Virtual Kombat (Pocket Money Puffin) Read online

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Happy birthday, Puffin!

  Did you know that in 1940 the very first Puffin story book (about a man with broomstick arms called Worzel Gummidge) was published? That’s 70 years ago! Since then the little Puffin logo has become one of the most recognized book brands in the world and Puffin has established its place in the hearts of millions.

  And in 2010 we are celebrating 70 spectacular years of Puffin and its books! Pocket Money Puffins is a brand-new collection from your favourite authors at a pocket-money price – in a perfect pocket size. We hope you enjoy these exciting stories and we hope you’ll join us in celebrating the very best books for children. We may be 70 years old (sounds ancient, doesn’t it?) but Puffin has never been so lively and fun.

  There really IS a Puffin book for everyone

  – discover yours today.

  Chris Bradford likes to fly through the air. He has thrown himself over Victoria Falls on a bungee cord, out of an airplane in New Zealand and off a French mountain on a paraglider, but he has always managed to land safely – something he learnt from his martial arts …

  Chris joined a judo club aged seven where his love of throwing people over his shoulder, punching the air and bowing lots started. Since those early years, he has trained in karate, kickboxing, samurai swordsmanship and has earned his black belt in taijutsu, the secret fighting art of the ninja.

  Before becoming an author, Chris was a professional musician and songwriter. He’s even performed to HRH Queen Elizabeth II (but he suspects she found his band a bit noisy).

  Chris lives in a village on the South Downs with his wife, Sarah, and two cats called Tigger and Rhubarb.

  To discover more about Chris and the Young Samurai series go to youngsamurai.com

  Books by Chris Bradford

  The Young Samurai series (in reading order)

  THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR

  THE WAY OF THE SWORD

  THE WAY OF THE DRAGON

  For World Book Day 2010

  THE WAY OF FIRE

  VIRTUAL KOMBAT

  CHRIS BRADFORD

  PUFFIN

  Warning: Do not attempt any of the techniques described within this book without the supervision of a qualified instructor. These can be highly dangerous moves and result in fatal injuries. The author and publisher take no responsibility for any injuries resulting from attempting these techniques.

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia),250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published 2010

  Text copyright © Chris Bradford, 2010

  Colour Puffin artwork on cover copyright © Jill McDonald, 1974

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-195333-5

  For Matt,

  a loyal friend

  Contents

  Bread

  Street Fighter

  Skyward

  Selektor Truck

  Game Over

  Kat-Ana

  Pain Threshold

  The Catch

  Trigger Time

  Blaze ’n’ Burn

  Missing In Action

  Elite Gamer

  No Escape

  Reality Check

  Back Door

  The Forest

  The Citadel

  The Crown

  Face-Off

  PlayPods

  The Greater Good

  Log-Off

  Bread

  My eyes are glued to the fight.

  Thunderbolt has just knocked his opponent’s front teeth out. Reeling from the blow, Destroid spits blood. Then, like a bull, the US heavyweight boxer charges at Thunderbolt. An anvil-sized fist lands squarely in the Thai kickboxer’s gut. Thunderbolt crumples. Next, an upper hook catches him on the chin. His whole body flips high into the air, before landing in a dazed pile in the centre of the Battle-rena.

  The crowd jeer and shout.

  I hold my breath. Thunderbolt was favourite to win this match.

  Destroid, raising both his fists, slams them together like two massive sledgehammers. It’s all over. No one survives Destroid’s trademark Killing Strike – the Skullcrusher.

  The 3D Streetscreen switches to a red-and-black logo in armoured lettering:

  A deep-throated voice growls, ‘VIRTUAL KOMBAT. SO REAL IT HURTS.’

  An advert comes on. ‘SYNAPSE DRINKS SPONSORS VK –’ I switch off. It’ll only make me want what I can’t have.

  The fight over, the street kids disperse. Drifting into the side alleys with the rest of the windblown rubbish that pollutes this city. Unwanted. Ignored. Forgotten.

  And I’m one of them.

  I lost my parents in the pandemic of 2030. A killer virus. It wiped out millions. Didn’t seem to affect kids, though. At one point, scientists thought we were the carriers. Some parents even dumped their own children. No one wanted us. Now there are thousands of us orphans on the streets.

  The whole world went to pot. Then the army took over and martial law brought order to the place. After that, people rarely ventured out. Even though the virus had run its course, the adults were still scared they might catch something. Most escaped life online. That’s when VK came on the scene. People needed an outlet – something to funnel all their anger and despair into.

  VIRTUAL KOMBAT THE MOST REALISTIC FIGHTING GAME EVER!

  That’s what the ad says anyway. It’s the Number 1 entertainment show. Everyone either watches or plays.

  A Zing energy bar hangs in 3D over my head. I turn away. It’s torture.

  But the massive neon Streetscreens are everywhere in this city. Like sickly suns that never set.

  The VK theme – a blast of horns and pounding drums – signals the commercial break over. The logo returns. The voice is back too: ‘THE ULTIMATE FIGHTING EXPERIENCE. WHERE EVERY ENEMY HAS A MIND OF ITS OWN.’

  Two image-enhanced presenters appear on the screen, flashing their crystal-white teeth. Highlight Time – today’s Killing Strikes all analysed in glorious ten-storey-high detail. Heads decapitated, limbs crushed, kombatants killed.

  The leaderboard flashes up. Destroid’s jumped one place. Thunderbolt’s name is eliminated.

  VIRTUAL KOMBAT.

  SO REAL IT HURTS.

&n
bsp; The only thing hurting me at the moment is my stomach. I haven’t eaten in days. VK’s a distraction from the hunger. When the show’s on, you don’t think about it so much. But afterwards, the clenching emptiness grips once more.

  I can’t face the reruns and head up a narrow backstreet. There are dumpbins down here, behind the restaurants of the rich and mighty. They still go out. That’s if you count sealed MPVs, air-conditioned walkways and dome-malls as outside.

  If I’m lucky, I might find a few scraps thrown out by the chefs.

  ‘Hand it over!’

  In the darkness up ahead, I see two lads standing over a little girl and boy.

  The girl shakes her blonde head, clutching a brown paper bag closer to her chest. The taller of the two lads slaps her hard across the face and snatches the bag from her grasp.

  She doesn’t cry. The streets are tough. But even from here I can see the red welt of a handprint on her cheek.

  ‘Leave me sis alone,’ says the boy, boldly stepping between them. ‘Give that back. It’s ours!’

  ‘Finders keepers, losers weepers,’ taunts the other lad. A stocky teen with dark-red hair. He shoves the boy to the ground, laughing as the kid cracks his head on the kerb.

  ‘You won’t believe this, Juice,’ says the taller lad, his eyes lighting up with pleasure. ‘They got bread.’

  Street Fighter

  My stomach growls. What I’d do for bread.

  ‘Give us a bite, Stick,’ demands Juice.

  Stick holds the bag out of reach. ‘No way!’

  ‘Aw, come on. He won’t know if a bit’s gone.’

  While they’re arguing, I creep up behind and grab the bread.

  ‘Oi!’ snarls Stick, spinning round in shock. ‘That’s ours!’

  ‘Finders keepers, losers weepers,’ I reply, showing no fear.

  Fear’s what gets you killed in this city. These two seem like cowards. Bullies. Only picking on small kids. So I’m not scared.

  But I’m taking a gamble here. Two against one.

  ‘It wasn’t yours to begin with,’ I say, glaring at them. ‘Now zap off!’

  Glancing uncertainly at Stick, Juice backs away. But Stick pulls a broken pipe from his belt.

  Looks like I lost the bet.

  Stick takes a wild swing at my head. Dropping the bread and instinctively darting forward, I double-block his attack. Then I wrench on his arm, the painful lock forcing him to drop the pipe. Juice pounces on me from behind and tries to strangle me. I elbow him in the ribs. He lets go and I fling him over my shoulder. As he lands, I punch him in the stomach.

  Stick pulls the winded Juice to his feet. ‘Wait till Shark hears about this. He’ll blaze ’n’ burn you!’

  I stand my ground as they hobble away. Inside, though, I’m screaming IDIOT!

  Shark’s not someone you want to cross. Not even for a bag of bread. He’s got a bad rep. But how was I to know? This is Bleeder territory. Those two shouldn’t be scouting for food in this zone. They must be new recruits.

  Sighing, I reach down to pick up the bag and sway slightly. The effort of the fight has made me light-headed. I need food.

  The little girl and boy stare at me, shivering with cold and hunger. The drizzle of rain never stops in this city. Clinging together, it’s obvious they’re twins. Blond hair. Baby blues. But it’s their look of fear and anguish that breaks my heart.

  ‘What’re your names?’ I ask.

  ‘Mine’s Tommy. Me sis is Tammy,’ blurts the boy.

  As hungry as I am, I hand the little girl back her bag of bread. ‘Well, this is yours, Tammy.’

  She says nothing, but hugs it to her chest.

  ‘Who are you?’ whispers Tommy, his eyes wide in disbelief.

  It’s a rare thing, kindness on these streets. It’s a dumb thing too, I remind myself. I could starve.

  ‘Scott,’ I reply.

  ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’

  ‘Street Fighter XII.’

  I smile as the memory washes over me.

  It’s true. Before the virus, I lived in a great home on the south side. My parents were awesome. Got me everything I wanted. The top games console, the latest releases. My dad and I were hooked on Street Fighter. I used to try out some of the moves on him for real. Never won, though. He was ex-SAS and a black belt in taekwondo. We trained every day in his dojang. One of the reasons I’m still around, when so many others aren’t.

  Tammy opens the bag, her eyes darting around the alleyway. A mouse ready to flee at the slightest sign of danger.

  ‘Doesn’t say much, your sis?’

  Tommy shakes his head.

  My mouth waters as Tammy pulls out a large hunk of bread. She passes the bag wordlessly to me and shares her portion with Tommy. I look inside. She’s left me more than half. I’m too ravenous to even thank her. I devour it.

  ‘This bread’s fresh!’ I exclaim through a delicious mouthful.

  Tommy nods. ‘Chef always makes a little extra for us. It has boosters in.’

  I savour the nutty taste and moist texture of the booster bread. Already I can feel my strength returning as the energy enhancers do their work.

  Finishing it all too soon, I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. ‘That was great.’

  Tammy smiles for the first time.

  Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

  ‘THERE HE IS!’

  I spin round. Stick and Juice, fingers pointing accusingly at me, are standing at the end of the alley. This time with the entire Shark gang as backup. In a black leather jacket, Shark himself at its head, his spike of ice-blond hair instantly recognizable. He grins at me. No need to guess how he got his name. Two rows of broken teeth glint in the glow of the Streetscreens.

  Pulling a pocket Blazer from his jacket, he flicks on its pulse-blade.

  It’s fight-or-flight time.

  I run.

  Skyward

  Their feet pound after me as I duck down a narrow side street. I know this city zone like the back of my hand and take a cut-through that weaves on to Main. Dodging sleek, bullet-shaped MPVs, I shoot across the road into the opposite alley. But I can’t shake them off.

  The gang’s closing fast. I can hear Shark cursing me.

  I have to go skyward.

  As I round a corner, I spot what I need. Leaping on to a dumpbin, I launch myself into the air. My hands catch hold of the lower rung and I haul myself up the ladder. Scaling the fire escape, I reach roof-level twelve floors up. Laid out before me is the neon-lit grid of the city. A vast metal forest of Streetscreens, satellite dishes and mobile masts sprouts from rooftops in every direction.

  Below, the gang have split. Shark and several others are following me up. The rest scuttle ahead like rats through the warren of backstreets, their necks craned to see me gap-jump to the next roof.

  I land and roll. Without stopping, I speed-vault a ventilation shaft and sprint towards the next building. The distance is much greater. I jump anyway, adrenalin and booster bread fuelling my escape. But the drop knocks the breath out of me. I hit the roof hard, slamming into the struts of a Streetscreen.

  Above me, the words VINCE POWER – SOCIETY’S SAVIOUR? project out into the night. A handsome, tanned man in a crisp blue suit appears, his silvery-grey hair only adding to his charm. Even without the graphics, I’d have known him. One of the richest and most powerful men in the world. The inventor of VK.

  I glance back to see Juice running for the second leap.

  He doesn’t make it.

  Slamming into the roof edge, Juice’s face is a mask of horror as he desperately clings on. I think about saving him, but Shark’s already across. Ignoring the boy’s plight, he tears after me.

  I drop down to a lower roof and flee.

  Shark stays high and we race side by side on opposite buildings.

  He’s fast and I have to use all my skill to stay ahead.

  Far below in the alleys, I catch snatches of his gang taunting me to fall. Suddenly I lose si
ght of Shark and I think he’s fallen.

  But then a leather-jacketed figure lands in front of me. My way’s blocked. I back off until I hear a thud behind. Stick has caught up too.

  My only escape is the building to my right. But the roof’s a long way down.

  Shark, grinning from ear to ear, pulls out his Blazer.

  ‘Blaze ’n’ burn time!’

  I’ve no choice. I have to make the leap.

  Dashing to the edge, I throw myself into the void, weightless for a few seconds as I plummet earthwards. I crash on to the asphalt roof, grunting in pain as my foot twists beneath me.

  Stick stares across the huge gap in astonishment. They won’t be following.

  Then a shadow flies through the air and Shark lands next to me. He tumbles head first into a satellite dish. The boy’s crazier than I am – and I had no choice!

  I limp away, pain shooting up my leg. Opposite me on a Streetscreen the interview’s begun.

  ‘Many consider you a great benefactor,’ simpers the female presenter, all fluttering eyelashes and cosmetic surgery. ‘Not only has your VK program reduced violent crime, but Power Enterprises funds the city’s sole orphanage. What drives a man like you?’

  Vince Power smiles humbly. ‘My philosophy is the greatest good for the greatest number. I offer a way out for these kids. Hope in a hopeless world.’

  Shark’s back on his feet. He strides over.

  I stumble against a mobile mast. Injured – with no way of escape.

  There’s a sharp buzz as his pulse-blade lights up.

  ‘Ain’t no hope for you, pretty boy,’ snarls Shark, levelling the Blazer to my face.

  At that moment, the irresistible melody of an ice-cream van drifts up from below.

  Shark hesitates. We both know what that means.

  ‘I’ll blaze you later,’ he says, snapping off the laser.

  Selektor Truck

  Hobbling into the square, I see I’m too late.