Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  I slide it over and then tap the paper off my straw. Gone, is her lip ring, a blotchy spot on her skin where it had been, but looks like it won’t be there long. Her make-up is light and her hair all one color, black. Talk about cleaning up your act.

  “How you been?”

  “Good, not working here anymore though.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I got a place up 335 in Emporia.”

  “I’m sure they miss you here,” I joke, getting her to nod and smile.

  “You showed, so you must want your debit card back,” she pulls the card from under the table and slides it over.

  “That’s not why I came.”

  “Why not,” she rolls her eyes. “If I had that much money, I’d come back for it.”

  “I assume you checked the balance?” I inquire, lowering my voice and hoping she will follow suit.

  “I thought it would be a good idea before I bought a brand-new car,” she admits, nodding her head at the Volkswagen.

  “Listen, I made a little deal with Darius in his final moments. Exactly how much is in there?”

  “Well, I spent thirty-five on the car,” she sighs, stopping to suck on her drink. “Another two grand on my security deposit. I bought some furniture and some clothes, let’s say another two.”

  “All of that is fine.”

  “Gave Marigold three grand to be rid of her, but no doubt she’ll be back for more.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “So, that leaves you about six million, seven hundred and twenty thousand. Plus or minus a grand.”

  I’m somewhat surprised that Hal didn’t drain the account. The money has to be stolen from somewhere. How far removed from the government is the entity he presides over. I’m probably over thinking it. Our government is not the font of truth and justice it proclaims.

  “No, you keep it for now,” I decide, pushing the card back to her side of the table. “They are taking me back to D.C. for a debriefing. Don’t be shy about spending it, but save some for me. I’m not even sure they’re letting us keep it yet.”

  “Letting us keep it?” she asks, peering at me with her eyes narrowed, the inflection on the word us.

  “Yeah, well, I thought we were a team?”

  “You didn’t think so when you left for Australia without me,” she complains, but it’s obvious she’s over protesting.

  “I’m not used to being on a team. Take the card already.”

  “How long are you going to be tied up with them?”

  “I’m not sure. I just got out of the hospital yesterday,” I explain, having been laid up in Sydney with some infected stitches for a week. “Keep having a good time and I’ll call you when they let me go.”

  “I’ll send you a plane ticket,” she grins, taking the card and pointing it at me.

  “Sounds good. How often do they hold that video game conference in Los Angeles?”

  “They only have E3 once a year.”

  “Oh.”

  “San Diego has Comic Con in April, but getting tickets for that is impossible. Why are you asking? Thinking of becoming a gamer?”

  “Nope, but I have some family in California I’d like to visit.”

  “Oh, you never talk about yourself,” she blinks, looking surprised. “Are you sure you want to take me along? I’ve always assumed there was a husband somewhere. You’re too awesome to be single.”

  “You’re in for a rude awakening with regard to my awesomeness,” I rub my forehead, trying to keep a straight face. “Honestly, I could use some company on this trip.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she bobs her head.

  “Text me your mailing address and the dates for Comic whatever,” I smile, recalling Hal having no trouble getting the passes for E3. “I’ll have some tickets sent over.”

  “Just like that?” she chuckles. “Comic Con tickets are harder to get than the Super Bowl.”

  “Did you want to go to that too? I don’t picture you watching football.”

  Kara frowns and puts her finger in her mouth, pretending to be sick.

  “How about a ride in that fancy car?” I ask, standing up.

  “Sure, just keep your dirty cup off the hood,” she warns, leading me over to her prize.

  I nod my silent promise to respect the Slug-bug.

  “Won’t Katz be back to pick you up?” she asks, pointing her milkshake at the main road.

  “Sure, but you drank her shake. Maybe we should be somewhere else when she arrives.”

  She studies me for a moment, then pops the locks with her key fob. Thank god for key fobs. On the passenger seat is an 8 x 10 framed picture of me. I slip in and study it, but it’s not just a picture. It’s some sort of certificate with a picture on it.

  “What’s this?”

  “Oh yeah,” she nods, starting the car. “That’s the Dynasty Evolved certificate proclaiming you Supreme Overlord of planet Earth.”

  “How did I get to be Overlord?”

  “After you took care of Darius, I signed on and wiped out his cities on your behalf. Without him playing it wasn’t very hard,” she nods, backing up the car. “Thought we could hang it next to my poster at Rat’s,” she widens her eyes and pauses. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m pretty sure I did all the heavy lifting,” I frown, feeling the ache in my side from the puncture wounds. “Where did they get this awful picture of me?”

  “The game used the web cam on Weiss’ laptop when you were playing.”

  “That explains why I look hunched over and maybe a little drunk.”

  “A little?” she teases, pulling out onto the road.

  “You’d be smart to watch your tone with me little lady,” I lecture. “You’re talking to the Supreme Overlord of Earth.”

  “My apologies your Grace.”

  “That’s better.”

  We roll down the main drag of Derby, Kansas. The radio plays a popular Taylor Swift song, although I can’t place the name. I make a mental note to show Hal my Supreme Overlord Certificate. You can’t take anything back from the Overlord.

  “Katz will come and find you,” she remarks loudly over the radio.

  “I know. Let’s head over to Mickey Rat’s and play some pool.”

  Kara smiles and we ride along with the windows down. She’s quirky, but I trust her. At the very least I have made one friend. A person with one good friend has something to live for.

  THE END

  Epilogue

  Three years later…

  Antarctica

  “If this is summer, I sure wouldn’t want to here in the winter,” Wesley whines, rubbing his oversize mittens on his upper arms.

  “Don’t worry, we won’t be,” I assure him, watching three sailors operate a winch over the side of the ship. “How long have you been mapping the bottom?”

  Wesley pauses, as if doing the math in his head. He’s a little eccentric, but is paying my crew well for the salvage operation. He works for a British organization whose name is a long anacronym, but it’s in conjunction with National Geographic.

  “Dropped the first autonomous submersibles in 2012.”

  I nod, then lean on the rail to get a better view. A bright yellow salvage submarine hangs from two thick cables. The sea is mostly calm and the tiny three-man vehicle splashes down, then bobs there like a cork.

  “When did this one stop sending back data?” I ask.

  “Six months ago. The GPS signal is only designed to last for ninety days.”

  “But the signal is still sending?”

  “It wasn’t, but a month ago it just came back on.”

  “Lucky for you guys,” I nod, as the sub sinks beneath the waves. “What changed?”

  “No idea.”

  “That is strange?”

  “It’s a twenty-million-dollar piece of equipment,” he boasts. “How about we bring it up and worry about mysterious details later.”

  We climb a set of switchback stairs and shuffle in
side. After sheading our parkas and snow pants, we grab some coffee and climb even more stairs to the control room. Inside Gwen, my first officer, leans over two scruffy looking technicians from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute in Massachusetts. They observe two monitors showing dark, but viewable underwater shots from the sub.

  “How sure are you guys that this thing is salvageable?” I inquire.

  “Let’s get a look at it first,” the female technician offers, turning to look over her shoulder. “I doubt we can bring it back on this dive, but if it’s in one piece we can go down tomorrow and get it.”

  Wesley rolls his eyes, indicating the wait is an inconvenience. We watch the screens for an hour, then break for lunch. After a long morning, we finally get a look at the mapping drone.

  “What is this supposed to do again?” Gwen asks.

  “It is mapping the ocean floor,” Wesley offers, sipping on tea.

  “Which ocean?”

  “All of them,” he states, as if it should be obvious. “It’s a robot. We put it in the water and it maps the sea floor. Every few weeks it pops up to the surface and uploads the data to a satellite.”

  “But you lost it?” she pokes at his boasting.

  “I think we found it,” one of the technicians announces.

  “You see young lady,” Wesley lectures, setting his tea down. “It all works out in the end.”

  On the screens, a yellow torpedo the size of an SUV lays, partially buried, in tan sand. The sub’s lights are bright and the picture is clear. There are several hooks that might be used to haul it to the surface. The mapping drone’s orientation hasn’t hidden them underneath, which is good news. The male technician pulls his headphone off one ear and turns around.

  “They got something else down there,” he informs us.

  On the screen, the shot passes over a translucent object, glowing slightly blue. Only half as long as the mapping drone, but flat, like a stingray. Two sides are jagged and torn, but a camera can be seen mounted in the middle.

  “Wreckage of something,” the female technician mutters, turning the camera shot with a joy stick. “Probably a hunk of plane. Didn’t they find a bunch of airliners out here a few years back?”

  “That was 4,000 miles northeast of here, but I suppose this could be from that,” Gwen replies. “Ocean currents move stuff around. Why is it glowing?”

  “Probably a reflection from the lights,” I suggest. “Let’s stay on mission. How’s the mapping drone look? Do you think we can get it topside?”

  The male tech nods,” Pulling off one side of his head phones. “Captain says he’s going to make sure, then latch onto the other thing and come back.”

  “I’m not funding this so you can pluck trash off the bottom,” Wesley complains.

  “We will go back with the right equipment and retrieve the mapping drone tomorrow,” I assure him. “That was always the plan.”

  “He doesn’t think it weights much,” the tech replies, pausing to listen in the headphones. “He’ll just grab it with the arms and bring it with.”

  “As long as you do what I paid you for,” Wesley frowns, storming out the control room door.

  Four hours later most of the ship’s crew congregate at the stern as the sub breaks the surface. It takes a half hour for divers to hook the wreckage in a sling to lift it. While it’s raised the sub floats alongside, waiting for its turn.

  “What on earth is that?” Wesley mutters, squinting into the late afternoon sun with a hand up to shade his view.

  The hunk of wreckage drains sea water in two places as it swings over the deck. Flutes of water pour off the sides, where it looks like wings were torn off. There appears to be more than one camera on the underside, one big one and several domes that might be closed circuit types. Three men guide it as it touches down on the deck. Behind me, Gwen shouts from the stairs, but I can’t make it out. I excuse myself from the proceedings, then join her on the upper level.

  “What’s up?”

  “Satellite’s down.”

  “Really? Any idea why?”

  “Nope, but something’s wrong.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “The signal’s not down, we just can’t use it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The system is transmitting and receiving massive amounts of data, but we aren’t doing it.”

  “What do you suggest?” I ask, this not being my area. “Do we absolutely need the satellite out here or can we just use the radio?”

  “I’ll see what I can do with the radio. If we can’t fix it, I recommend we get this mapping robot and head back. We are storm blind without the satellite.”

  “Check that,” I nod, well aware of the periodic rough seas in this part of the world. “See what you can do.”

  She leaves and I watch the proceedings from the upper deck. The divers are hooking the cables on the sub now. I light a cigarette and observe them, wondering about the communication blackout. After twenty minutes, the sub begins to rise out of the sea, but only gets a few feet above the waves. The sub hangs over the water, swaying a disturbing amount. I hurry down to the deck to see what the problem is. An argument has ensured between Wesley and the winch operator by the time I reach them.

  “What do you mean it’s broken?” Wesley barks.

  “There’s no power,” the operator huffs, tapping a gloved finger on the control panel. “It just died.”

  “But, you can get it working?” I suggest, stepping between the two men.

  He shrugs, then keys his walkie talkie, but it’s also dead. He shakes it, then frowns.

  “Well this is just fantastic,” Wesley whines, throwing his hands up.

  The two men keep arguing, but my ears ring. A low frequency hum is audible. I turn and glance about, but only see the hunk of wreckage recently brought up from the bottom. I move closer, then notice the blue glow. It’s brighter now, pulsing slightly. What is this thing?

  A shout rings out from the sailors monitoring the sub. I rush to the rail, but see the craft swinging wildly, nearly hitting the side of the ship. I’m stunned, but then notice the deck roll in an unusual way.

  “What the—,” I shout, but am startled by Gwen’s hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re moving,” she exclaims, out of breath from running down here.

  “Who authorized that?”

  “That’s a great question,” she chokes out, the deck rolling again. “The rudder controls are locked out and the engines spun up on their own.”

  Before I can reply, the sub clangs into the side of the boat and when it swings out the other way, one of the men is hurled into the sea. The ship begins to turn, the resulting pendulum effect throws the submersible into our side again.

  “What do you want to do Boss,” Gwen begs, one hand on the railing to steady herself.

  I want to say something, but the words are frozen in my throat. What the hell is going on? The submersible swings out away from the ship and the cables snap. The effect it like a sling shot, the yellow cannonball fires into the sea.

  “Have engineering cut the engines,” I gasp, then feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.

  “Are you sure,” Gwen verifies. “We will probably have to do some damage to get it done.”

  “Do it,” I shout, flipping open my phone, but seeing the caller ID blank. “Hey, didn’t you say the satellite was down?”

  “Yeah,” she replies, backing away. “You got a call?”

  “Who is this?” I ask, the phone in my ear.

  “I offer ten turns of peace,” echoes in a deep voice.

  “You offer what?”

  Other Books by C. F. Waller

  2013: Palindrome 656

  2013: Far Forward

  2014: Free Dive

  2014: South Face

  2015: The Calling Tree (Book #1)

  2016: Tourists of the Apocalypse

  2016: The Conduit (Book #2)

  2017: Waypoint

&
nbsp; 2017: The Agreement (Book #3)

  CFWALLER.COM for all links and info