I smiled. “We’ve, basically, taken the key components of their program and coded it into one I’ve affectionately deemed the Combat Thrash Program. Okay.” I stepped to the side of the screen. “Without further ado, I’d like to introduce the Combat Thrash Program. Daisy, do your thing.”
Daisy cranked on the speakers, and out poured hard rock. On the screen, shooting in as if someone was throwing a ball of video, were flashes of actual fights timed to the music thumping the room. Clip after clip ending with one man hitting another, and his blood spraying out to transform into animated 3-D.
Then the screen divided into a dozen small boxes, each displaying two animated men fighting. The screen flashed, much like a camera does, x-raying through the animated men to show their muscular skeletal.
The music trailed away as the animation continued, and Chapling and I turned to our team.
“We’d like to ask Mystic to come up,” I said, nodding to him.
“Daisy,” Chapling prompted, “may I have the Influence Sway Skins?”
A tray slid out from below the wall mounted screen, and on the tray sat a slim, rectangular box.
Chapling took the box and opened it. “These are one-of-a-kind devices, made exclusively for this mission. They will provide us with an image of Mystic’s muscular make up, record and measure his strapping intensity and breadth, and in layman’s terms give us a thumbs up or down if he’d be a good fighter.”
I nodded. “Clearly, Mystic simply standing here while we measure him doesn’t give us an indication of his reasoning skills. Which is why we’ll also be recording his cognitive thought processes as he engages in a two minute mock fight with Bruiser.”
“Mystic,” Chapling addressed him, “if you could take off your shirt and roll up your jeans.”
While he did that, I waved Bruiser up. “When Mystic and David actually go in front of Harry Noor, they’ll be expected to engage in the same sort of mock fight with one of the Warriors. This will give Harry a visual of them actually in action and us the data we need to inform Harry Noor if Mystic and David are good fighters. Which, of course, the answer will be yes.”
I watched as Chapling placed wireless Skins all over Mystic’s body. “Nice color,” I complimented him. He’d changed the Skins from white to skin color.
“Thanks.” When Chapling finished, he stepped back. “Daisy, record adroitness aptitude now.” And then he nodded for Mystic and Bruiser to begin.
In the corner of the conference room Bruiser and Mystic threw some phony punches, kicks, and elbow strikes, each taking turns with offensive moves and defense blocking. At the two minute mark Chapling stopped them.
A large 3-D image of Mystic’s muscular structure appeared on the screen. “This,” I pointed to the screen, “is Mystic’s image. Daisy,” I commanded our computer, “show us excellence.”
Patches of translucent yellow slowly filled his image, from his toes all the way up to his brain.
“The yellow represents a match between excellence and Mystic’s body composition, including his brain patterns.” I turned to the screen. “Daisy, give percentage.”
99.9 PERCENT.
I smiled. “As you can see, Mystic matches the best fighters in the world at a ninety-nine point nine percent.”
“Which,” Chapling put in, “is a fib.”
“A fib,” I agreed, “that will get Mystic a slot as a Warrior.”
Chapling clapped. “Okay, now for the best part.”
I turned to our team. “Like we said, everything we’ve showed you thus far is basically a combination of what all the other program designers will be doing. But we’ve got something they don’t.”
“Daisy,” Chapling spoke, “finale please.”
A life size hologram of Mystic appeared on top of the center of the conference table. Every one of my team members simultaneously pushed away, their eyes wide in amazement.
Another image popped up of a huge man. “This is—”
“Utotiz.” Bruiser interrupted. “He holds the world title in MMA.”
“Based on the data we just took of Mystic, and all known information on Utotiz, we’re going to see these guys in action. Daisy,” I told the computer, “fight.”
Both holograms moved at once, coming toward each other.
Utotiz jabbed his knuckle between Mystic’s nose and mouth.
Mystic unleashed an upward kick at Utotiz’s head.
Utotiz feinted a kick, then rammed his heel into Mystic’s shin.
Mystic executed a double punch to Utotiz’s chest.
Utotiz grabbed Mystic’s arm and wrenched it behind his back. He took the waist band of his jeans, lifted Mystic high above his head, and threw him to the ground.
Blood went flying through the air, and I took that as my cue to stop the hologram.
Mystic swallowed. “Was that my blood?”
Chapling cringed. “Utotiz does hold the world title.”
“Obviously, when we get in front of Harry Noor,” I addressed the team, “Mystic and David’s hologram will succeed in submitting whomever they have a hologram fight with.”
David put his finger in the air. “Now what about the other portion of this? Actually advising the Warriors during a fight.”
I nodded. “Well, of course our program has thousands and thousands of combat data. Very simply, we’ll be recording the fights as they occur and advising the Warriors on what to do when. Watch.” I turned to the wall inserted screen.
“Daisy, phase two of Combat Thrash Program,” I requested.
Two fighters appeared on the screen.
“This is a film taken from an underground fight club in Russia,” I told my team. “These fighters are approximately two minutes into a fight.”
While the fighters continued grappling, a smaller screen split off and to the left, turning the men into an animated image.
I pointed to the man with red hair. “Any coach can tell that man what to do differently, but we can tell him exactly. Notice the dark haired man has the red haired man in a shoulder lock. Any coach would tell red hair to front roll out of it as an escape, but based on both men’s physiological make up, in this instance red hair should front roll out to the right at a thirty degree angle.”
“Daisy,” Chapling commanded, “show thirty degree escape versus normal.”
Another animated box moved off and to the right. The one on the right showed the normal response with red hair front rolling and dark hair twisting his wrist to keep him in place.
The animated box on the left showed the revised response with red hair front rolling at a thirty degree angle, successfully escaping the shoulder lock, and gaining top ground.
“Wow,” Bruiser exclaimed. “That is too cool.”
Chapling and I shared a smile. Getting kudos from Bruiser was the slam dunk.
Around the room everyone gave their approval and congratulations, and Chapling and I exchanged a pleased look.
“Obviously,” I pointed out, “when Mystic and David are fighting, Chapling and I will be there with our program to advise them what to do and what not to do. Our advice combined with Bruiser’s will give them the knowledge needed to succeed.” I looked around the room. “Questions?”
Everyone shook their heads
David nodded. “It goes without saying, you two have done a superb job.” He stood. “You’ll fly out at 0900. Dismissed.”
At 0900 the next morning, Chapling and I boarded our plane to Washington State.
And he was not okay.
Chapling swallowed. “Gi-GiGi?”
“It’s Gertrude,” I reminded him in a whisper.
“G-Gertrude?”
“Yeah, Charlie?”
“I-I think I’m going to be sick.”
I yanked my attention up from the magazine I held. “What? No.” I waved my finger at him. “You’re not going to be sick.”
He swallowed again. “I’m not?”
I shook my head. “No.” God, no. Because if he got sick, th
en I would sure get sick. “What are you nervous about? You’ve flown before. I’m the one who hates flying.” Or at least I used to.
Actually, hate flying would have been the operative word. I loathed it. Dreaded it. Wanted to hurl every time I thought of it. And, in fact, had passed out the first time I found out I would be getting on a plane.
My parents died in a plane crash, so it didn’t take a genius to figure out my phobia.
But since joining the Specialists I had flown eight times, and this flight marked my ninth one. I was getting to be a bit of an expert at this flying thing. It wasn’t so bad anymore. Or, at least, that’s what I had convinced myself of.
My cell buzzed, and I looked at the display. David’s usual preflight message to me. BREATHE.
Chapling’s cell buzzed and he looked at his display. BREATHE, C, BREATHE. Smiling, Chapling held it up for me to see. “David.”
I held mine up. “Me, too.”
And then we both sat there for a second, grinning like goofs.
Chapling tucked his cell away and a few seconds later he began fidgeting again.
“What’s wrong now?”
“It’s not the flying. It’s the,” he looked around before leaning in, “the mission. It’s my first, and I’m really,” he waved his hands, “nervous.”
I gave him what I hoped was a comforting smile, and recalled how TL always talked to me when I felt uneasy—in a sort of talking-me-off-the-ledge way.
I put my magazine aside. “I know its nerve racking. Believe me, I know. Not only the travel and the assignment, but the fact this whole thing hinges on us. And we’re on our own. There is no TL for guidance.”
Chapling leveled with me a ‘look’. “You call that helping?”
I laughed. “Sorry. Serious, though. Think of everybody back at home base. They’ve got our backs. If anything goes wrong, we simply contact them, and the Army rolls in. Not really, but you know what I mean. TL has more resources than the President, it seems. He won’t let anything happen to us. I couldn’t think of a better person to have on my side. Well, except maybe genius, Adara Hamalitz.”
Chapling’s eyes widened. “Oh, no kidding. Wouldn’t that be cool? Man, I’ve got a whole list of people I’d love to break bread with, and Adara Hamalitz definitely makes my top three.”
“Break bread with?”
“Lunch. Have lunch.” Chapling snapped his fingers. “You know the first thing I’d ask him?”
I shook my head.
“To explain that experiment he did back in 1899 with movement of molecules.”
My jaw dropped. “I’ve always wondered about that to.”
And so the conversation went, discussing the great minds of the world, both past and present. Their theories, their experiments, their discoveries. We were so into the conversation we never even realized the plane took off, flew through choppy skies, and landed two hours and fifty-three minutes later.
We exited the airport and took a taxi to Harry Noor’s mansion in Tea Cup, Washington. Because this would be a day trip, we brought only our laptops. Roughly forty-five minutes later we pulled into one side of the town and right out the other.
Seriously, we did. It was that small.
I counted a few one story homes, a grocery, a post office, a hardware store, oh, and a lingerie parlor, strange enough.
No red light. Not even a stop sign.
Okay, small would be the operative word.
I did spot a sign that said Harry Noor, Mayor.
The taxi drove down a dirt road lined by huge trees.
“Those are Douglas Firs,” Chapling informed me.
I looked over at him. “I didn’t know you knew about trees.”
He shrugged. “I’m from Washington.”
“Really?” I’d been working with Chapling over a year and hadn’t even known that small, personal part about him. Frankly, there was a lot we didn’t know about each other. “How long did you live in Washington?”
“’til I got married and moved away.”
“You’ve been married?!” Oh my God. I would have never guessed.
He nodded. “Yeah, but me and Sophia, we were so young.”
“Was Sophia your childhood sweetheart?”
“Nah. She was doing a photo shoot in my home town. That’s how I met her.”
I raised my brows. “Photo shoot?”
“Yeah, Sophia Packard? You ever heard of her?”
My jaw dropped. “Sophia Packard? The Sophia Packard? As in the cover model?”
Chapling nodded and glanced out the window. “Oh good.” He clapped his hands. “Looks like we’re here.”
The Sophia Packard. Holy cow. I laughed. “We really need to have lunch sometime and just talk.”
Smiling, he nodded. “That sounds great.”
The taxi pulled up in front of a mansion, or palace I would think better described it. It sat so out of place in little Tea Cup, Washington that it was purely laughable.
Sprawling a good half acre and towering at three extended height stories, the stone structure probably could have housed the entire population of little Tea Cup and the surrounding towns. Why one man needed this monstrosity stretched beyond my comprehension.
As the taxi pulled through the gates, the driver let out a whistle. “What does this person do for a living?”
“Investments,” Chapling and I answered in unison.
And actually, according to our records, that was exactly what Harry Noor filed on his taxes every year. Investment Broker. I supposed there wasn’t a category labeled Underground Fight Club Owner and General Abuse of Mankind.
The taxi pulled to a stop and an enormous tattooed man opened the door.
Chapling got out first, dropping his head back to look up at the man. “You’re big. Reallyreally big. How big are you?”
“Six five,” he answered in an unusually high pitched voice.
Chapling must have thought it, too, because he shot me a humored look.
I paid the driver and slid out next. I was a tall girl, and this guy was huge. But next to Chapling, he looked like a giant.
Chapling held his arms out to his sides. “You’re wide, too. You probably shop at one of those big and tall places don’t you? Or is it big and wide?”
I elbowed Chapling to the side. “Ignore him. He doesn’t get out much.”
Huge-tattoo man laughed, and it took me off guard. First, because he had all his teeth (for some reason I thought he wouldn’t), and second, because I hadn’t expected him to laugh. I’d expected a serious, stern nod or a blank look at least.
I mean, weren’t guards supposed to be perpetually angry?
But then, who’s to say he was a guard. He could be a visiting relative. The lawn man. The pool man. The—
I gave my head a little shake. I was getting way off track.
I held out my hand. “I’m Gertrude and this is Charlie. We’re here for the program design demonstration.”
Huge, tattooed man nodded. “I figured with the laptops and all.” He turned toward the mansion-slash-palace. “Follow me.”
Up the stone entryway we went on steps so wide Chapling had to take two foot steps for every one stone step. Huge-tattoo man opened a wooden front door, and we stepped in behind him right into a narrow hallway.
For some reason I had imagined large open spaces, but as we walked down the long narrow hallway, small rooms opened off the right and the left. Cramped rooms, but incredibly tidy, like no one had ever stepped foot in them: bedrooms, living rooms, kitchens, bathrooms. It was the oddest design I think I’d ever seen. Surely, the small rooms connected somehow to make bigger suites.
And, weird enough, the rooms sat empty. Not that I’d expected anyone, but with such a large house it sure seemed like there should be someone.
We continued on down the eternally long hallway and finally came to another wooden door, much like the front door to this mansion. Huge-tattoo man opened it to reveal a stairwell.
He stepped to the s
ide. “Take those stairs down and you’ll find everybody.”
I smiled at him. “Thanks.”
He grinned back. “You’re very welcome.”
His response made me chuckle. This man just didn’t seem like the type to grin and laugh and be polite.
The door closed behind us, and we descended the steps.
“Nice guy,” Chapling commented, and I nodded.
Fifty two steps later (not kidding, there were a lot, and yes, I really did count), we came to another wooden door.
“Going to be a chore going back up those,” Chapling mumbled as he turned the door’s knob.
It swung open, and we found ourselves in a room I estimated to be about half the size of a football field.
Chapling stepped in. “Good grief this is big.” He looked around. “And dirty.”
I nodded as I stood, taking everything in. The entire place looked like it was in dire need of a good scrubbing. Dingy concrete spanned the entire floor with suspicious stains all over. A non-caged octagon that looked about twenty years old occupied the center of the room with rows of metal chairs surrounding it. Equipment, like Bruiser had back at the ranch, but in much poorer quality, sprawled the back left corner.
“You’d think with all his money,” Chapling mumbled, “he’d clean this place up.”
“You’d think,” I agreed. Honestly, I was afraid to touch anything.
Off to the side was an arched open doorway with PRIVATE posted above it.
Chapling motioned to the back right corner, and I saw Harry Noor there with the other computer programmers. “Looks like we might be the last to have arrived.” Blowing out a nervous breath, Chapling nodded. “Here goes nothing.”
As we made our way around the octagon toward the group, I glanced around, taking everything in. Surely there had to be another way in or out of this place besides those stairs we’d just come down.
We approached the group, and I counted seven program designers plus Mr. Harry Noor.
“I’m giving each of you,” he was saying, “fifteen minutes. No more, no less. At the end of everyone’s presentations, I will immediately make my decision.” He looked straight at me and Chapling. “You’re late.”
I smiled. “I’m sorry, our—”
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