Target Rich Environment 2 Read online

  Mr. Lee just sounded so damned earnest about it that Scott had to chuckle. “Yeah, we used to say that it was the most fun you could have with your pants on.”

  “Tell me about why you got into competitive shooting, Mr. Blackburn.”

  “Are you a sports reporter or something?”

  “I am not, but I own several sports reporters.”

  “Oh . . .” Scott wasn’t sure which system Mr. Lee was from, so he wasn’t sure if that was the language download glitching or if he actually owned slaves. “Well, my grandfather started long-range shooting competitions on Mars, and my father was the champ for years. Hell, my great-grandfather shot USPSA back when there was still a United States. So I guess you can say it’s in my blood.”

  “But you have said yourself that good competitors are not born, they are made. Raw talent and physical gifts are no match for a developed mindset.” Mr. Lee tapped the side of his head for dramatic effect. “I have downloaded all your interviews.”

  “If you already know my answers, why ask the question?”

  Mr. Lee shrugged. It was a remarkably human gesture from someone who was beyond humanity. “I have spoken with many washed-up athletes. I’ve found that answers provided in interviews are often different than the truth.”

  “I’m not washed up. I still shoot and I still win.”

  “My apologies. That was a poor choice of phrase. I meant to say that you are no longer at the top of your game. You still win, but in front of a much smaller audience, and only against other unaugmented humans in Limited Class.”

  The box containing Scott’s lunch slid out of the dispenser chute. At least he was getting a free meal out of this bullshit. “What do you want?”

  “I am what you would call a sports fan.”

  It’s been a hell of a ride for former champ Scott Blackburn. From the height of the sport to several losing seasons in a row, we caught up with him after his humiliating defeat at Garnier Station.

  Scott, what happened out there?

  Shooting in zero g is always a challenge. When you’re using projectile weapons, every shot is going to propel you along. You’ve got to be not just aware of where you are, but where you’re going to be after you start spinning and plan your angles accordingly. It’s the toughest environment to shoot in. I made a bad call and misjudged the ranges going in.

  But, Scott, the winner had four arms and clung to the walls with a prehensile tail. He was bred to live in space. How could you possibly hope to beat him?

  I know the winner. Grez is a hell of a nice guy. He’s a good competitor and a good shooter. This is a big win for him.

  But wouldn’t you say his genetic modification gave him an unfair advantage?

  Are you looking to get me to spout off some pure human supremacy nonsense? No. Grez is a good dude. I lost, he won. That’s competition. End of story. Open Class means anything goes.

  Some are saying that it is time for you to get out of Open and move down to Limited Class.

  I know I’ve lost some sponsors this year, but that’s how these things go. I’ll train hard during the off season and come back and try again next year.

  But, Scott, some say that you’ve hit a physical plateau. You’re as good as a normal human can ever hope to be. Have you thought about getting yourself modified?

  This interview is over.

  As their conversation had gone on, Scott had realized that Mr. Lee wasn’t just a fan, he was one of those dreaded super fans, a geeky walking encyclopedia of sports trivia. Memorizing stats wasn’t particularly impressive when you’d been genetically engineered to have a super brain, but it was obvious Mr. Lee was passionate about this stuff.

  “I’m betting you’ve got one hell of a collection of sports memorabilia.”

  “Yes. It is impressive. The centerpiece is Madison Square Garden. I had it dismantled brick by brick, and reassembled on my home planet.”

  Scott didn’t know what a Madison Square Garden was. “That’s nice.”

  “History fascinates me. Did you know that though practical shooting has been around for centuries, it has only been in the last hundred years your sport has become huge? It was held back from going mainstream on Earth due to logistical, cultural, and political reasons.”

  Scott ticked off reasons on his fingers. “Some politicians hated people having access to guns. You needed a big area to fling lead around. Some cultures were scared of regular folks with weapons.”

  “Indeed. The proliferation of 3D printing destroyed the concept of gun control forever. And as mankind rapidly spread across the stars, many habitable colonies had to deal with primitive aliens.”

  Nothing put the practical into practical shooting like having the local life forms constantly trying to kill you. You were hard pressed nowadays to find a colony world where people weren’t armed to the teeth. Scott took a drink of his soda, thankful that at least he was way past the point of his career where he needed to hire out as pest control.

  “Shooting clubs proliferated. The introduction of holographic and robot targets added a new element of spectator enjoyment.” Mr. Lee seemed really pleased about that. “As they say, the rest is history.”

  “Which would make me a historical footnote.”

  “Exactly!” Mr. Lee laughed, only Scott hadn’t been trying to be funny. “You know, they made a movie about the first robot that took your championship. Diomedes was portrayed as a modern day Jackie Robinson. You were the villain.”

  “I haven’t seen it,” Scott lied.

  “I love sports movies. It is all about narrative.” He said it like he was savoring the word. “Practical shooting is a throwback, the rare Olympic sport celebrating combative skills, which are now obsolete, like wrestling, or throwing the javelin. Did you know that shooting was the second-to-last sport where unassisted humans reigned supreme?”

  “What was the last holdout? Golf?”

  “Surprisingly enough, bowling.”

  He wouldn’t have guessed that, but then again, he hadn’t bowled in fifty years, and most of that had been futilely chucking balls down the gutter. “Go figure.”

  “It was easy for science to make men stronger, but it took longer to replace pure humans in games that required more finesse.”

  “Makes sense.” Scott picked at his food with his chopsticks but wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. Talking with super fans always ended up depressing.

  On the other hand, Mr. Lee seemed to be having a grand time talking about his love. “Do you remember football, Mr. Scott? The American style football? The one you throw. Not the kind you kick.”

  “Sure.” Scott had even watched it as a kid. He’d been born on Mars, but his ancestors had come from Texas, so granddad had declared their compound to be Cowboys fans. “It’s still popular on some worlds.”

  “It was once the biggest sport on Earth. The National Football League held an event called the Super Bowl, which for many years was the most lucrative sporting event on the planet. It was a celebration of the greatest athletes, and most of humanity tuned in to watch the struggle. Have you ever watched a Super Bowl, Mr. Blackburn?”

  The last one of those had been long before he’d been born. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “There is a reason it went away. When scientists invented performance-enhancing drugs, the NFL banned them, because that would be cheating. They would create an unfair advantage.” Mr. Lee banged one fist on the plastic table for emphasis. “Can you imagine such backwards thinking?”

  Several of the security guards glanced his way. Scott just gave them an apologetic look. It was the rich post-human who was getting spun up, not him.

  “When the first true cyborg limbs were invented, they were also banned. When drastically improved organs were grown in vats, banned. Genetic modification and splicing, banned. Every scientific improvement for the betterment and improvement of mankind, all banned.” This really seemed to bother Mr. Lee, and as a post-human himself, it made sense why. “They said this was
for fairness, for equality, to level the playing field. Do you know what killed the NFL, Mr. Blackburn?”

  “No.”

  “Boredom. People do not watch sports for equality. It is the quest for excellence. It is to celebrate the best, and to be the best. Other leagues were created which were not burdened by such racist, old-fashioned rules, or blocked by arbitrary and capricious laws. Until one day most viewers realized that instead of watching the same old limited humans playing the same limited old game, they could watch a defense made up of eight-foot-tall, six-hundred-pound titans, trying to stop a running back with a cybernetic lower body sprinting at sixty miles an hour.”

  “That isn’t sport anymore. That’s just seeing who is willing to graft more crap onto their body, replacing skill with software and muscles with hardware.” Scott shook his head. “Some of us weren’t in it for the spectacle.”

  “Too bad your audience was. Limited Class has a tiny fraction of the viewership of Open Class now. Your division has slightly higher ratings than the one where people dress up as cowboys and compete with old-timey six-shooters.”

  “You’re right. Nobody wants to watch us boring, limited humans anymore.” Scott was tired and annoyed. “Look, I might just be some washed-up nobody now, working here one step up from a booth babe, but I was pretty damned good once.” Scott put his chopsticks on the table and quickly stood up. The guards tensed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back to degrading myself for money.”

  “Please wait, Mr. Blackburn.”

  “No.” He made it another five feet before his temper got the better of him and he turned back. “You wait. I was the best. I trained my ass off. Back in my day it was about your heart and your work ethic, not your DNA or your CPU. I won because I earned it.”

  “I know. That’s why I sought you out.”

  He hesitated. “What exactly is it that you want then, Mr. Lee?”

  “To give you another shot at the title.”

  Matt,

  I’m really sorry, but I’m not going to be able to see you this month. I got a slot in the Manzanita System division championship match. It was a last-minute thing. One of the Open shooters dropped out and the network needed a replacement. I’ve not gotten an Open slot for years. By the time you watch this recording, I’ll be through the wormhole.

  You’re probably sick of explanations and excuses. I know, you’re thinking “Oh great, Dad’s missing another birthday because he’s off losing again. He must care more about his game than he does about me.” But it isn’t like that. When I was your age, my dad was always gone, too. When he came home he was distracted and bored, just killing time until the next match. He had the bug. So I know how you feel. I really do.

  I didn’t get him then, but I get him now. If you’re not competing you’re not living, you’re just existing. I wish I could explain it better, but I can’t. I couldn’t explain it to your mom, which is probably why she left me. And I really can’t blame her.

  I’ve only ever been good at one thing, but the universe kept progressing and left me behind. Now I’m a joke to them. The only reason I got this slot was because watching me fail amuses the audience. They get to feel smug and say, wow, look how far we’ve come in so little time. Isn’t technology wonderful?

  Sorry, Matt, it’s never been about beating the other guys, or entertaining the crowds, it’s been about beating myself. There’s a feeling you get when you achieve something nobody else can do. It makes you feel alive. It’s about one last chance at being the best.

  I know I can’t be the best anymore. But I still have to try.

  Be good for your mom. I love you, son.

  “Please, sit down.” Mr. Lee gestured at the abandoned chair.

  Scott reluctantly returned to the table.

  “I know everything about you, Mr. Blackburn. I know that your body chemistry won’t accept cybernetic enhancements because you’ve already tried repeatedly. You’re too old to try manipulating your genetic code, but you paid a fortune to black market biohackers to try anyway and nearly died in the process.”

  “It hurt like you can’t imagine,” he muttered.

  “Oh, I can. One of my many companies designed most of the drugs involved. I’ve seen the pain involved break the will of the strongest specimens. Yet you still tried four times. That is dedication. You were willing to destroy your body in an attempt to be a little better. To what lengths will someone like you go to win?”

  Scott had no answer.

  “Even if you’d succeeded, it wouldn’t have mattered very long anyway.” Mr. Lee opened his hand and a hologram appeared over his palm. “This is Diomedes 7. It is predicted to run the first stage at Grand Halifax under thirty seconds next season. It has an AI which would have been worthy of a starship ten years ago, and a thorium reactor meant for a hover tank. Every limb is a different, maximized weapon system, projectile, beam, plasma, and nano. In a tenth of a second, it sees every target on the course and paints them with a laser that analyzes the movement of every air molecule in its path. And after it annihilates its competition, it will put on a very realistic flesh mask and provide compelling interviews.”

  “I’m sure its sponsors will love that.”

  “No. We won’t. It lacks heart. Test audiences like it when their heroes have to struggle.” Mr. Lee moved his fingers slightly and the hologram of the robot changed to a machine even more advanced. “Which is why I want to put your brain inside of this.”

  Scott read the stats flashing past. It was a monster.

  “Those are conservative estimates based upon our existing test subjects. Using you as the biological core, I think we can make it even faster.”

  “My brain would only slow that thing down.”

  “On the contrary, the decisions are processed in advance based on hypothetical scenarios and extrapolations, then stored. When the decision is triggered, there is only instantaneous action.” Mr. Lee said patiently.

  “That’s how I shoot . . .”

  “Exactly. Which is why you were chosen for this project. You would be surprised what the human brain can accomplish when freed from its fleshy tethers.”

  He spoke like he’d removed a lot of brains. “What do you do for a living anyway?”

  “I own several planets, Mr. Blackburn. It is easier to ask what do I not do.”

  “But why are you doing this?”

  Mr. Lee gave him a benevolent, godlike smile. “I believe sports to be about the quest for excellence. It is about pushing the boundaries of achievement. You were willing to die for this game. Instead, I ask you to live for it.” He changed the hologram again, this time to a contract. “I have just sent a copy of this to your agent and your attorney.”

  The contract was for more money than Scott had ever imagined, but that wasn’t what mattered.

  “As I said before, a good sports story is all about narrative, and everyone loves a comeback. Sign here to be the champion again, Mr. Blackburn.”

  He didn’t think. He just acted.

  We’re here at the final stage of the Manzanita System division championship with Scott Blackburn. He’s been called the last man standing, the final human contender in a sport now dominated by robots and post-humans. How’re you doing today, Scott?

  It’s been a hell of a match, Wendy. The high gravity and fire winds always make shooting Manzanita a real challenge. I’d like to thank my sponsor, Krasnov Multinational, for sending me with quality gear that holds up even in these tough conditions.

  Scott, you’re currently forty-eighth out of fifty shooters on the board. That’s a long way down from your peak showings—

  The competition has gotten better.

  Yes, exactly. Fans are wondering if this will be the last time you ever compete in Open Class, and if that’s the case, could this be the last time that any unaugmented human competes at this level? Is this the end of an era?

  Not if I can help it.

  When Bryan Thomas Schmidt approached me about a sci-f
i sports story for Galactic Games, it was really easy for me to decide I was going to write about competition shooting. I’m not particularly athletic, and that was the only sport I’ve ever actually been really good at. I did well, especially at three gun competition. That’s where you use a rifle, shotgun, and pistol to shoot a wide variety of targets over a timed course at various distances. It takes a lot of time and effort to stay really competitive. For a while I was spending every weekend at the range, and a couple nights a week were spent reloading ammunition, but it was fun and the competitors in that sport are a great bunch of people.

  However, once my writing career started taking off I had to choose how I was going to spend my limited free time. It was either shoot at that level, or write more books. Writing won. I was never anywhere as committed as the main character in “Shooter Ready,” but I’ve known guys like Scott. Competition is addictive. They’re not living unless they’re giving 100%.

  THREE SPARKS

  This story first appeared in Predator: If it Bleeds, published in 2017 by Titan Books, edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt.

  I love the Predator movies. When I was offered a chance to write a 30th anniversary Predator story I jumped at it. Since this anthology was about Predators stalking their prey through the ages, I had a lot of options of where I could set it, but as you’ve seen from a bunch of my other short stories, I kind of love samurai drama. So samurai versus Predator? Hell yeah. How could I not write that?