There Is No Peace - The EOS Chronicles, Book One | SAMPLE

WAR GAMES

May 9, 2313 

The echoing virtual game arena mirrors the dark cage the war has restricted my people inside. Together as Zerians, we are shielded from the singed, gritty toxicity of our atmosphere, but warforged walls suffocate my choices with their pre-plotted plans. Graduation day is here, and my arranged marriage not far behind. I stand pondering how there is no escape from Father's plans, staring out into the abyss of the arena. 

"Ahem...Lieutenant Commander Valora Martin, you are War Games Commander of the Blue team," Father says, pulling my attention back to him as he drones out the rules of the game. He knew my mind had drifted elsewhere. He continues, "And Lieutenant Mab Rainer is the War Games Commander of the Red team. Thank you all for cooperation in adjusting to this early War Game." 

There is one surprise change announced right before each game starts. It messes up all your best-laid combat plans, forcing everyone to adhere to reality, in which nothing goes as planned. Here it comes: "Teams may not use the Caretaker or any other form of artificial intelligence during the game. So communication will run through a centralized physical hub on each side. I suggest you work quickly to revise your war plans." 

No War Game has ever been fought without the Caretaker's artificial intelligence. It is integrated into our military defense systems and communication grid. It's intertwined with everyday life, religion, and war. One of its primary directives is to preserve and optimize Zerian life. In fact, the Caretaker is who we are as Zerians, sharing the same DNA. 

However, the Caretaker is unnecessary to defeat Mab. 

When Father's eyes fasten on me, I see Mab's glares attempting to gouge out my own eyes, which instantaneously stop once he returns to her. Mab's gaze sends nothing but admiration to him. I admire Mab's drive to prove superiority over me, and wish I could care as much as her. I envy her natural passion for Military Arts. Although the suction she uses to kiss elite ass could injure a lesser person's jaw, but years of constant practice help. 

Flanking Mab and I are our three War Games Lieutenants. Since I was number one in my class, I hold the title Lieutenant Commander, and I got to choose my lieutenants and troops for the game first. I wish I could bypass this event. Mab and a group of classmates will only hate me more for achieving a win at a game I don't even want to play. With my class rank, winning a War Game will automatically result in promotion to the elite as a Commander, forcing me to follow in Father's Military Arts career's footsteps. Another choice pried from me. 

"Yes, sir." I salute at the end of his standard, well-rehearsed instructions and motivational talk. Standing across from me, Mab's doing that extra bit, her salute higher, stiffer, and longer to create theatrics. This is the level of show she always reserves for my father. Tyrell Martin is the highest-ranking officer of the Military Arts Division as its Executive Commander. I want to sigh, but I'm on stage. I pity her, but Mab's underhanded, unwarranted actions to hurt me in the past make it easier to compete now if only to frustrate her.

"Lieutenants Hinds, Untell and Elp, are we ready?" I say, turning toward Blue Team's future Command Center. 

We stand along the edges of the arena. From the four corners, a swarm of translucent shape-shifting nanites jitter across the floor. They connect, layer, and create a skeletal outline of the field of battle. It takes on an otherworldly appearance of large glassy forms like buildings and vehicles. A flood of shimmering, inky nanites rushes in to coat the skeleton in waves. They slither and interweave to form a textured outer skin. Their black color fades as the objects' skins shift to expected hues. The outer edges beneath our feet and the walls repeat the effect. We are transported into the game. Two combatant groups, Mab's versus mine. My lieutenants each command one squad bearing their name, made of twenty-five ensigns and one chief. Each combatant's camp has a Command Center, Communication Hub, Canteen, an equal number of armed mechanized transport vehicles, and such.