by Ben Bequer
We reached the bottom floor and he led me to one of the massive parking garages on the lower levels. A group of techs were working on a decked out Jeep - it was set up with fishing poles sticking out of the back.
"Fishing," he said, waving at his grand surprise.
I looked beyond the open garage doors, "But it's night."
"We going camping," he said. "That'll bond us and shit, and give me a chance to tell you all the plans I got for you."
I laughed, "Moe, I'm leaving in the morning."
"What?"
"I'm going back to the States with Apogee," I said, not wanting to go into the details of our trip.
"Ah, fuck. Why didn't you tell me? I went to a lot of trouble for this shit. Goddamit, dog, you're crimping my shit here. Know what? Fuck it," he said stomping off to the Jeep. He waved all the techs off, yelling that it was canceled as he dug into the back of the vehicle for one of the coolers. He brought it over and split it open - inside were a couple of bottles of clear liquid along with a six pack of Surge.
"Vodka," he said, coming back to me. "Let's go on the roof and get fucked up and count stars."
——
There had been no rehab, though stumbling back to my apartment was a decent balance and coordination exercise, and no sex as I barely made it to the couch before passing out. There had been drinks though, enough to drown a whale. I woke up alone, a fleece blanket draped over me, the blinds open wide so the sun could poke hot, angry daggers at my brain. Apogee’s revenge.
Rubbing crust out of my eyes, I found a switch against the wall and closed the blinds. Soft lights snapped on with the sudden change of light. I smelled coffee and found a pot warming on the stove. A sticky note affixed to the microwave door said, “Open me.” A cooling plate of fried potatoes and bacon waited for me. Love was not having to cook yourself breakfast.
A quick turn in the microwave and I mauled the breakfast along with three cups of coffee and two more of orange juice. I tried to clear the fluff off my brain by reading some articles but ended up scrolling through my half-dead phone trying to ignore Bubu’s missed call. Plugging the phone in, I went to the bathroom and saw another sticky note taped to the mirror. It said, “Moving day. Get packed.”
I was headed to Kansas City into the hands of a guy I humiliated a few years ago. I didn’t know anything about Powermaster other than a brief online write-up, and the only new information there was that sometime after I was put in Utopia, he had returned home and started the KC All-Stars. I was packing my shit and going without a fuss.
I should have pulled up some more information on the team while packing, but I wasn’t in the mood. This wasn’t just Superdynamic trying to rehabilitate my image, he was trying to teach me how to be part of a team. I could have accomplished the same thing with Battle, but they were like family. In his mind, I needed to learn how to trust strangers. And I’m sure he pulled Powermaster’s name out of a hat.
Totally random.
Sure.
Packing didn’t take long. I felt a hollow pit in my stomach and longed for my place in Malibu or even the Romanian castle. Any place, really, where I wasn’t living at the convenience of some other person, well-intentioned or not. I’d been a prisoner in one fashion or another since they caught me on Hashima. Moe’s rambling about management rang in my ears and I quashed it. A problem for another day.
The hangover had subsided by the time I finished, replaced with a deep ache in my leg. I hobbled down to medbay, the cane thumping against the floor. Ruby wasn’t there, so I let Nurse Williams take a look at the leg. The wound was sealed, and the internal stitches held, but there was still tissue trauma. He gave me a bottle full of horse pills and I left.
I wanted a little workout, but the leg ached, and the gym was always busy early day. Supers never skipped leg day. Human interaction was not on my to-do list, so I stayed away from there and the cafeteria. The engineering wing would also be packed, which was a shame because making things always soothed me. Sighing to myself, I decided to do some research on my new team.
Walking into one of the computer lab suites, I found it reconfigured with loud music and sound effects blasting from two opposing wall racks full of speakers like you’d find at a Who or AC/DC concert. The room, normally set up in a dozen or so individual consoles was now two stations with comfortable lounge chairs and joystick controls on both armrests. Sitting like fighter pilots were Ricochet and Templar, each facing a wall-sized monitor. On each of the screens were their avatars, heavily armored space marines, shooting at alien reptilian attackers that were coming in massive waves.
“Check it out,” Ricochet said, catching me in the corner of his eye. Turning a moment to notice me did little to impede his ability to murder his digital opponents. I was behind Templar, who paused the game so he could sit up.
“Hey gimpy,” he said.
“What’s that?” I said, pointing at the screens. The two avatars were mid-fight, swarmed by aliens of all sizes, with a vast landscape between them and a massive enemy ship in the distance.
“That’s Dynasty,” Rico said. “It’s the latest game.”
“The graphics are incredible,” I said. “That shop in the background looks amazing.”
“It’s alright,” Ricochet said. “It looks pretty, but it’s grindy as hell. No endgame at all.”
Templar could tell I didn’t know what Ricochet was talking about. “Grind’s doing stuff over and over - the same junk day after day. That’s why the endgame is boring. Once you get to the maximum level there’s nothing new, just the same old crap.”
“Why don’t they add new things?” I asked, and from Ricochet’s face, it was clear he thought it was a stupid question.
“They gate progression with these things called loot boxes,” Templar explained. “Everything good you can get comes from loot boxes that you get as you play at max level. Weapons and attachments, special ammo, armor.”
“And everything has different levels, like the gun I have. It’s the ACR-50,” Ricochet brought up his character screen where it showed a paper-doll version of the guy he was playing with slots where all the different gear was. “This gun is the best automatic blaster in the game, but I’ve only got the blue version. The red version is better, and the black version is the best. You can only get them from grinding a ton at max level for loot boxes.”
“Or you could buy them,” Templar added. “Yeah, that’s what’s got everyone mad, especially Jae.”
“Well, it’s pay to win bullshit,” Ricochet spat. “I hate it.”
Templar said, “See, on their website they sell loot boxes for real money. So if you spend a hundred bucks on them, you’ll get better stuff than someone like me who’s just playing the game normally. Except Jae went a little nuts.”
“I blew three hundred bucks and my loot boxes didn’t have shit.”
“You spent three hundred dollars on a game?” I said, possibilities appearing to me like a thousand doors opening onto a hundred thousand more doors.
“Yep and all I got was a black pistol,” he said, switching to an inventory screen to show the weapon. “It’s called Finger of Death,” Ricochet said. “And yeah, it’s the best pistol, but I’m an Ironclad. My class doesn’t use pistols.”
“Do you use pistols?” I asked Templar.
“I do,” he said. “I’m a Ranger so I run around with a pistol and knife.”
“So give it to him.”
“You can’t,” Ricochet said. “It’s bullshit, I don’t even know why we’re playing anymore.”
Templar shrugged, “I figured one last hurrah.”
“I could probably reprogram all that stuff,” I said, though I don’t know why I offered. Maybe to be helpful, I don’t know. Jae was a good guy and he seemed awful bothered by the game.
“You could?” Templar said.
“That’s right!” Ricochet exploded. “Blackjack can code, man. You could write your own game.”
I laughed, that’s not really my w
heelhouse, though yeah, I could code anything.
“Dude, you could make a ton of money.”
“I could?”
“This game, Dynasty, it sold for sixty bucks a copy. That’s a lot of money.”
“Here, take a seat,” Templar said, moving out of his chair. I took his place and rotated the chair to face the screens.
“How many copies did this thing sell?”
Templar chuckled, “Like ten million on PC and console combined.”
I looked at him. “This game made six-hundred million dollars?”
“More,” Ricochet said. “Cause there are the loot boxes, of course, but they also sell a special edition and a deluxe edition.”
“Oh yeah,” Templar said.
“They give you in-game stuff for more money. And you can start playing early. The special edition gives you a special mount and some custom gear, the deluxe also has a felt map that you can use as a mouse pad and a statuette of the villain in the game.”
“Villain…” I wondered aloud. “I imagine there’s a ton of sci-fi games like this, and fantasy too.”
“A ton, yeah. This is actually Dynasty 3, the third one and they’ve only gotten worse along the way. There’s also Wartorn Stars, which is from the movie franchise and a bunch of other smaller ones. Fantasy, there’s Land of Battlemakers. That’s the biggest game ever. Talk about profit, they sold the original game for 60 bucks, with special editions and everything, then each expansion is 40 bucks, and you have to pay 15 bucks a month to keep playing.”
“Monthly dues, that’s genius. What about hero games? Are there any games about superheroes?”
Templar shook his head, less familiar, but Ricochet said, “Herotown, but that game’s been closed down since forever. You ever play it, Matt?” Templar shook his head no. “Man – that was a fun game. Just like this, too repetitive at end game.”
“So this fantasy game-”
“Land of Battlemakers.”
“Right, this game sells for 60 dollars plus per copy, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Plus special editions with, basically, extra junk.”
“It’s valuable if you’re playing the game,” Templar corrected. “But yeah, it’s nothing worth the extra money.”
“Then you charge a monthly fee. And every so often you come out with a new expansion for another 40 dollars. Do I have it right so far?”
“Except Battlemakers takes like two years for each expansion.”
“How many people play this thing a month? Say, on an average month?”
Ricochet shrugged, “At its height, maybe fifteen, sixteen million. These days? Maybe ten million.”
I rubbed my hands on the joystick controls, seeing nothing but dollar signs in my future. “Ten million people paying fifteen dollars a month. Is that right?”
“Plus buying the game in the first place, and keeping up with the expansions. Battlemakers has like five expansions. Yeah, man. It’s a ton of money. All you have to do is write the code. It’s a ton of code though.”
I looked at him, “How many lines? As an example.”
“I think Battlemakers has like 5.5 million lines of code,” Ricochet said.
I laughed, “That’s it?”
CHAPTER NINE
Back in the U.S.A.
I was always amazed at how much crap Apogee carried around on even the simplest trip. She had two huge cases that were uniform-only, four more for clothes and two for shoes. Then a few suit bags, a flight bag and a couple of others that I didn’t want to ask about.
Fortunately for me, she carried her own shit and left me to haul my stuff around. I was bringing quite a bit of junk. I was trying out a new suit/bow system with everything integrated, including biometrics and arrow telemetry. I had made a bunch of bows trying out different aerogels, but only had one that I liked.
Along with the bow case was a square metal pelican case with the components to build a full arsenal of arrows - everything a good archer needed to beat up a potential bad guy, but not kill him. None of my arrows were lethal, and the most dangerous was a flash-bang, that could hurt someone seriously if I shot them in the head.
I had a boot case with a couple of my rocket boots, and one suitcase with clothes. Even with all the junk I was bringing along to KC, I had about half of Apogee’s load. I was in charge of making sure everything went on the plane, this time a loaned miniature version of Superdynamic’s Cicada. I noticed that this particular model wasn’t painted with the typical polished nickel coating, giving it a darker, dirtier cast on the exposed metal.
“What’s with the paint?” I asked one of the techs who was helping Apogee do a pre-flight check.
“Not sure, sir.”
I laughed, “I’m not a ‘sir,’ dude.”
He didn’t know what to say to that and went back to making sure the mini-Cicada was ready for flight. I was finished loading the gear when Superdynamic came to the docking bay. He was wearing civvies. “Taking the day off?” I said, fucking around a little.
“It’s almost three in the morning out there,” he said, gesturing to the closed bay doors.
I stared at the doors, a bit bewildered. Time had flown while prepping all the junk I needed. Guess I must’ve spent longer than I realized in the lab, building stuff. Apogee came over, still tapping at the tablet. “You know what time it is?”
“Two fifty-six in the morning,” she said, not even bothering to look up. “I like her,” she told Superdynamic, tapping the plane’s hull with a knuckle.
“It’s a new design I’m messing around with,” he said. “It looks vastly different than the transport but faster and a lot more maneuverable.”
“She’s a beauty,” I said, only now realizing that her front lines were a lot sharper than the curved nose of the larger Cicada. She still had that oblong midsection, like the thorax and carapace of a beetle. “Why isn’t she all shiny?”
“Didn’t figure she’d keep her paint in your hands.”
Apogee chuckled as she finished the pre-flight and handed him the pad. “We’re ready to head out. I figure we’ll arrive in New York early enough to stop by my apartment and change before going to see Gray.”
Superdynamic had a ton of pull to get us a couple of hours with a guy as important and busy as Graydon Chase. Truth was, I was only doing it for him and Apogee. I didn’t expect anything to come of it. First of all, I didn’t trust the dude. It was one thing for Jeff to vouch for him, but I had to meet the guy, and I’m pretty guarded these days. I don’t trust easy.
Then there was Bubu and Annit. He was running the business from London, though he spent most of his time in Bucharest, and Annit was handling the corporate issues from her home base in Switzerland. It was going so good that I really didn’t have to get involved. I’d get an occasional call from Bubu with a software problem, and most times I’d have it resolved before he even got off the phone. But for most things, Bubu had a bunch of people, from government affairs, and the Romanian government required a lot of...special consideration, to local contractors actually carrying out the contracts. Bubu’s role was administrative, client relations and generating new business, but to hear him tell it, half the country was waiting in line for our services. Annit handled all the money and was hard at work trying to expand the business to other places in Europe.
It was funny, and odd, that I was a legitimate businessman now. I often had out-of-body moments where I caught myself mid-conversation with Annit and it was like I was a different person, talking about capitalization levels and new opportunities. I was happy enough looking at the monthly bank statements, and more often than not, my input was limited to naming the shell corporations we used to keep the money spread out.
And the talk with Rico and Templar had left me wondering if there were other ways to make money - legitimate ways.
“You mind if I give her a coat of paint?” I said, as one of the techs turned her engine over, the whine filling the flight deck.
&n
bsp; “Be my guest,” he said.
Apogee noticed that someone, not her, had flipped the on switch onboard and stormed off in a huff. “She meant to say goodbye, and all that.”
“That’s alright,” he said, extending a hand. I shook it. “Be very careful out there.”
“I have the most powerful bodyguard in history,” I said, cocking my head in Apogee’s direction. “What could possibly go wrong?”
He smiled, “Remember you said that. Good luck.”
“You too,” I said, heading towards the boarding ramp. One of the techs was coming from the opposite direction, his face showing the results of an old-school Apogee ass-chewing. Don’t touch her planes, man. At least he knew better now.
I got onboard then it suddenly hit me. I hadn’t thanked Superdynamic formally. Primal had asked for me, but Jeff allowed it, and it was only thanks to his connections that I was getting this chance to prove myself. I turned back to where he’d been standing, but he was a hundred feet away, about to enter an elevator and in the middle of talking with a couple of his people.
No worries, I could call him later. Or email/text. The guy had gone a long way for me and I wasn’t going to forget. As much as I was dreading the next few months of my life, including the meeting with Chase, they were the difficult next steps in moving past all my previous mistakes. I liked my freedom.
I hit a switch that retracted the gangway and closed the hatch, then headed forward to the cockpit. Apogee was already in the pilot’s seat, wearing her headgear and talking to the Tower’s flight control. I tapped her shoulder when she had a moment, and she eased off her headset. “I have a name for this sucker,” I said.
She gave me a confused look.
“Jeff said I could paint her, so I’m gonna put a coat of black on it,” I said. “Then I’m going to call it The Cockroach.”
——
At 650 miles per hour the sounds of air escaping the hull, and the hollow thrumming of the engines were everything in a plane as small as the Cockroach. Madelyne piloted the plane and I sat in the copilot seat. The cabin was comfortable, but even with soundproofing, the plane was so loud up front that we had to wear headsets to hear each other.