The Resurrection Pact (Winston Casey Chronicles Book 1)

by Jay Smith

  It was an interesting strategy. International partners. Making them out to be businessmen or attorneys seemed a little ridiculous. They stood around Alan like a menagerie of birds, eyes and heads glancing around the room at motes of dust or slight movements behind me that caught their attention. When I spoke, they glanced my way, but as Alan explained things, they didn't react to his explanation that they were aggrieved parties in this issue.

  "I've never seen attorneys without briefcases." I said. "Not a one of them. No Magic Books either. Interesting."

  Alan rubbed his hands together, still staring at me. "I want it all back, Winston. Every cent. Every gold piece. Now. No more games."

  "Of course you do, Alan. If I were you, I'd feel the same."

  "Make it happen in the next half hour. Do whatever you need to do, get it done. And if you do it with a smile and an apology I may not destroy you over this. If you don't, bad things will happen to Diane Walton. Bad things will happen to Ezrin. Bad things will continue to happen until I get my way.""

  The next two words were the most frightening I ever uttered. "Not happening."

  The Alpha Russian with the punch-swollen head cocked it to the side like I was doing an impression of a sodomized cat.

  Alan didn't explode or even smile. "Can you explain to us why?"

  "I think you're playing at business when you really want to go back to playing your little tin-crowned dictator from Fantasyland. Or don't you do that around your business associates?"

  Lead him by his vanity. Draw out the man who needs to be in control of the room. When the Russians are there, he isn't. But he needs them to respect him.

  It started to work. Alan was pissed. "Your life, Winston. You – you are worth so little compared to what you stole. Think of it as mercy you have thirty more minutes to live. You can use my laptop."

  It was time to push us a few moves ahead in Alan's gambit. "It's not the money you want. You're waiting for me to leverage the encrypted information Parker has on you."

  Alan's left eyebrow climbed even higher, pushing the skin of his forehead into unflattering folds, reminding me of Count Floyd in the old SCTV sketches. His left lip started its own, shaky climb up the side of his face. It was like half of Alan's face was escaping his well-trained façade. To contrast this, Alan lied, "Decrypting the inventory file will just take time. Once we take control of Parker's accounts we'll deconstruct the coding."

  "Oh I don't think that's true. It's been on your servers this entire time." I took a gamble that none of this made any sense to Alan's associates, so I broke it down further. "You're too quick to eliminate people who oppose you, Alan."

  "Then explain why you aren't a stain in the desert right now."

  "The one person who could have decoded the encryption for you – the one who did it for Parker – IS a stain in the desert right now. When you killed Nadeim. You destroyed the only key you had."

  "Then you're saying the information is locked and encrypted."

  Leaning forward in my chair, I made knifehands to conduct my response, slowly as if to someone entirely missing the point. I did this for the Russians. "Alan, you've had a major clue in your inventory this entire time and weren't aware of it. If you had bothered to look at the weird shit in your account inventory, you might have been able to…" I stopped, made a point to scan the bored-looking faces of the Russians, and shook my head. "Holy shit. Grant Parker could outplay you even beyond the fucking grave, Alan. Check your inventory for PRIM number 4223. Execute it. You may want everyone here to listen in."

  Alan Horus looked confused. The only Russian to remain uninterested was the brute in coveralls who was more interested in the Candy Crush app on his phone. The other five were looking to Alan's right-hand assassin, muttering at him.

  "What is in my inventory?"

  For the benefit of the Russians, I explained. "When players build things, those items are made up of basic building blocks. They are called Primitives or PRIM for short. You can make a cube, sphere, pretty much any kind of basic vector shape. Those shapes combine to build everything in AETERNUS."

  Alan, proud but lost, added, "We use vector map mesh now. It is less cumbersome than…"

  "Yes," I continued. "But for a long time most games used there. PRIM can be used to carry things – text messages, scripts. If a PRIM was supposed to represent ice, it could contain codes to change its composition and interaction with other PRIM. It's geek stuff, but think of a PRIM as a box that you can put a lot of things inside, lock, and no one would ever know unless they knew how and where to look."

  The Russians shared an awkward translation among themselves but the one important Russian understood exactly what I said and that was all I needed.

  "So, when Grant Parker helped Alan build a house some time ago, he carried the PRIM of that house in his inventory. He gave all the PRIM elements over to Alan in one inventory shift, including PRIM ~4223 which ended up being like those extra pieces you never use in an IKEA sofa or whatever. When Alan pulled the house out of his inventory, the game assembled the house and left ~4223 in his inventory."

  Alan was busy logging into his account through is Magic Book, then searching for this piece of inventory. He tried not to look interested, but I could tell. He needed to get back to being four moves ahead of me. Once in, he found PRIM ~4223 and instructed the book to execute it.

  The Magic Book spoke through the Bose speakers in Alan's office. Alan's magic voice was, of course, sexy and exotic …like Eartha Kitt. "This object would like to access the local spatial emitter. Confirm yes or no."

  Alan stood up so fast it spooked the Russians. It startled me, but I remembered the move from so many movies and TV shows. This was the "I rise in surprise" move you saw James Kirk do from his seat on the bridge whenever a new, strange alien appeared on the view screen.

  I had already viewed the file and I knew what Alan was seeing. I just sat in my comfy chair and studied Alan's responses. Beyond wide eyes and clenched fists, there was nothing in the sociopath's reaction I could make sense of. But he was taken off guard. The Russians, even their Hillbilly candy crusher, stared over my shoulder at the hologram of Grant Parker beamed to life in the middle of the room.

  "Hey there, Alan." Park's voice filled the room, so rich and clean it came from right behind my chair. "Hey, Winston." The file scanned the rest of the room for registered players and observers. "Hey, unknown entities."

  "What the hell is this," Alan asked.

  "This is a recorded communication as I expect I am unable to be there in person. Likely I am dead. If this is the case, Alan probably had something to do with it. Given that Winston Casey is alive and in this room I imagine the shit just got really real. But don't worry. The fact that you've activated this file means that Winston Casey has completed this module and has leveled up. Probably several times. Please wait."

  "Wait," Alan barked. "Wait for what?"

  Alan's magic voice purred. "Lord Parque has logged on. Turing Intelligence module engaged to PRIM ~4223."

  "Logged in? Casey, what the hell are you up to?"

  "Oh," Parker said. "That's better. Turing Quotient 126.9. Adaptive Algorithm engaged. Good to see you again, Winston. And a hearty 'fuck you', Alan. Miss me much?"

  "Glad to see you, too, Park," I replied.

  "What is your point, Mr. Casey?" Alan could no longer see four moves ahead. He couldn't even think hard enough to see his own next move. It wasn't my cleverness and though Parker's sudden appearance might have uncorked a bit of superstitious fear in Alan's imagination, I realized he was more afraid of his half-dozen attack dogs hearing whatever Parker had to say.

  With the addition of the Turing AI module and a quick download of all recent events from my logs, Parker's voice lost the halting assembly of standard words and phrases that marked the basic NPC character in-world. At TQ126.9 Park's avatar included his speech patterns and a fluidity in a near-perfect rendering of his voice. You had to know him the way I did to see any difference.


  "I thought you might want to hear directly from me," Parker said. "Your business associates should hear this, too. This is a temporary interface. The real Grant Parker is really dead. But Alan Horus was so sloppy about it that I was able to put together a little nuclear suitcase to set off in case things got really bad. If you're seeing and hearing this, I guess they are and I got my boy Winston into some serious shit. Sorry, man."

  "Oh, now you're sorry," I laughed.

  "I needed him to tie up a few things I couldn't tie up while stuck in Iraq." He paused, then continued. "Here's a fun disclaimer. Because the real Grant Parker is dead and his best buddy Winston is here, I want to make it perfectly clear that certain protocols have been activated throughout the Aeternus system. Harming Winston, his family or friends…really, dicking around with him in any way will result in the nuclear option. You know me, Alan. Confirm that I'm capable of this."

  "Fuckin' kill you." The words were directed at me, but Parker's digital ghost didn't catch that.

  "Oh Alan. I'm already dead. You once told me that if I betrayed you, you would kill me and fuck my corpse. Savor that irony a minute, juicy boots."

  Splotches of red spoiled parts of Alan's porcelain features.

  Spade-Face, the Russian's leader, finally spoke. "How – how is this happening?"

  "Good question, sir," I replied.

  Alan yelled, "Morcaina! Disrupt the A.I. applications and terminate this program."

  Morcaina, Alan's AI personal assistant, took a moment to respond. "Unable to complete your request."

  "I've locked you out for the moment, Alan. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up."

  "Park, Alan has Diane and Ezrin as hostages."

  "No," Parker corrected. "He only has Diane. I monitored a communication between Alan and Mistress Huan that confirms she is still missing. I'm monitoring Diane in the detention area."

  My turn. I focused on the Spade-faced Russian still glaring at me like I was the man behind the curtain pumping smoke and rattling chains at Madame Blavastky's séance and I said "If what Alan Horus knows about you goes live, your organization goes live. You may want to let Gustav Hummel and Ivan Spetza-whattalastname know that Alan here has mapped your trafficking operation and key assets. This is how I know your bosses' names even if I can't pronounce them."

  Spade-Face and his merry band were very interested in the words coming out of my mouth. And they stared at me like they wanted to knife every sound I uttered the instant it passed my lips. Their Resting Murder Faces were made even more intense by the sudden necessity to re-think what should have been an easy task of killing a tiny human person and tossing his remains into an incinerator.

  Spade-Face spoke. "How do you know those names?"

  Parker answered. "I told him."

  The Russian still wasn't getting it. "Parker was investigating Alan and his business contacts and…"

  Alan pounded the top of his desk with his fists just like a horny ape looking for a hate fuck, face blossoming into a deep red delicious apple. "Stop," he said.

  I laughed and it felt so good. "What, stop? I'm totally inert. If YOU want to stop, let's cut the shit." I stood up and Alan actually stepped back. The Russian sat up straight and two of them moved their gun hands, ready to draw from shoulder holsters under their coats. Alan's confusion proved unsettling to everyone in the room except Parker's digital ghost.

  "Easy, everyone, I sense a little hostile movement in this room."

  Spade-Face threw up his hands in frustration, "How he does this?!"

  I replied. "Alan designed a computer program that recognizes and interprets movements for his new gaming system. It's a combat simulator customized for social intercourse. Go for your sword – or a gun – and he knows it."

  Parker said. "Let's let the boys talk it out."

  "All of this," Alan spit at me, "is on my servers. I control it all. This is my world. Right now, security is working on closing this breech. They'll trace this item back to the encrypted one and I'll have it all. Just wait."

  Spade-Face didn't seem so sure on that point. He looked back to me for my reply, gesturing to his men to relax their gun hands.

  "Everything you did to Parker, the Klines – everything you've done with the Russians, those Taliban Sherpas you hired…Safe Houses, churches… it goes live if you fuck with me or mine."

  Spade-Face asked, "Alan, is this true? You kept records of our organization?"

  Alan turned on Spade-Face and snarled, "Of COURSE not. He probably knows a couple of names and that's it."

  "More like 127," Parker corrected him.

  Spade-Face was not impressed by Alan's answer. "Grant Parker – He was your head of personal security was he not?"

  Alan didn't have an answer despite the expression that wished he could explain it all away.

  "I am waiting for an answer, Alan."

  Finally, Horus strung together some words that made sense. "Dimitri," The man's name finally revealed, "we've been partners for years and grew rich together. The world doesn't see the future like we do. Why would I ever put myself in a position to compromise your dreams or mine?"

  "Pretty words are for your books, Alan. We need explanation before we report this to Spetztovich."

  "What I know," Alan snapped, "was given to me by Hummel and Spetztovich."

  I interjected. "Keep in mind, I have no context for these terms because Parker doesn't want me to know more than I need to know. But here's a taste of what's encrypted." I took a breath and tried to remember them in the order Park's hologram originally told me back in the testing chamber. "The Orient Dirt Railroad: Amsterdam to Phuket. The Virgin Corridor through India and China, spokes throughout Afghanistan…"

  Parker's ghost added, "If you need verification, I have all your email addresses and I can send sample dossiers. I've engaged facial recog on everyone in this room. If you like, I can send you each a copy of your own dossier. It's exciting reading full of the kind of criminal activities that Federal authorities and the media love to discover.

  Now the Russians were staring at Parker's ghost like he might actually be a real ghost. I saw fear bleeding through their confusion.

  Alan sneered. But he offered nothing else. A quick look around the room confirmed none of the others shared his assessment. I shared their hostility in equal parts.

  "Where you keep this information?" Spade-Face, aka Dimitri, was far more curious. His gray eyes were tough to keep contact with.

  Before I could answer, Alan interrupted, his entire face now a Saharan sunburn, his voice a lot more arrogant than fitting for a room of hostile thugs. "It is safe on my servers, god damn it. I can delete Parker's account and the encrypted file. It will cost me –" He sighed. "-millions. But I'll do it to make sure everyone involved is safe."

  Parker replied. "Scorched Earth. Very Russian."

  I had to admire Dr. Cheung's Sardonic Algorithm.

  To Dimitri – and really everyone in the room including Pavel the Hillbully - Alan smelled of desperation which was the same as blood in the water to a shark.

  "You are, then, not so sure our information is secure?"

  "Let's say I wish to err on the side of caution to maintain our business alliances. I have no doubt that Grant Parker was capable of gathering the data but I seriously doubt he could..."

  I laughed. "Sorry. But there are traffickers in northern Iraq who can confirm that Alan paid them to kill Parker and his entire unit, probably because Ni Huan caught wind of his investigation."

  "Is that how I died?" Parker's ghost seemed genuinely surprised. "Huh." He shifted tracks again. "Tell them about the insurance policy, Winston."

  "Please," Dimitri asked. "Explain."

  "I shared the inventory item across Aeternus. I know where it is and what it is…"

  "You did WHAT?!" Poor Alan couldn't maintain his cool much longer. I wondered if he'd pick up one of his humanitarian awards and charge at me with it raised over his head.

  I spoke to Dimitri. "…
no one knows about them but me and only I can decrypt them, but the same rule applies. If I die, they open up. If I die, if my ex is hurt or even looked at wrong by anyone involved, there are four people in reality who will open it up."

  Dimitri seemed more impressed than put out by this knowledge. "What is it you want, Mister Casey?"

  The room turned to me. That was the center of this entire conversation. What would make this problem go away?

  "I'll let you know when I figure that out. Right now, let's just part ways and be done with one another."

  "Détente," Parker offered.

  Dimitri pinched his chin and scanned the carpet for ideas. "Maybe, perhaps, Mr. Casey is putting on light show. We hit him a little bit? We see what this ghost does?"

  "No," Alan said flat. "I can't risk what he might know about me – OR you, Dimitri. Say what you will about this little shit but Grant Parker – I know him well enough to believe he would destroy all of this if given a chance."

  "That's sweet, Alan. Also, Winston can tell me to unload it all at any time. I could do a whole Ed Snowden on the entire library. You really should be kissing his live ass instead of my dead one."

  Hillbully Red was curious enough at this point to cross the room and walk behind me. I would have worried except his weird, vacant expression was drawn by the hologram. I felt the air kicked up as he waved them through the light pattern. I turned and saw Parker for the first time. A full-color ghost in a weird green spotlight, the product of several emitters around the ceiling trained on a spot in the center of the room.

  The avatar wore khakis. And a terrible Hawaiian shirt. Perfect.

  "Oh Lumpy, that tickles," Parker offered to the Russian disrupting his photons. "Uri Gokorvitch. Age 49. Specializes in torture utilizing blunt force trauma. Deployed on patrons with debts longer than 120 days old. Is paid one hundred thousand dollars per year plus ten percent of all collections. Wanted in four countries for violent crimes, two assaults on children under 10."