Armchair Safari
By Jonathan Paul Isaacs
Text copyright © 2013 Jonathan Paul Isaacs
All Rights Reserved
To the Marines of 3/1
“Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers,
but to be fearless in facing them.
Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain,
but for the heart to conquer it.”
—Rabindranath Tagore
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Author’s Note
1
Norman, Oklahoma.
The parking lot in front of Target was remarkably full for a Monday morning.
Megan pulled her beat-up Honda Civic into the end of a long row of cars and turned off the engine. She frowned in the sudden silence. It was way too cold to have to walk this far to the front of the store. But she wanted what she wanted, and if that meant freezing her tail off as she trudged through the wind chill blasting the parking lot, then so be it. Freaking. Oklahoma.
By the time she got to the entrance Megan’s face hurt from the wind. She did a U-turn immediately into the in-store Starbucks. Two chai lattes please, extra steamed milk, extra espresso. It couldn’t come fast enough. When she finally heard her name called, she ripped the lid off and practically scalded her throat. Megan stood off to the side and let the warmth extend through her hands as other patrons gave their orders to the barista. Finally, she was a human again, not some walking icicle.
It was time for business.
Megan left the Starbucks and headed straight for the electronics section. She had prepaid her order and had it delivered for pickup directly to the store to avoid shipping charges. Every little bit helped when on a budget. She had big plans for this little investment—plans that were going to make big money. Hopefully enough money to justify the $300 it was going to cost to—where the heck was the clerk?
Televisions on the back wall proudly displayed their own interpretations of the same primary colors while Megan scanned for the person who was supposed to be at the electronics desk.
“Hellooo-o?”
A few moments later, a young guy in his early twenties and a red Target polo shirt sauntered around the corner. He would have been better looking if not for the annoyed attitude and dorky haircut.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m here for an in-store pickup. Megan Evans.”
“What was the item?”
“Condor Gaming Glasses.”
“Oh,” the clerk said with sudden enthusiasm. “I saw that box get set aside. We’ve had trouble keeping those in stock. Smart to order yours online.” He started to fumble through the keys on his key ring.
Megan smiled proudly. “You guys had them cheaper than Amazon too.”
The clerk was rummaging noisily through the locked portion of the display case. He finally came up with a clear plastic container wrapped in a sheet of paper secured with a rubber band. “Evans, right?”
“Right.”
“Here you go. Have—have you seen how they work? I could, uh, show you over there on our demo.” Megan realized the clerk was kind of staring at her. She looked down at his nametag. It said Josh.
“Um... sure, I guess. Lead the way.”
Josh locked the case and walked to the aisle where all of the console video games were on display. At the end was a video monitor and Xbox controller mounted to a free-standing display that said Condor at the top. Fastened to the display was a pair of largish goggles with a thick wire attached to the game console.
“So, here... put these on... good?” He slid the goggles tentatively onto Megan’s face.
“Good.”
“Awesome. So, the way these work is, well, first, you need to play a game that’s Condor-enabled, obviously. The demo here is Samurai Soldier, but we have it locked down to just the demo loop. You can’t use the controller—you have to just watch. But look at the screen through the glasses and you’ll see the difference between a normal game and what these babies can do.”
Megan turned to the display screen while Josh stood next to her. The loop started.
It wasn’t like looking at a monitor. It was like looking through a window.
Three-dimensional, high definition images assaulted Megan’s vision from an over-the-shoulder view of the main character. First she was inside the walls of a palace, sword fighting a stream of black-clad ninjas with crisp slashes of a katana. Next, the scene shifted to sneaking through a bamboo forest in the middle of the night, surrounded by impossible hues of green and a brilliant moon above. Then she was suddenly watching a cut scene where she was uncomfortably up-close and, uh... personal with a geisha clutching the hero in her arms. The detail was astounding. She could almost see the pores of the geisha’s skin, the wisps of thought behind her eyes. It was like she was there in the game.
“This... is... so... cool,” Megan purred.
“Isn’t it?” agreed Josh. “I mean, true VR goggles are better of course, but they also cost, like, ten times more. Condor is more like a hi-def set of 3D glasses that work with any game that has the right graphics encoding. It keeps the cost way down. I’m going to get one myself, as soon as we get more inventory.”
Megan watched for a few more moments before she reluctantly removed the goggles. “I knew these were going to be good, but that was just sick. I think the rest of my day is going to be shot.”
“Do you already have Samurai Soldier at home?” Josh asked. “There still aren’t very many games that are programmed to take advantage of Condor’s technology.”
“Um... no,” Megan said cautiously, shaking her head. “I play something else. Online.”
“Online? What?”
“Armchair Safari.”
“Oh, man... that rocks. You wanna talk about sick graphics, that’s the game to beat. With those Gaming Glasses I can tell you it’s just going to be totally awesome.”
“Do you play?” Megan asked.
“No,” Josh admitted. “I’ve always wanted to, though. I have a friend who used to, and I’d go over to his house and watch. But he said that to really get going with anything just gets too expensive. That’s why my friend stopped. He got ripped off too many times.”
Megan smiled a pleasant but uncomfortable smile and searched for her coffee cup. It was behind her on the counter.
“My name’s Josh, by the way.” He was kind-of-staring again.
“Hi. Megan.” She shook his hand.
There was an awkward pause as Josh tried to think of what to say.
“Hey,” Megan said finally, “I need to get going. Thanks
for showing me that demo. That was a nice thing to do.”
The compliment made Josh perk up even though it was obvious he wanted to keep talking. “Oh. Sure, no problem.” He seemed to want to ask her something more but instead just stood there.
Megan was touched by the inept sweetness of it all. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend right now, especially one upon whom she would need to immediately enforce a haircut. He wasn’t her type anyway. But she reached out and touched Josh’s elbow anyway as she grabbed her Starbucks. “I’ll see you, okay? Maybe I’ll come back sometime and see what other games you’ve got.”
Josh positively beamed. “Yeah, great! I’m off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, by the way.”
“Okay.” Megan laughed. “See you.”
With that, she left the electronics section and stormed back out into the brisk, windblown cold.
It took about twenty minutes to get back near campus. Megan lived in a small, four-bedroom house she shared with three other girls not far off of East Boyd Street. It was close enough to walk to class, yet still relatively quiet compared to the apartment complexes overrun with students. Quiet—except during football games. At night they could stand in the yard and see the glow from the stadium, with all the cheers and chants that came with it. Still, the arrangement was hard to beat. Laura’s dad had bought the house three years ago as an investment for his daughter to live in while going to school. Megan, Courtney, and Jill basically covered the mortgage with their rent.
Laura was looking frustrated as she stumbled through the kitchen when Megan closed the front door behind her.
“Here,” Megan said. She held out the remaining chai latte.
“Oh, you are an angel,” Laura yawned. “No goddamn coffee anywhere in this house.”
“I gotta take care of my peeps, right? I didn’t know we were out, though. I should have grabbed a bag at Starbucks.”
“Don’t worry. I need to... go out... anyway...” Laura tried to get the words out behind yet another yawn.
Megan set down her own coffee cup and pulled a knife out of the butcher block. “If you go, make sure you dress up. It’s freezing outside.” She started to cut the tape on the Condor package.
“What’s that?”
The package popped open and Megan pulled out the insert. “Glasses. See?”
“Oooh... stylish,” Laura said, rolling her eyes
Megan put on the goggles and tilted her chin up in an elaborate cover model pose. The coiled USB wire dangled against her shoulder.
Laura took a sip of her latte. “Those are hideous.”
“I saw Rihanna wearing them in a magazine and I just had to have them,” Megan joked. “Anyway, they’re not for wearing out.”
“So, what do you do with them then?”
“They’re high-def glasses for gaming.”
“Oh, you’re kidding,” Laura groaned. “Megan. Honey. I don’t want to sound like your mother, but you’re spending way too much time on that stupid goddamn game.”
“Yes I am,” Megan agreed, smiling. “And stop saying G-D.”
“Fuck... whatever. It’s not healthy, Megan. You need some diversity in your life. You need a man. Or you should at least be studying for a test or something.”
“All caught up.”
Laura narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know how you get better grades than I do.”
Megan tapped her forehead. “I’m smart.”
“Bitch.”
“Who got you a latte,” she said, wagging a finger.
Laura scowled. “I didn’t say you weren’t a nice bitch.” She stood there in her flannel jammies, arms folded, and inspected Megan from head to toe. “Your looks are so wasted on you. If I had them, at least I’d be getting laid.”
Megan dismissed the comment as she hung her coat up on the coat tree by the front door. She was still wearing the goggles as she started up the stairs. “I’ll be online in my room. The next tuition payment’s coming up—I gotta make some money. See you tonight.”
Her roommate shook her head disapprovingly. “When we graduate, that fucking game’s not going to help you make friends or get a job, you know.”
Megan ignored her. Laura didn’t, couldn’t understand. Even though Megan was a chemistry major, the truth was simple. Armchair Safari was already becoming a full-time job.
Bucharest, Romania.
The lines at the post office were ridiculously slow today. Krystian had arrived at a quarter past one and gotten into the shorter line at the window that was closed for the shift change, thinking that when it opened back up at 1:30 p.m. that he wouldn’t have as long to wait. But it was 1:40 now and the clerk had still not opened it. What was worse, three more people had arrived and gotten in line in front of him. This was a throwback to the old communism days, when waiting for toilet paper and other bullshit could take forever. If you had to leave to go do something, eat lunch, whatever, it was expected that you could just come back an hour later and pick up where you left off in the queue. It drove Krystian crazy. It was going to be even longer before he was done. Fucking. Romania.
The clerk finally got back from whatever the hell she had been doing and opened up the window. Her white hair was pulled back into a bun so tight that it stretched any enjoyment of life clean off her face. She looked about a hundred years old. Krystian was certain she would die before he got to the front.
The clock ticked ever so slowly and the line shuffled forward. Krystian tried to pass the time by staring at the wall and listening to music on his headphones—Slayer, Metallica, other vintage metal. His mind wandered. He slipped back into an imaginary fantasy of being an adventuring hero, fighting adversaries with sword and axe, leaping from corpse to new prey, vanquishing all who challenged him. He assaulted enemy strongholds and tore down the walls to expose treasure inside. He—
“Următor persoană!” said the clerk emphatically.
Krystian snapped to from assaulting strongholds. Time to assault this old hag’s window.
“What do you want?” she asked as he moved up.
“Pick up a package.” He gave her the aviz, a small, handwritten note left by the postman when there was no one home to accept a delivery.
“Let me see.”
Krystian slid it under the metal bars. The old lady took her time looking at it.
“Identification.”
He handed that over.
She peered hard at the little card. “This has a different address.”
“I just changed apartments.”
“Well, you can’t have the package. The address is different.”
“The package has my name on it.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What?”
The old lady looked irritated. “I said, it doesn’t matter.”
“How can it not matter? I ordered it. It’s a small box from Amazon. It has my name on it, and I have the aviz. Give it to me.”
“No.”
“It has my name on it.”
“The address is different. You need to have documentation that shows the correct address. Move aside.”
“What? Fuck... give me my package.”
“No. Următor persoană.”
Krystian looked behind him in the queue for moral support. Tired, apathetic faces stared back at him.
“I’m not moving,” he told the clerk.
“Move aside.”
“Make me. Give me my package.”
“I—no, the address...”
Krystian wanted to wring the old woman’s neck. Did she get a special prize if she denied his pick up? Was her job description literally to keep him as far away as possible from his property? He folded his arms in defiance and glared at the other clerks. The one at the window next to his, a younger woman with spikey blond hair, kept looking over at the disruption. When he made eye contact, he held out his palms in an appeal to common sense.
“Come on—can’t you see how stupid this is? I’m asking for a package that I know everything
about and that is addressed to me. Me. It’s my delivery.”
The other clerk looked hesitant.
“My name... is on... the package.”
The mental combat of breaking from the bureaucratic rulebook was on full display on the younger woman’s face.
Finally, a glimmer of hope. “Silvia, go on and give it to him.”
The old lady turned her head and glared at her counterpart. Some unseen dialogue took place between the two women. Was the exchange of stares a debate over respect for elders? Was it embarrassment at being called out by a coworker? The girl with spikey hair, while younger, clearly had some sort of pull in the office. She was wearing an expression that was sort of like, it’s okay, it’s obviously him. The old lady, on the other hand, seemed sure that Krystian was clearly an impostor who singlehandedly was out to defraud some poor Romanian family of their vital Amazon sustenance.
With an angry huff, the old clerk finally shuffled away from the window without speaking a word. But, fuck, she was slow. He couldn’t tell if it was anger or arthritis, but she was intent on taking her time.
Krystian hated this place, Romania. Not from it being his home. Just how old and run down everything still was, even here in the capital. Decades after the end of Ceausescu people were still universally poor, the trains used for public transportation were old, the economy sucked, jobs sucked, being in a backward part of Europe sucked. Why did Romania have horse-drawn buggies still on the streets? Why were there piles of rubble next to all the buildings because of suspended construction projects? Why did he have to take the metro to fight over possession of a shipment for which he had already paid at Amazon and had his fucking name printed on the box?
There was only one redeeming factor to living in Romania. Everything was so depressing that booze was incredibly cheap. It was easy to find a party.
The clerk was still gone.
There wasn’t much to do. So Krystian waited.
And waited.
Fucking, fucking... fuck.
Still waiting.
Clock’s ticking.
Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait.
Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller) Page 1