As Worlds Drifted Page 11

  "Last time I saw you must have been, what, like two years ago? You were just shipping out. Damn, I was so pissed that I wasn't going with you, but no rookies allowed..." Josh must have grown six inches. His biceps bulged and his eyes had an alert intelligence about them. A perfect specimen of a man, in particular contrast to his own mangled body and soul. Tristan, to his own surprise, felt no hatred towards the guy. The van started moving. "Teaming up with the Deltas..." Josh shook his head as if remembering the good old days. The van went dark.

  "That worked out just great, didn't it?" Tristan said, seeing now only Josh's outline as he chambered a round in his Glock.

  "Some shit went down, for sure... for sure..." Josh trailed off. They sat in contemplative silence for what must have been quite a few minutes. Josh snapped back to reality. "Rolling in two minutes," he told his helmet-integrated mic.

  "You know that our target is some 15-year-old, right?" Tristan said.

  "We're aware of that. We've been ordered to use lethal force only as a last resort." Josh grabbed the handle and slid the van door open. On the sidewalk, Tristan could count a total of nine SWAT members, and Maxwell.

  They'd parked the two vans around the corner from the target's house, and would make a stealth approach from there on foot. As they turned the corner, Tristan looked up at the house from the street. A blue light flickered from one of the upstairs bedrooms on the side of the house, the rest of the house was dark. The moonless night and autumn wind through the many trees along the street helped conceal their approach. Armed with Remington shotguns, M4 assault rifles, and Sig Sauers, the team single-filed along the side of the fence that ran along the right side of the front lawn. Josh took the lead, while Maxwell and Tristan, not official members of the SWAT team, brought up the rear.

  When they were ten feet from the house, the team split up. Four of the men, carrying two carbon fiber ladders, continued straight towards the side of the house and stopped below the blue window. Three, including Josh, veered left towards the front door, while two continued around towards the back door. The ladder team swiftly but silently raised one ladder on each side of the window, and one man climbed up on each until they were level with the window.

  "Ten seconds to breach," Tristan heard Josh's voice in his earpiece. Tristan had hung back so he could see both the side window and the front door. But when he saw that Maxwell had followed the front door team and had positioned himself ready to follow them in, Tristan unholstered his Glock and moved, as best he could with his damn leg, towards the front door. He wasn't about to let Maxwell out of his sight.

  "M84, go!" he heard in his ear, followed by breaking glass as a flashbang grenade was thrown through the second-floor window. "Battering ram, go!" The front door imploded off its hinges as one of the men expertly swung the cylinder-shaped battering ram into it. A loud thud as the grenade exploded upstairs, and a shattering of glass and splintering of wood as the remainder of the upstairs window came crashing as they breached the room.

  Tristan followed right behind the team as they ran through the front door and up the stairs. As Tristan approached the top of the stairs, he saw a body in a bathrobe face-down on the landing. An M4 aimed at the small of its back. He looked left and smoke curled out of one of the rooms nearest to him. He pushed past the men manning the doorway, realizing that he had lost sight of Maxwell. There, in the middle of the room, kneeling in glass and wood splinters, handcuffed with blood running out of his nose and ears, was the target. Maxwell triumphantly aimed his M4 at the target’s head like he was taking credit for the raid's success—what an ass.

  The Fidget Spinner

  Tristan's team's job was, in essence, to make sure that Alphacore didn't become a vehicle for organized crime to launder or transfer money, a tool for foreign powers intent on undermining our democracy or stealing secrets, or a channel for terrorist communication. It was needle-in-a-hay-stack work, so they relied on a number of informants to tip them off. These gamers were mostly in it for the money, their distrust of the feds was such that they rarely did it for their country.

  Tristan docked into Alphacore. He scrolled through his avatar inventory—as an FBI agent, he had a multitude of options so that he could wander through Alphacore in disguise. Tristan chose one of his less politically correct avatars for this mission—an impossibly stunning female avatar called LakerGirl. She was dressed like a cheerleader, but instead of the pompoms, she carried two very big guns and a bullet belt strapped across her chest. The FBI avatar designers had gone to town with this one.

  He spawned onto a forlorn trash-strewn, rat-filled city street in one of the seedier sectors of Alphacore. LakerGirl approached a rundown one-story building and knocked twice. A few seconds of silence and the door creaked open and LakerGirl stepped into the Cantina scene from Star Wars. A heterogeneous mix of avatars were talking and exchanging items seated around tables and by the bar that stretched along one side. A few of the avatars glanced up as LakerGirl walked up to the table in the far back corner, where what must be one of the ugliest avatars in Alphacore, two tons of nasty complexion, sat alone with his back to the wall. Alone, except for two beefs who sat at the edge of the booth, their hands resting on guns on the table. They grudgingly moved aside.

  "Rembrandt, do you mind?" LakerGirl said, grabbing the nearest chair without waiting for an answer.

  "To what do I owe this displeasure?" Rembrandt puffed.

  "I don't have time to go to someone else… you know, someone competent."

  "Rush jobs are extra," Rembrandt continued, eyeing LakerGirl's special issue shotgun. He must know full well the weapons deactivation outside the battle zones didn't include those of federal agents and other law enforcement.

  "On this," LakerGirl said as she handed over a virtual drive, "there’s an AVI-file."

  "You want me to write a five-thousand-word criticism of it?"

  "I want you to look at it and tell me what you see. I want you to work on the audio and video to make it usable."

  "Can't you do that in-house? Don't the feds like have the greatest crime lab in the history of mankind?"

  "I want to keep this outside the house for now. How fast can you get it to me?"

  "24 hours, if you beg."

  The local news was running on the TV on the wall to his right when Tristan walked into the office. Richards sat behind a glass desk staring at the TV without acknowledging Tristan's presence.

  The TV showed a kid being carried away on a stretcher, giving the thumbs-up and smiling as he was slid into the ambulance. The kid's angry mother was being interviewed on their suburban lawn. Scrolling along the bottom of the screen, it said: Teenage gamer severely injured as FBI raid wrong house. That summed it up pretty well. They had raided the wrong house. It hadn't taken long for an explanation to emerge. The IP address they had gotten off Alphacore corporate was the one connected to the previous owner of the account, which had been sold and transferred several weeks earlier. The kid they nearly killed was the previous owner. He had nothing to do with Maxwell's case. The whole thing was a disaster, and Tristan was about to take the fall for it.

  "You're not in Afghanistan anymore," Richards finally said as he turned away from the TV and motioned for Tristan to come in. Richards picked up a fidget spinner from the desk and set it spinning in his right hand. Who uses fidget spinners anymore anyway?

  "We were working on the information provided by Alphacore—”

  "You were reckless, that's what you were. You can't go blowing up middle-class white kids on a hunch, and not expect political blowback." Richards seemed to have conveniently forgotten that Maxwell had made the decision to bring in the SWAT team. "When are you going to get that you're a dying breed? The days of the Riggs or the McClanes are over.” He gave the spinner another spin and sighed. "Just keep your gun where your dick is, will ya."

  "You mean up your—”

  "In your pants, Casco, in your pants."

  This was his second warning, the first one was for ex
cessive force. A third time and a demotion or suspension without pay was coming his way. As if being stuck with the nerds at the CGU wasn't punishment enough.

  He couldn't remember when things started to fall apart—was it before or after Amy left him? The custody battle was still raging. Ordinarily, he wouldn't give a shit about his job—his career was fried as it was. But no judge would let him see Charlie if he was both a recovering pill-popper and unemployed.

  "The director is livid, and he's got the Attorney General breathing down his neck. She's looking for any reason to shut us down," Richards continued. Good riddance, Tristan thought but did not say—he was not one to shy away, but also not inclined to shoot himself in the foot for nothing. "The Alphacore folks are also pissed. Surprisingly enough, they don't appreciate it when we try to kill their customers."

  "Christ, since when did we care what the Alphacore people think? No amount of money could buy the advertising they are getting from this thing." Tristan stood up to leave. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they deliberately fed us wrong intel. They're a bunch of privacy rights hippies, after all."

  "Enough excuses, next time you better get your information right, or you're out."

  "Is that a threat or a promise?"

  "I don't care if you're here out of some sort of misplaced gratitude for your service in Afghanistan," Richards said, fidget spinner spinning between his fingers. "We've all made sacrifices. You don't see me asking for handouts."

  Could he fall much lower? Forced by circumstances of his own doing to stand there, silent, in the face of this mediocrity.

  Bye-Bye Stanford

  It was Thursday night. With only two days to go, we were, as per usual, faithfully practicing in the middle of the night. The curtains billowed slightly and the moonlight slivered into my room, competing meekly with the light from the screen in front of me. This was getting pathetic, the marginal benefit of further practice at this stage was approaching zero, or maybe in negative territory already. That's it.

  "Hold it, guys,” I said. The team came to a stop in the middle of a muddy field as the sun was setting in Alphacore.

  "Uhhh, not the best of places unless you want a bullet to the carotid artery," Jarno said helpfully.

  I placed a silver shoebox-sized device on the ground. "We're safe. Come over here and check this out."

  "What is it?" Nuffian said, trying to act disinterested as the guys now stood in a circle around the silver box.

  "An artifact, think we can sell it?" Girth suggested.

  "Looks like a button on it, should I give it a push?" I asked.

  "Go ahead, Luna, the honor is yours."

  I placed my hand on the embossed square in the middle and pressed down. A white blinding light and a deafening thud, and all four of us were flung back, landing smoldering and twisted in Alphacore death.

  "Cowabunga!" Girth grunted, "I knew I should have laid off the volt feedback loop tonight."

  "What the… Did you just purposefully wipe out your entire team?” Nick cried.

  "We have practiced enough. This is counterproductive," I explained. "We need a break, something that will fire up some complementary synapses."

  "She has a point." Jamaal's and my emerging nerdiness were oddly symbiotic. "Many of our best athletes were omnivores while young, only specializing in their late teens."

  "We're heading out into the real world tonight," I said. "Meet me outside George's in 20 minutes."

  "You mean outside, outside?" George asked worriedly.

  "You're lucky it's night, George, any sunlight and you would spontaneously combust," Nick laughed.

  "Wear something warm, and something with a hood or baseball cap. Nick, can you get an Uber? I still don't have a cell." I switched off my monitor and glanced over at the wall where my cell had met its fate.

  A little while later, we got into an Uber a block or so away from George's house. We rode in silence for less than ten minutes. The driver dropped us a couple of blocks from the main gates.

  I hadn't visited the club since my dad died. We weren't members anymore. It was a bit past 2 am. The club was dark, the only lights were those along the docks, where multiple boats of various sizes bobbed in the night swell. Everything bathed in moonlight. I glanced up at the near-full moon that was high in the sky, as it is this time of year. It was approaching perigee, the point when the moon is closest to the earth, which explained why it was so huge. My dad would have loved this moon. He would have loved seeing it with me.

  "Where the hell are we?" George asked as the taillights from the Uber disappeared around the corner. "I'm not feeling too good."

  "It's all the oxygen. Your body is adjusting," Nick joked.

  "You'll see," I answered.

  "What's that smell. Rotten fish?" Jamaal asked.

  "It's the sea, you noob,” I said. "It's what life smells like."

  The club contracted with a local security company that did routine sweeps every so often during the night. I didn't see the company car and hoped for the best. I had basically grown up at the club and knew all its quirks, including a weak point. Just this past summer, a lifetime away, we—that is Carl, Sarah, Fenton, and I—snuck in a couple of times to go night-swimming in the pool.

  I lowered my voice, “OK, guys, pipe down. Time to get rollin'." We began to walk along the fence toward the main gate.

  Jamaal whispered, "This better not be illegal, Stanford doesn't like criminal records."

  "Stanford doesn't like B-average students either, Jamaal," George chuckled.

  "You can join me at the community," Nick added.

  As we approached the gate, I pulled up my black hood and said, "Pull up your hoods or whatever, we've got CCTV up ahead."

  "So much for Stanford," Jamaal said, barely audible.

  We passed the gate and turned the corner to the backside of the club, where most members never set foot. We stopped in front of a trash compactor that lined the fence. "Here, give me a boost," I said.

  Nick approached me and clumsily grabbed my waist. I let his hands linger ever so slightly before swatting them away. "Not like that, you dope. Here, stand with your back to it like this, and cup your hands like this in front of you." Facing him, I put my right foot in his cupped hands, then my left on his shoulder, and then finally hoisted myself up onto the compactor. The other guys followed. I could hear Nick groan under George's weight. We pulled Nick up last. The fence was a mere foot or so higher than the compactor, and on the other side, a very convenient tree grew. We used the tree to get down and were in.

  I took the lead again as we snuck as best we could, trying to stay out of sight of cameras and guards. We approached the sailing school area, where I had spent so many weekends and summers.

  "Here," I said as I grabbed four paddles from a stack near the school office. "Anyone need one of these?" I held up a bright orange life vest.

  George grabbed one, "I'll take one just in case."

  "Are you kidding me? Even without one, you'll float like a cork. We could use you for a life raft," Jamaal said.

  A half-dozen wooden steps led down to the dock. I stopped halfway and bent down. I felt with my hand under the third step. My hand closed around a glass jar.

  "I found it!" I whisper-yelled as I held up the jar triumphantly.

  "Found what, crunchy peanut butter?" Nick said.

  "We are going for a ride," I said, shaking the jar, the noise of the rubber-coated key muted inside, "and I have the key."

  The sailing school had a ridiculously overpowered Rib Craft with twin 150 HP Yamahas attached to the back. It topped 60 knots—which is fast for a boat—and we were taking it for a spin.

  "My arm hurts, I think I might be bleeding from my armpit," George complained as we paddled the rib out of the floating dock harbor, two of us on each side.

  "A few more feet," I said.

  Jamaal stopped paddling. "I'm pretty sure this is a felony."

  "Don't sweat it," Nick said. "Community college don't ca
re, felony, misdemeanor, whatever."

  We paddled in silence for another minute or so. "Enough." I dropped my paddle on the deck and got behind the helm. I flipped one power switch, and then the other. The twin Yamahas came to life with a guttural rumble, full of promise. I flipped on the automatic tilt and grabbed the wheel with my left hand and placed my right on the throttle.

  "You'd better sit down," I said. The three of them obediently took seats behind me in the stern. I pushed the throttle forward an inch. Behind me, the engines engaged and let out a purr as the propellers churned the water and pushed us forward at a walking pace.

  George barely had time to utter, "This wasn't so bad," when I yelled, "Beyond fear!" and slammed the throttle all the way. The roar obliterated the night and the boat heaved out of the water like a killer whale with a harpoon up its ass.

  The moon guided us as we ripped a seam of white froth through the ocean. The lights of the city fading behind us. The wind whipped my hair and pulled the skin on my face backwards like a cheap facelift.

  I glanced back and met Nick's wide grin. He met mine and nodded. Jamaal looked like he was expecting us to breach the space-time continuum, and looking forward to it. George had his hands in the air and screamed in ecstatic joy. We had, finally, if only for a short while, moved beyond fear.

  A little while later, I pulled back the throttle as we approached the club. Something was wrong. I could make out movement and flashlight beams dancing over the floating docks.

  "We won't be needing the paddles this time. We won't fool anybody," I said and set course for the birth we had left an hour ago.

  "Bye-bye Stanford, hello community!" George chuckled.

  We had been lucky in our bad luck. A club member, probably kicked out of the marital bed, had been sleeping in one of the guestrooms above the clubhouse, and heard us when we set off. By some miracle, he called Sylvester, rather than security or the cops. It was Sylvester who stood at the birth when we docked and ordered us to follow him to his office.