Wow, way to be a downer. Never mind. I’ll just let Frank handle it. You go back to playing with the Bad News Bears.

Reggie switched to the squadron wide channel. Pack it in, boys and girls. Enjoy the primary mission XP and the lunch money. We’re heading home.

[Mission Successful - 1,100 XP - 2,400Cr]

If anyone above level 5 was happy about a result like that, Wounded Legion didn’t need them.

CHAPTER TWO

Reggie arrived back at headquarters with a renewed sense of optimism. Every last one of his squad had been pissed off about how poor the rewards had been. At least they had a little fight in them. While it had been NumberCruncher55 to pull the trigger on the blast that ruined the energy canister, most of the squad understood that it could easily have been them. Object lesson: complete.

Some days it wasn’t about the big wins, winning plants away from major factions or securing trade negotiations. Some days it was enough to hammer home a simple lesson to a bunch of noobs.

Strolling through the public lounge of his headquarters on Nibelheim, Reggie greeted officers and rank-and-file like. Not everyone hung around headquarters between missions. Some logged in for missions and logged out as soon as they were over. Of the ones who liked a digital beer or two and to brag over the latest mission when there was nothing else going on, Reggie tried to remember everyone’s name.

Hey, Donna… Yo, Blaster, how’s that family back outside you keep dodging? …Bug-Man, no rush. But see me before you go out on your next mission… June, when did you log in?

June fixed Reggie with a weary glare. She was seated at the end of the glossy, futuristic bar, clutching a pint glass frothing over with some sort of ale. Do you know what time it is?

Time for beer? Reggie ventured hesitantly. Someone vacated the seat adjacent to June, and Reggie slid right in as if it’d been vacant the whole time. There were perks to being the guy in charge of the whole operation, even if it did feel more like running a daycare center sometimes than being a general.

June drum the fingers of her free hand against the glass, nails tapping with the staccato beat of suppression fire. We had a date.

A cold sweat broke out on Reggie’s forehead. There were times when he wondered why Valhalla West had programmed a digital avatar to react like that. The code could’ve cut a guy some slack now and then when it came to playing it cool. Surreptitiously, Reggie glanced up at the clock over the bar. It read 22:17.

Though no official notification popped up, Reggie could see in his head…

[Primary Objection Failed: Meet Girlfriend at TravelWorld by 19:30]

Reggie did his best to suppress the cringe as he replied, I am so sorry. I completely lost track of the time. I was out training a bunch of noobs. Reggie ducked and peered around the bar to make sure none of them were within earshot. And the idiots couldn’t get out of their own way. Took a lot longer than it was supposed to. Ended up failing a secondary objective and cutting our losses.

Don’t give me any ideas, June replied dryly. And if you knew things were running late, why didn’t you open a channel? And why wasn’t ‘I’m sorry’ the first thing out of your mouth when you saw me? It’s because you forgot. Admit it.

A hearty clap on the back came just in time to save Reggie’s night. At least the public portion of it.

Hey there, boss man, Frank said jovially. He slapped a hand down on the bar and summoned the bartender. How was kiddie camp?

Reggie scowled but was secretly thankful for any diversion from June’s oncoming tirade. I thought you were off suppressing a raid. Unless I’m mistaken, I ordered you to go intercept a raid on Kembek IV.

Frank’s reply began with a lopsided grin. It followed with a shrug. Any forthcoming explanation was forestalled by the arrival of a glass stout that headed straight for Frank’s lips upon delivery.

Two choices presented themselves. One was to resume his conversation with June despite Frank sitting right there. The other was to figure out what the hell had gone on with the invasion force headed for Kembek IV. Reggie felt it wise to choose the latter.

[Kembek IV – Status: Green – Garrison 125/125 – Shields: 100%]

It was all right there. Kembek IV was fine. Reggie scratched his chin, which had a regulation amount of stubble as defined by his avatar choices. I don’t get it.

Chase called it off, Frank said offhandedly.

Slowly, it dawned on Reggie. That little bastard! He didn’t!

Frank smacked his lips and let out a satisfied sigh. Yep. He did. It was supposed to cheer you up. Give you something to do. Besides play kindergarten chaperone, that is. Weren’t much point sending me. I didn’t need cheering up, after all.

Reggie opened his mouth to argue but was drowned out by one of his officers.

Attention, everyone! MilkmanDave announced, climbing up onto one of the tables with a beer in one hand and the other raised in an orator’s pose. Tonight is my last night in Armored Souls.

There were hoots and jeers from around the bar at the proclamation. It wouldn’t be the first time in recent months that one of Reggie’s officers had called it quits. There were other games out there and even competitors to Valhalla West popping up. Not everyone was a one-game guy. Hell, even Reggie snuck out once in a while for a change of pace.

As the catcalls quieted, well wishes spread around. MilkmanDave was a good fighter and a good guy, but losing him wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn’t even the end of one world—Reggie had those in droves. Instead of getting worked up about it, Reggie raised his glass in a toast. To MilkmanDave, may he experience the joys of being a noob all over again somewhere else.

That one got some laughs, but Reggie knew better than to think it was because he was funny. He was the boss, and the boss got laughs whether he was funny or not.

All around the bar there were whispers, grumbles, and general scuttlebutt. MilkmanDave was just the latest symptom of the fact that Armored Souls wasn’t a healthy game anymore. He was a fresh reminder. Reggie couldn’t help overhearing some of the predictions that sprang up around him.

I give it another month before this place goes free-to-play…

You think MechVerse will take over the market share?

Whatever. I’ll ride this nuke right down to impact, waving my hat the whole way…

I’ve got too many friends playing this game to quit, but once they start moving on…

Reggie knew that last sentiment. Inertia and the fact that Armored Souls had become his whole life—quite literally—were the only things keeping him around. There were no more mountains to climb.

What’s that look on your face? June asked. She wasn’t over him blowing off their date, he knew, but for the time being, he had a reprieve. The real consequences would take place behind closed doors.

Just remembering when this place all felt fresh and new, Reggie said, looking down into his half-empty glass. When the Iron Apocalypse expansion came out, everyone was so jacked that we needed to take shifts directing missions. Release day for Star League: Civil War, the servers actually slowed down until they metered the logins.

Frank grunted. Like being drunk, thinking in slow motion.

God, that had been weird. Reggie didn’t often stop to consider that his own brain ran on that server power, but the Civil War expansion had been a reminder he couldn’t forget. Still, once they got it under control, we got to change the shape of the Armored Souls’ political landscape.

June waved a dismissive hand. I liked it better when this galaxy was under the iron rule of a corporate oligarchy. Outside politics came in, and the outcome was rigged.

Frank raised a fresh beer in toast. Just like the outside. Reggie brought his own glass up with a clink. They were a pair of sailors adrift on a life raft named Armored Souls. Or prisoners locked in its dungeon. But Reggie tried to stay positive. To them, everything other than the Valhalla West gaming ecosystem was the outside.

Well, start giving some thought to what we’ll play next, Reggie said. Because, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday soon we’re going to need to pack up and move on.

Ever think old Kenny-boy might just delete us? Frank asked flippantly. Reggie knew the old prune well enough to hear the fear behind that forced casualness.

In truth, Reggie had wondered how long Ken Bradley and Valhalla West could keep them around. By Ken’s own admission, the processor power it took to keep each of them going was staggering. But government contracts, not player subscriptions, paid for all that infrastructure. Plus, Ken was probably skimming a profit on the deal. Nah, we’re a gravy train. Players come and go, but government contracts will keep us valuable even if Ken’s gotta cook up a walk-in 3D Scrabble knock-off to shove us into.

Frank shivered. Don’t even joke about crap like that! I don’t want to live out my post-post-glory days in some pastel petting zoo or earsplitting convulsion festival.

With a smirk, June egged Frank on. Fine. I’ll admit Pretty Pony Petting Place would be hell for anyone over the age of six.

Or equipped with a set of testicles, Frank added.

But Rave Dance Mix is one big party, June said. She cast a stray glance Reggie’s way. Plus, a guy who can dance is sexy.

Before he got roped into a make-up date in a virtual warehouse rave filled with phony teenage avatars and a relentless untz-untz-untz beat that hammered clear through his chest, Reggie decided to steer the conversation back to more weighty concerns. Well, start thinking about our next retirement home.

Frank grunted. You mean cemetery. Besides, this place still has some fight left in it.

Reggie could only hope his friend was right.

CHAPTER THREE

Reggie stood on the top floor of his palace high-rise at the heart of Jenova City on Nibelheim. The view was spectacular as always. Mixed among the 30 or so million non-player characters that called the capital city of Wounded Legion home were 1,100 players. Many of them had secondary homes for little bases of their own scattered throughout the faction, but the majority logged in every night to the heart of Wounded Legion. The city glistened in the sunlight of the pale class-G star that Nibelheim orbited. The glass skyscrapers set as a backdrop against the trails of ion engines from suborbital traffic as the waking city yawned and began its day.

Everything the light touches is my empire, Reggie muttered.

All those NPCs out there, going about their days. All that processing power to simulate a living, breathing city on a make-believe world. Though he knew better, Reggie tried to imagine that each of those fictitious creatures out there had a living, breathing human mind inside it. He couldn’t. He knew better. It was hard enough wrapping his head around the idea that his own brain was run on those in computers. He caught himself wondering if some future upgrade of the Valhalla West servers would allow him to contemplate that conundrum.

Reggie shuddered and shook his head.

Clacking footsteps on the hard, glossy floor caught Reggie’s attention and brought it back inside the palace. He tried to guess by the quickness and cadence who it might be that came to visit. June? Of course not. He’d know those footsteps anywhere. Chase would’ve called. Frank never stopped by.

He got his answer when the visitor spoke.

Doing that whole Batman thing again? Olaf asked. Looking out over your city and brooding?

Reggie grunted. Batman always did that on rooftops.

A rustle of fabric told Reggie that Olaf had shrugged off his suggestion. Brooding is brooding. But hey, never mind that. I got news that will snap you out of that brooding pronto.

Curiosity got the better of Reggie. He turned and saw his personal secretary—for that’s what Olaf had appointed himself—standing there in a baggy uniform, leaning against the back of Reggie’s couch. It bugged Reggie that the disheveled uniform was an intentional choice. Olaf actually had to go into the editor and update his appearance, selecting the fit of his uniform to deviate from the standard clean-cut, military look the Wounded Legion used as a default.

We lose another planet?

Olaf grinned. He shook his head.

Reggie rolled his eyes and guessed again. June is waiting outside and used you to drag me to our next date?

That wiped the grin off Olaf’s face. Whoa, nothing like that, sir! No, there was just a system-wide news broadcast. It’s on every screen in the city.

Give me the executive summary. Reggie didn’t have the patience for this dangle-and-chase game. He wasn’t a cat. Olaf was either going to spit it out or get the hell out of his private quarters.

It appeared that it wasn’t going to come to that, though. Olaf gushed like a schoolgirl with a crush. Valhalla West is gonna have some kind of tournament. Like… like shut down interstellar combat and get real-world television coverage kind of tournament. Platoon combat. Closed arenas. Live coverage. Commentators, prizes, the whole works.

The digital blood in Reggie’s veins began to pump in earnest. Go on…

Olaf obliged. They’re calling them Valkyries. Everyone in the winning platoon gets one. Medium-class juggernauts. Sick stats. Won’t be available any other way. You wanna pilot the best? You gotta be the best. I know you always preferred a medium jug. This would be right up your alley. Old tanker like you ought to be right in the mix. Plus, nobody’s got more hours in this game than you.

How sick is sick?

Rather than give a verbal answer, Olaf picked up the remote to Reggie’s television and flipped it on. He navigated through a series of news announcements and brought up the stats on the Valhalla West Tournament Edition Valkyrie Juggernaut.

[Weight: 65 tons]

[Max Speed: 80 kph]

[Head Armor: 4T]

[Torso Armor: 6T]

[Arm Armor: 2T]

[Leg Armor: 2T]

[Heat Sinks: 24 (effective)]

[Targeting Computer: Kvasir-I]

[Engine: Mjolnir-IX 400MW]

[Primary Weapon: Particle Blaster Mk2 (x2)]

[Secondary Weapon: Longsword (x2)]

[Jump Boost]

[Manufacturer: Helheim Forge]

Reggie just stared. It was a medium juggernaut by weight, size, and maneuverability. Hell, it was on the nimble side even for a medium. But the weapons loadout looked like something you would see on a good-sized heavy. Reggie scanned the stats to figure out how they were pulling this off without breaking the game mechanics.

He squinted. What the… oh, I get it now. They conjured up some new heatsink system. Reggie gave a chuckle. Trans-dimensional mumbo-jumbo. Yeah, dump your excess heat directly to Valhalla. Bullshit. A bunch of slimmed-down, overpowered weaponry with 24 tons of heat dissipation packed into a 2-ton magic box.

Olaf stared right along with him. He grunted. Yeah, looks like you’re right. But still, who wouldn’t give their left nut for this thing?

A woman? Reggie suggested, thinking immediately of June.

You know what I mean, Olaf replied. You have players dusting off old accounts to come back and play for these. You have every faction sending its top players. This is gonna be a knockdown, drag-out brawl across the entire Valhalla West servers. If I wasn’t in such a hopeless scrub, I’d volunteer for it myself. 200k credits? I can scrape that together. But what’s the point when I’d only get my ass handed to me? You… you can make something out of this. You’ve got a chance—a damn good one.

Reggie sighed softly. If only that were the whole story.

The Valkyries were kick ass rides. There was no doubt about that. Just a quick scan down a stat sheet was enough to tell even the rawest noob that these are special vehicles. Admittedly, the styling was a little bit on the flamboyant side for Reggie’s tastes, but the next time a player chose style over stats at high-level gameplay would be the first.

The problem was what this meant for Valhalla West and Armored Souls. The Valkyrie was broken. Brokenly powerful. Head-to-head, it was a match for any single juggernaut in the game. It could snipe light juggernauts, slug it out with heavy juggernauts, and dodge circles around the super heavies. Against another medium—supposedly its peers—it would be like turning a rabid wolf loose in a pet store. The mere existence of such a vehicle, and the shabby, hand-waving explanation of the tech responsible for it, undercut the carefully crafted world the Valhalla West created in Armored Souls. Every expansion brought a few improvements in the underlying technology of the Star League. But the Valkyrie was a quantum leap. Each of the five given out to the victors would be a walking zone of unfairness.

Plus, it was a sign that Valhalla West was getting desperate to bolster flagging player login rates. Just more fuel on the fire for the rumors that the game had begun its slow spiral into obscurity.

Olaf departed and left Reggie with his thoughts.

Reggie looked at those stats again.

[Weight: 65 tons]

[Max Speed: 80 kph]

[Head Armor: 4T]

[Torso Armor: 6T]

[Arm Armor: 2T]

[Leg