Multiplayer

by John C. Brewer

  The path at the base of the cliff was exactly as Izaak remembered, too. Above him, on his right hand, the cliff rose to dizzying heights. To his left, waves crashed against boulders hundreds of feet below. The beach stretched out in the distance with the town sprinkled along the shoreline.

  The sun was sinking into the Mediterranean and Izaak stopped, mesmerized, as the water turned sparkling orange. He and his father had walked this same path together, talking and throwing rocks over the edge, down into the sea.

  He kicked a loose stone over the side and watched it plummet toward the sea. Looking down gave him a surprising, peculiar tingling in his stomach. In some ways, Omega Wars was all too real. If only real life were just a simulation. He just needed to figure out how to respawn in the real world. Or go back to the last save-point. But not now. He turned to the cliff and began his ascent.

  Vanguards and smugglers were optimized for climbing. One of the reason’s Hector played vanguards. Mercs were huge, powerful, and armored, which made them formidable in melee, but limited their mobility. Going from one handhold to the next, listening to the gunfire coming from above, Hector inched Izaak upward as the ground below him shrank. The realism was staggering, making Hector’s palms sweat. More than once he let go of his controller and fanned his hands in the air.

  It wan’t long before Izaak crawled over the edge of a wide platform made of large, tan flagstones. His memory overlaid the virtual experience and gave him a disturbing sense of déjà vu. He had actually been in this very spot. But there were differences. There had been birds the last time and, more importantly, there had not been two dead vanguards lying on the ground in front of him. The shooting had ceased a moment ago and it was now quiet, so he crept across the tower and peered over the other side down into the courtyard.

  This was as he remembered, too. The ruins of a tiny Byzantine Church, the ruins of a slightly-larger mosque, walls, guard towers, and handicap access ramps. It was the same place he’d battled Mal-X the day before; the same place he’d visited with his family, now littered with bodies. In the center, the limousine was burning. The gates were open and people – or rather characters, he realized, were all headed toward the exit. It was as if the gamers who’d been fighting had simply stopped and become friends. Vanguards and smugglers, all together, but no mercs. Not a single merc among them or lying on the ground. A firefight without mercs? It would be like going to war without tanks. Without air cover.

  Baffled and curious, Izaak activated his refractive camouflage and jogged down the ramp. He finally caught up with the characters at the gate where they filed casually along the edge of the wall and used the same path he and Darxhan had taken earlier. He was close enough now to see that many of them wore turbans and Middle Eastern style robes like Mal-X had worn. He glanced toward the stand of trees where his merc friend was hiding, but didn’t see him. Ducking back behind the gates for an instant, Hector turned off Izaak’s refrac and quickly typed out a text message to Deion: C me going in @ end of line.

  A moment later he got a reply: :-/ When do I get 2 kill someone?

  Izaak reemerged and jogged casually to the end of the line, where he joined them. There seemed to be enough of them, and their outfits varied enough, so that he didn’t stand out. It only took Hector a moment to realize that not everyone was speaking English. Not that they should be. Omega Wars was worldwide, but English was by far the number one language of cyberspace. These people sounded like Turks. And with the Middle Eastern decorations it began to feel like somewhere Mal-X might, in fact, hang out. Hector’s heart sped up as he realized that Vera could be within his grasp in just a few minutes.

  They passed the resort hotel, which had been carefully restored like the town below, with the citadel wall now to this left. And when they rounded a last loop of wall, Izaak could finally see where everyone was headed. Maybe twenty characters or so had already lined up at the door to the mosque. Mostly vanguards and smugglers in light armor but there were also policemen in khaki uniforms and caps. But why log on to a game to stand in a line, Izaak wondered? The only lines in Omega Wars were at slipgates, but the mosque wasn’t large enough to hold one. And there were no entropy dissipaters in the area, at least none he could see. He would have to get inside and –

  “Hector,” called his mother from downstairs, and he jumped in surprise. “Time’s up.”

  “Okay,” he yelled back. “Got to log out. Five minutes.” He had to see what the characters were lined up for. And he couldn’t leave Izaak just standing there.

  The line inched forward slower than an amusement park queue and Hector began to sweat. His mother got really mad when he pushed his gaming. She already thought he took it all to seriously, but he knew perfectly well it was just a game. The only real danger, he laughed to himself, was his mother. But it had been more than five minutes already and was getting close to her second warning. He wasn’t quite inside yet.

  “Hector…” she called a second time.

  His heart jumped. If he logged off, Izaak would collapse on the floor as if he’d passed out. He felt beads of sweat break out across his forehead. “Almost done. One more minute. Trying to get my character put away.”

  Finally, Izaak made it to the doorway. Then inside. The dome arched high above a polished stone floor ringed with columns and Islamic icons. At the head of the chamber, apart from the line, several characters clustered around one who looked like a priest or at least someone in charge. The tall man with a dark beard was dressed in a white turban and a long white robe, and there was a dagger thrust through the belt around his waist. Like one of those terrorists on TV. Izaak froze. Standing next to the man was Mal-X. And on his back hung a huge rifle with a long, sinister, black barrel.

  “Vera!” Hector hissed.

  “Hector Franklin West,” said his mother with a darker note in her voice, “don’t make me come up there.”

  “Just a second,” he called back, captivated by the image on the screen. “This is important.”

  He watched as another character strode to the middle of the Mosque and promptly vanished with the same flash as a slipgate. Hector was glad his real jaw wasn’t tied to his character because he sat there with it hanging slack. A slipgate? With no arch? He glanced around but there was no slipgate hardware anywhere. No arch. No dissipaters. Nothing!

  “Hector!” It was a bark this time, and he knew it was his final warning. He was now, officially, in trouble whether Izaak survived or not.

  Mal-X turned and scanned the room casually and Izaak suddenly realized Mal-X knew what he looked like. He slipped behind the character in front of him to breathlessly watch as another approached a small box with a handle. The top hung open, exposing a set of controls that looked like a standard slipgate interface. A portable slipgate? He’d never heard of such thing! Then it hit him – that was how Mal-X had cheated!

  He heard footfalls on the stairs.

  There were still half-a-dozen characters in line ahead of him. He’d never get out in time. He noticed Mal-X turn toward a black clad figure beside him and say something while staring directly at Izaak. The man in black started moving around the edge of the room. Izaak watched carefully, ready to pull his shotgun. Mal-X started moving his direction, too. They had seen him.

  Izaak stared at the light on the slipgate device, which seemed to stay red forever. He activated his passport and set it for the Sulako, hoping it would work with this portable version, and that he’d have the chance to use it. He could hear his mother get to the top of the stairs. The light went green. Izaak jumped out of line and sprang forward, pushing past the characters in front of him aside as he drew his shotgun.

  “Stop him!” cried Mal-X. “Infidel!”

  Mal-X rushed at him and the black-clad figure came up from behind. A turban wearing character in a long cape jumped in front of him, sword raised. Izaak fired his shotgun point-blank. Mal-X started shooting. Izaak’s lorica registered hits, but he couldn’t take a defensive position. He sprang forward an
d reached the center of the floor just ahead of a smuggler-type who was about to go through the slipgate. Izaak fired at the character, closed his eyes and leapt.

  The gate snapped shut behind him, shearing off the back of his fusion cell, which exploded and launched him into the far wall of the Sulako’s cargo bay. Hector clutched the controller and opened his eyes. He was lying on the deck of the Sulako. His knuckles were white. He looked up. His mother stepped in and switched off his game console.

  “When I say off,” she growled with a fierce light in her eyes, “it means now.”

  “But it was important!” exclaimed Hector.

  “Important?” she said, her eyes wide open and wild. “Your game is more important than obeying your mother?”

  “I didn’t mean that. I only –”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “I’m trying to tell you. There was something weird going on in the game. It was –”

  “Stop it, Hector. You say you want to be an army officer someday, yet every single thing you do is exactly the opposite of how an officer behaves.”

  Hector flashed to anger. “Well maybe if the Army would stop following all the rules, they might be winning some wars. You watch the news. Nothing changes. He died for nothing!” There was a flash, a sudden pop, and Hector’s cheek was numb and stinging. His eyes bugged open in shock and his hand went to his cheek.

  “How dare you say that!” his mother hissed. “How dare you. Your father was doing his duty. And that’s never for nothing. He didn’t want to be over there. None of them do. But when you take that oath, you give up yourself to be a part of something bigger. He understood that.” The doorbell rang and they stood staring at each other in silence.

  They heard the door open. “Mom?” came Helen’s voice a moment later. She sounded… weird.

  “Who is it, honey?” his mom called sweetly, still holding Hector hostage with her eyes.

  There was a pause.

  “The FBI.”

  Ch. 9

  Hector swallowed heavily, praying his death would be swift. He knew why the FBI had come to his house. He peeked around the corner into the den. Everyone was there. His mother. Pappous. Two agents in dark suits. All waiting for him. His cell phone beeped. It was Deion. He pressed ignore as his mother called again, “Hector West, get in here!”

  He entered the room slowly and Pappous suddenly exploded. His face looked like a storm cloud. “Hector! How could you do this! Mr. Zahedi is my –”

  “Dad!” Mom blurted. “Not now.”

  “But, he’s my fri –”

  “Not. Now.” If Pappous’ face was a storm cloud, the face of Hector’s mother was a hurricane. She looked like Athena herself, Greek goddess of war, ready to melt him into sludge.

  One of the agents, a tall man with dark hair and slightly crooked teeth, rose and introduced himself as Special Agent Russell. The other was a very serious looking, almost-pretty blonde-headed woman named Hanson. Neither gave first names. Helen and Halie were nowhere to be seen, but Hector knew they couldn’t be far. Probably hiding in the kitchen trying to eavesdrop. His mother motioned at the couch and Hector sat down cautiously, feeling the press of the eyes.

  “Hector,” said Special Agent Russell as he sat down in the desk chair again, “tell us exactly what you saw this afternoon.”

  So he did. At first he stumbled over words, but as he listened to his own voice, what he’d done seemed to make sense and he grew more confident. Poison. Buckets. The van. The gun. He left nothing out.

  “Caustic,” said agent Hanson when he’d finished. And he said it in a way that told Hector he’d done the right thing. “You’re sure? Caustic.”

  Hector looked back and forth at them. He was still scared, feeling his mother’s glowering eyes boring into him, but he was very sure of what he’d seen. And now he knew he was doing the right thing. “There was a skull-and-crossbones,” he said. “The word ‘caustic,’ and some writing under that. Like a paragraph. I was too far away to read it.” Hector felt his cell phone buzz in his pants. “He had a gun,” Hector reminded them.

  “He has a permit,” growled Pappous. “We shoot at targets together.”

  The agents glanced at one another, then set their full attention back on Hector. “Did you get the license number of the van,” asked Agent Russell.

  Hector shook his head. “No. It was gray. With no windows.”

  “Before you read too much into this,” Hector’s mom began. “ I think –”

  “Please,” Agent Hanson interrupted. “Let us decide if –”

  “It’s my house. I’ll do whatever I want,” his mother blurted. Agent Hanson was taken aback, but Agent Russell let slip the barest hint of smile. Hector stepped back, stunned. He’d never heard her talk like that before. She began again, with her face like stone: “Hector’s father was a lieutenant colonel in the army. He was killed in Iraq last year. An I.E.D. They say it was most likely built in Iran. Since then, every Middle Eastern person Hector sees is either a terrorist or a spy. Especially Iranians, like the Zahedis. I can tell you right now, the Zahedis are wonderful neighbors and some of the best people I know. They are not –”

  “Leave that to us, ma’am,” said Special Agent Russell, cutting her off as he rose to his full height. Hector watched as they fenced with their eyes. “You’ll know if anything comes of it.” The agents nodded curtly and left.

  As soon as the door closed, Pappous spun on Hector while Mom rubbed her temples. He saw his sister’s face poke from around a wall, followed an instant later by Halie’s. He felt like a gladiator about to get the thumbs-down.

  “Who were those people, Momma?” Halie asked.

  “You informed on my best friend?” Pappous growled.

  “He had a gun, Pappous!” Hector shot back. “Why did he –”

  “Of course he had a gun,” Pappous railed, deflecting the shot. Hector had never seen the old man angry like this. “He runs a convenience store. And he’s an American citizen. A free man. After what happened to him in Iran, he carries a gun everywhere. And has one in his trunk too! An AK –”

  “Dad!” Mom snapped, finally lifting her head, her face a study in stress. “You’re not helping.”

  “You little jerk!” spat Helen. “I’m going to –”

  “Helen!” Mom barked.

  “But Hector –”

  Pappous went on, horror written all over his aged face. “My own grandson, a –”

  “Will everyone just shut up!” screeched his mother and silence fell. Pappous looked like Hector just planted a knife, up to the hilt, in the old man’s belly. Halie began to whimper. Helen was in shock. Hector’s mom pointed up the stairs. “Now!” she yelled. “I cannot look at you right now. Get out of my sight!”

  Ω

  Hector lay on his bed staring at his autographed Bayern Munich poster. He and his father used to go to soccer games at the Allianz Arena when their family had been stationed in Germany. Hector had bought a poster at the game and the players had signed it: Schweinsteiger. Ribéry. Robben. Altintop, and others. It had been a high point of his life. Except it was different now. He’d learned since then that his former favorite player, Franck Ribéry, had taken an Algerian wife and converted to Islam. Hamit Altintop was a Turk so probably a Muslim.

  What was happening to his world? His mind flashed through memories of his dad, until it settled on one that was familiar tonight – at the citadel at Alanya, and the cliffs he’d been at today. He hiked there with his dad on their last day of vacation. Hector complained that his dad had to go back to Iraq, asking why they couldn’t go in and wipe out all the bad guys once and for all and be done with it. “Just nuke the place,” he’d said. His father stood on the cliff in the gleaming sunshine. Hector remembered the pale scar where a piece of shrapnel had creased the scalp under his light brown hair. And he remembered how proud he’d been of his dad.

  “Bad guys?” his dad had asked. “How would we know who they all are?”

 
Hector had shrugged. “Go to the mosques, or something. It doesn’t seem like it should be that hard.”

  His dad had turned at that point, put his hands on Hector’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “This isn’t about religion, son, no matter what you might hear. It’s about good and evil, and no religion has a monopoly on either one. That’s not how it works.”

  Hector pressed himself into his bed. That was the last real conversation he had with his dad. Because his dad had been wrong. Because none of them should have ever cared about the Muslims – they had killed him. And now they were trying to kill Hector. His whole town maybe. The FBI guys believed him enough to check it out.

  There was a knock on the door. He mumbled, “Come in.”

  His mother entered, looking mad and confused, upset and exasperated, all at once. She sat down beside him on the bed and didn’t say anything until Hector couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “You told me to go outside!” he blurted out.

  His mother erupted. “Not to spy on the neighbors! The neighbors, Hector! You turned Mr. Zahedi in to the FBI! How could you do that?”

  “Maybe because they’re terrorists,” said Hector, still confident he’d done right.

  “You don’t know that!”

  “Exactly! And I don’t know they’re not. And neither do you. And we can’t take that chance.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me about it? We could have gone to Mr. Zahedi. I’m sure he would have an explanation for what you saw.”

  “Mom!” Hector shot back. “When terrorists find out you know about their plan, they kill you. They kill you! They cut your head off. Remember what Dad told us? How Baghdad is –”

  “We’re not in Iraq,” she shot back. “And the Zahedis aren’t terrorists!”

  “If you saw what I saw, you would have done the same. Or at least you should have.”

  “I wouldn’t have been hanging out in the Zahedis’ dumpster, so I wouldn’t have seen anything!”

  “Then the whole town would be dead in a couple of days! Did the FBI say I was wrong?”