Kilgore hesitates. There’s an edge of cold steel in Will’s voice that says he means business. And that glint in his eye? Yes. He’s crazy enough to turn off the shield. Hell, he’d enjoy it. Kilgore points his rifle to the ground, and the Gray Eagle banks and turns away, climbing rapidly to rejoin the formation overhead. The drones circle in a wide arc for a few seconds, gaining altitude, then they turn together and head back in the direction they came from.
Kilgore lets out a long, slow sigh of relief.
“Come on,” Will says. “Let’s go and check out what’s left of the barricade.” He smiles, and there’s no trace of the anger that burned in his eyes only a moment earlier.
You really are a piece of work, Kilgore thinks. But all he says is, “Sure. Let’s go.”
Will leads the way along the street. “Keep your shield on,” he calls back over his shoulder. “It’ll protect you from the heat.”
“OK.” Kilgore doesn’t need telling twice. In the last few minutes, the shield has more than proved its worth. Maybe it’s the reason Will is so gung ho all the time. Surely, with this shield, he’s pretty much invincible. So why does he need me? Kilgore walks faster to catch up with Will. It isn’t far, but his legs are heavy, and as he matches Will’s pace, Kilgore is short of breath. “Slow down, man,” he grumbles.
Will throws Kilgore a sideways smile. “Tired?”
Kilgore shakes his head. “I’m fine. I’m just pissed you didn’t break out the shield before—when we were pinned down.”
Will frowns. “It wouldn’t have worked. The shield messes with the threat detection system. It’s kind of like camo—good enough to fool a drone, but try waltzing past a GDL patrol and they’ll hose you down until there’s nothing left but a grease stain on the ground.”
“But the explosions, they didn’t touch us. It was like we weren’t there.”
Will laughs. “Of course, technically, we’re not here at all. I’m at home; I don’t know about you.”
“You know damn well what I mean. How come the shock waves passed us by? And don’t tell me you don’t know. You must’ve got some idea how it works.”
Will snorts. “Do I look like some snot-nosed code-punk? All I know is it works. Take it from me, the shield can deal with pretty much anything.”
Kilgore shoots him a look. “But not everything?”
Will doesn’t reply. He just keeps walking.
“Come on,” Kilgore insists. “It’s important. You have to tell me.”
Will looks at Kilgore, and the older man’s eyes are cold. “The shield has its limits, all right? Something to do with processor power. Throw enough bullets at it, and some of them are going to get through.”
“Oh my god,” Kilgore murmurs. And he walks on in silence, deep in thought. Would Will have admitted any of this if he hadn’t been pressed? Probably not. So what else is Will keeping to himself? And if he can hide something so important, then can he be trusted at all? Kilgore opens his mouth to say something, but Will doesn’t give him the chance.
“Here we are,” Will says. “What do you think of your handiwork?” He stops walking and looks from side to side, studying the ruins of the barricade. Most of the flames have gone out now, and all that’s left is a tangled mess of mangled metal. “Is it safe?” he asks. “Can we make it through?”
The barricade has crumbled and caved in until, at its center, it’s little more than ten feet high. But the charred remains of the vehicles have tumbled down and spilled out across the road, creating a wide mound of smoldering scrap metal. It looks like treacherous terrain: the alien landscape of a forgotten planet.
Kilgore runs his eyes over the wreckage and lets out a low whistle. When he looks carefully, he can pick out a deformed chassis, a shattered engine block, but most of it is unidentifiable: a scree of blackened hunks of burned metal. The slope is punctured by a series of sharp spikes: twisted struts and shattered springs poking up from the rubble like broken skeletons in the aftermath of some hellish massacre. And he’ll have to cross this wasteland before he can climb over to the other side.
Kilgore flips through some readouts in his HUD. “It’s good. The main defensive wall has broken down, but hold on... just checking. OK. There’s no sign of an electric current. It should be clear. So long as we watch our step and keep our shields on, we should be able to just walk on through.”
Will slaps him on the shoulder. “That is the best news I’ve heard in a long while, my friend.”
Kilgore smiles and looks down at the ground. Sometimes, it’s easy to like Will. Too easy. But that doesn’t mean he can be trusted. Now that I’ve helped him out, he’ll probably try to ditch me, Kilgore thinks. He gives Will a sidelong look. “Do you mind if I go first? I can use my HUD to check that it’s safe.”
“Lead the way,” Will says with a smile. “You’ve earned it.”
Kilgore’s chest swells with pride, and he straightens his back as he walks toward the scattered fragments of the barricade. He grins. This is amazing. He’s going to be the first gamer ever to see what lies beyond the barricade. The first gamer to set foot on virgin territory. And he’s achieved it all through using his wits. For all Will’s fancy gear, he couldn’t have brought down the barricade without Kilgore’s help. This is a red letter day for sure, and just for a moment, Kilgore wishes he had someone he could share the news with. I guess I could tell Dad, he thinks. But why bother? All he’ll get in return is a blank look and a noncommittal grunt. He pushes the image from his mind. He’s close to the wreckage now, and he needs to concentrate. This no time to fall flat on his ass.
He runs one last scan through his HUD, then he lifts his foot and steps up onto the nearest hunk of twisted metal. It shifts slightly beneath him, but it holds his weight, and he moves forward, picking his way over the strange terrain. He’s always had good coordination and balance, and he moves quickly, judging by eye whether each chunk of distorted metal will hold steady before he transfers his weight. Behind him, he hears Will following along, cursing under his breath as he struggles to keep up.
Soon, Kilgore comes up against the remains of the wall, and he’ll have to climb it. He selects a good spot and reaches up to get a grip on the ruined barricade, but then he hesitates. Wisps of flame still flicker among the twisted cat’s cradle of debris, and some of the metal glows a dull orange. Sure, the shield has protected him from the heat so far, but to actually put his hands on it? He takes a breath and extends his fingers slowly toward a gnarled steel bar. The metal is distorted and blackened with soot, and it gives off a thin trail of smoke that curls around Kilgore’s fingertips. Closer. It’s just an effect, he tells himself. But even so, at any second he expects to feel the heat searing into his skin, to smell the bitter stench of burning flesh. But as his hand brushes against the metal, the pain doesn’t come, and he exhales as he wraps his fingers around the reassuringly solid metal.
Kilgore smiles. This shield has to be the best piece of gear he’s ever used. How in the hell does it work? It’s no use asking Will. Maybe later, when this mission is over, he can persuade Will to at least tell him who made the shield. It would be incredible just to talk the guy and pick his brain. But that’s for later. For now, he has new territory to explore.
CHAPTER 10
Camaraderie
“FOCUS ON THE TASK IN HAND,” Mervin mutters. He opens his eyes, pushes the memories away, lets the kitchen come back into focus. “Jesus!” He pulls his hands from the hot soapy water. His fingertips are wrinkled, his forearms red and puffy. He works his fingers, and the skin on the backs of his hands tingles and itches. “Goddamned idiot!” He moves over to the wall where a threadbare towel hangs from a hook. Gently, he mops the suds from his trembling hands.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” But he knows the answer. It’s time for his meds. Truth be told, he should’ve taken them hours ago, but recently he’s been taking them later and later in the day, putting off the moment when the bitter blue pills dissolve on his tongue and make t
he world a gentler place. The name of the drug is too long and complicated to remember, but he’s given the blue pills a little name of his own devising, and now he murmurs it under his breath, “Goddamned chemical cosh.” The words always strike him as ugly, but they’re right and fitting. Sure, the drugs stop him brooding, but they make him feel beaten down, defeated. It’s like all the fight has gone out of him, as if he’s weighed down by a heavy blanket, the warm fabric covering his head, smothering him slowly. Maybe, I won’t take them today. See how it goes. But he just spent god knows how long in a world of his own, lost in a daydream while his hands burned in hot water. “It’s not good, Merv. It’s not right.”
His meds are up on his nightstand, and he heads for the stairs. But as he passes the door that leads down to the basement, a familiar thought nags at the edge of his consciousness, like a cat clawing at a loose thread: It’s still down there. He stops walking and stares at the old-fashioned round doorknob on the basement door. Hank’s old game chair has been down in the basement for a year or so. If it was newer, Hank might’ve sold it by now, but it’s three years old. Obsolete. No one would want it now, especially since the health scare.
“Nonsense,” Mervin mutters. As far as he’s concerned, the rumors of brain damage were started by the companies that make the chairs: a ploy to drive up sales of the newer models. And it worked. He made sure his boy had a new chair as soon as he could afford it. It’s never easy to get by on his pension, but he always puts Hank first. Always. Just as well, he thinks. The kid spends long enough plugged in to the damned thing. He glances up at the ceiling, but his eyes return to the basement door. Yeah, the old chair is safe enough—so long as you know what you’re doing. And I do know what I’m doing. He purses his lips. He should go and take his meds first. Then, if he still feels like it, maybe he’ll log on for a couple hours, have some fun. He could meet up in a leisurely game with a few of the other veterans he’s met online.
Mervin chuckles under his breath. The game is never leisurely. He doesn’t play often—just enough to keep his hand in—but once he plugs in, he’s too busy kicking ass to chat.
A little thrill of excitement runs through him, and he smiles to himself. He’s tried the online forums and chat rooms, the ones where veterans get together to gripe about society and moan about modern life. He hoped, for a while, he might run into Jerry or some of the guys from his old platoon. He clung, for as long as he could, to the idea that they might be alive after all: pensioned off like him—told to stay quiet or lose everything. But he gave up asking around after he brushed up against the one person he’d hoped never to hear from again—Clyde.
Mervin snorts at the memory. The old bastard hadn’t fared particularly well: passed over for promotion then put out to pasture. He eked out his pension by stacking shelves in a convenience store, and despite the man’s obvious bitterness, he still rambled on about the old days. Said he missed the camaraderie. Camaraderie—bullshit! There was never a glimmer of brotherhood, nor any trace of human understanding from the likes of Clyde.
Mervin blocked the son of a bitch. One tiny motion to place a checkmark against Clyde’s name, and he didn’t have to listen to that man’s crap ever again. He heard later that Clyde was dead. A robbery at the store. A young kid involved. Clyde probably fancied himself the hero, the brave defender. But kids on crack don’t play by the rules. One quick stab in the chest with a three-inch kitchen knife, and Clyde went down same as anybody else. Seems the old bastard had a heart after all.
Mervin takes a breath. He should go up now and take his meds. It’s the only sane thing to do. But something’s different today. Maybe it’s the memories of that terrible day that’ve stirred him up, or maybe it’s thinking about Clyde that’s unsettled him. But he needs something: something to escape, to blot out the world for a little while. And the little blue pills just won’t cut it. Not today.
He takes a step toward the basement door, and slowly, he reaches out for the doorknob.
It’s cool in the basement, and the air carries a touch of dampness that clings to his clothes as he picks his way between the crates of old toys and the piles of junk. It’s a good thing the light still works. He bends down and shifts a broken bar stool out of the way. The damned thing only has two legs. “Why do I keep this crap?” he grumbles. He tosses the stool aside then stands up straight. There you are. The game chair, covered by a white plastic dust cover, stands over by the wall, the only place where there’s a power outlet. He crosses over and whips off the sheet of plastic. The chair looks good, almost as good as new. He reaches out to the armrest and brushes away a flake of something white and powdery then glances up at the ceiling. The paint is peeling off, hanging down in tattered shreds. There’s another job I’ll probably never get around to doing.
He sighs. Suddenly, the chair looks even more inviting. A couple hours in the game, and he’ll feel better. He’ll be able to tackle a few things around the house, maybe even cook a nice dinner for a change. He runs his hand over the chair’s control panel, and his finger comes to rest next to the power switch. “Why the hell not?” he asks the empty room. He slides his hand onto the power switch, and instantly the panel lights up. The small screen flickers into life, and Mervin watches the readouts carefully as they scroll upward. “It’s all good.”
He swings himself onto the seat and rests his head back against the sensor panel. These old chairs don’t offer the comfort of the new gel pads, but they work well enough. He places his palms flat against the correct places on the armrests, then he closes his eyes and waits.
The tingling across Mervin’s scalp is almost pleasant, like a head massage. He smiles. The sync won’t take long. The days of the complex, drawn-out sync they used in the military are long gone. Even in this old chair, the connection is quick and easy. So easy, a child can do it.
For a moment, he thinks of Hank, wonders if everything is all right with him. Maybe he should go up and check on him. But before he can pursue that thought, the tingling sensation intensifies, creeping across his scalp, prickling the tips of his fingers. Mervin chews on his bottom lip. He shouldn’t be doing this, not in his condition. He should be looking after Hank. But it’s too late to think about that now. The basement is already growing hazy. Mervin looks up at the ceiling, and he has to smile when the peeling paint fades away, replaced by pristine white ceiling tiles.
He lets out a slow breath and looks around as the gear room materializes around him. I’m in. He moves over to the wall rack and selects his preferred model of assault rifle. He checks his gear over, runs through his inventory. But before he’s finished, a voice crackles in his ear: “Hey, Merv! Hi there, buddy. How’s things?”
“Hi, Paul. Good. I’m fine.”
“Glad to hear it. Listen, I got a job for you.”
“Sure,” Mervin says. It’s good to hear Paul’s voice. He’s a safe pair of hands. The men and women in this outfit are all veterans, and they never use ranks. They hate all that shit. But they wouldn’t get anywhere without leaders, and a few of their number have stepped up to the plate. Good, honest troopers. The kind of soldiers who understand that command is a privilege and that any respect worth a damn has to be earned. “Tell me what you need,” Mervin says, and he allows himself a smile. “I’m ready.”
CHAPTER 11
Leverage
KILGORE PULLS HIMSELF UP onto the wreckage and scrambles to his feet, balancing precariously on what looks like it was once a tailgate. He grins and looks down, scanning the newfound territory that he risked so much to see. And his smile drops.
“It’s just the same,” he says. “Just more of the same freaking road.”
Behind him, Will gives a sharp laugh. “What did you expect, kid? Streets paved with gold?”
“No. Just something—I don’t know—different.”
“Huh! You’ll see soon enough. You go on down. Give me some room to haul myself over.”
“OK. I just thought—with the barricade and all—there’d be
something worth all this protection.”
“Yeah. We’ll get to that in a minute. Just go on down. Clinging to this junk pile by my fingernails is no fun at all.”
It’s Kilgore’s turn to laugh. “All right. Take it easy, old timer.” He looks down. Most of the wreckage fell on the outward-facing side of the barricade, forming the mess he’s just clambered over. But between Kilgore and the newly uncovered stretch of road, there’s a more or less vertical drop. He turns around and lowers himself down then jumps easily to the ground, bending his knees. As quickly as he can, he turns around to face the street, raising his rifle as he moves. He shoulders his weapon and turns from side to side, scanning the nearby buildings for any sign of an ambush. There’s nothing. And no warnings on his HUD. He takes a few steps forward, but he stays alert.
Behind him, Will grunts as he drops down to the road. “Shit!”
Kilgore looks back and watches Will as the older man walks toward him. Will’s moving a lot slower than before, and trailing his left leg a little. “Oh man,” Kilgore says, “looks like someone needs an energy boost.”
“Watch your lip, kid. There’s nothing wrong with me. I just caught my leg on something when I climbed up is all. It’ll be all right in a minute. And anyway, I’m saving the boosts for later. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need them.”
Kilgore nods slowly. “If you say so.” He pauses. “So, what’s next? Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”
Will breaks eye contact and looks down the street. “Sure I’ll tell you. But let’s get away from the heat, then we can turn our shields off.”
“OK.”
The men walk down the road in silence for a while, side by side. It seems like neither of them has the energy to talk. Will looks dog-tired, and though Kilgore hates to admit it, he’s pretty damn near exhausted himself. Now that the excitement of clambering over the barricade has passed, it feels like his desperate efforts to stay alive have finally caught up with him.
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