Catch and Kill

by J D Lasica

  “So we’re hacking into a biohacker?”

  “Yeah. Kind of poetic.”

  “How do we find him?”

  She turned toward Amelia, who’d been sitting patiently in the chair between them.

  “Amelia? Put up a map of Samana Cay, please.”

  Amelia projected the map so Kaden could see it with her smart contacts. Nico didn’t have his smartglasses with him so he was out of luck.

  “Now,” Kaden asked, “can you locate the current position of target Lucid with the I.D. signature I provided earlier?” Location awareness was one of Amelia’s most awesome features.

  “Based on your conversation with Nico, I anticipated that request. As you requested, I was being proactive. Isn’t that the berries?”

  Kaden couldn’t help but smile at the goofy little old-timey expressions Amelia always trotted out. “Yeah, it’s also called snooping. Anyway, where is he?”

  “Lucid is at the War Games Valley, four miles east-northeast of here,” Amelia said. A blinking red dot on the projected map marked the position on the island’s north side. She drew it on her napkin, folded it in half, and gave it to her best friend.

  “Nico, why don’t you run reconnaissance of the National Guard presence in Samana Village?” She realized she was giving orders to Nico in the field again like she did during the Dallas operation. “I’ll head to the War Games Valley. We meet back here in front of the cafe in four hours. Five at the latest.”

  She clasped the pendant with her palm for good luck and tucked it back beneath her T-shirt. She headed out.

  Kaden decided hitchhiking or renting a car would be too risky in a surveillance state like Samana Cay. So while Nico scouted out Samana Village, she kept to the pedestrian trails heavily used by the local tourists. The crowds thinned as she headed away from the touristy attractions and toward the more remote northern side of the island.

  She kept off the main roadway and stuck to a hiking trail running parallel to it, well behind a thicket of pines. Along the highway to her left, the streetlights were topped with gray flat-panel antennas that looked like a series of high-powered Wi-Fi hotspots configured as a mesh network. Looked like Wi-Fi was pervasive on Samana Cay, not confined to a few cafes.

  Kaden instructed Amelia to crawl the Web, and Amelia found an online advertisement for the War Games theme park. One of the promotions said: “Put your battle skills and survival instincts to the test in a fully immersive, live-action role-playing theme park complete with enemies—both alive and undead.”

  Oh, brother. People pay for this?

  She reached the turnoff along the main road and approached the large carving of Christopher Columbus at the intersection. She knew the island’s main claim to fame was that Columbus first made landfall in the Americas on Samana Cay on Oct. 12, 1492.

  But there was something odd about this wooden statue.

  As she neared, Columbus gestured with his uniformed right arm toward his right. She was synced with the local network so she didn’t need to don a pair of AR glasses to see Columbus give virtual directions.

  “That way to Samana Village,” Columbus said in English with a clipped Italian accent. He thumbed backward and added, “Set sail that way to War Games Valley.” And finally he used a sword to point to his left. “Immersion Bay five miles that way. By the way, forget what you’ve heard, I came in peace.”

  She didn’t have an opinion about Columbus, but she was sure she hadn’t seen any of the native people who once inhabited the island.

  She swept past Columbus toward War Games Valley. The sun began to set, casting a golden sheen across the veil of hardwood trees. Birds flitted and chittered in the tall trees, joined by the first hesitant chirps of crickets. The smell of jasmine filled her senses. She heard a low rumble from behind and ducked into the underbrush as a shuttle bus passed by with tourists outfitted in military camouflage fatigues.

  She returned to the road and hiked about a mile to the north. She was out of Wi-Fi range now. Lucid was somewhere up ahead, according to the last readout she’d gotten from Amelia. The paved turnoff had turned into a dirt road, so she followed the tire tracks through the jungle canopy.

  Off to the right, a distinctive salvo rang out and echoed across the valley’s switchback trails. Gunshots.

  She drew her P226 Scorpion and headed deeper into War Games Valley.

  Bo signaled to Tosh, Carlos, and Judy to keep low and stay out of sight. They moved in formation about ten feet away from each other along a ridge on the north side of the island as far as he could tell.

  Bo paused behind a rock outcropping. Tosh and Judy came up alongside him while Carlos hung back, telegraphing the sense of betrayal he felt at being misled the past two months. Bo didn’t blame Carlos in the slightest. But he couldn’t worry about that now. He had to focus on keeping his unit alive.

  “What happened to the others?” Judy asked.

  Paul Redman, Alice Wong, and Charlie Adams were riding in the van on the trip from the harbor. After Bo and his team were forced out of the back, the three people from Axom were told to stay inside. The van drove off while the four Red Team Zero members were issued weapons by their captors.

  “No idea,” Bo said in a hushed voice. “They split us up for some reason.”

  At least there were three fewer civilians to worry about, he thought.

  A volley of gunfire tore through the woods, strafing the trees behind them. He considered what to do. Returning fire might signal he’s playing their damn war game. Then again, firing back might keep them at bay.

  Bo examined his semi-automatic weapon. It looked like a newer version of the SCAR 17S, the Special operations forces Combat Assault Rifle. A matte-black beauty, she had a sixteen-inch barrel, collapsible side-folding stock, and a twenty-round magazine with large-caliber .308 Winchester cartridges. It was now the favored weapon of U.S. Special Operations—he’d used one during an op in Yemen. The SCAR would give them a fair chance in any firefight.

  He checked the magazine. Filled with blanks. Not so fair.

  At its core, a blank round was a powder charge without the bullet. The blank cartridges looked like they contained a plastic plug. This wad, Bo knew, could cause severe penetrating wounds at close range and bruising at medium ranges. Then there was the muzzle blast, a cloud of hot gas spewing out of the muzzle at high velocity. It can cause severe injury at close range. Do these players know that? Or would Bo and his unit get picked off at a safe distance?

  Another flurry of shots buffeted the cluster of large quartz rocks they huddled behind. The gunfire was drawing closer, the shooters maybe a hundred yards away now.

  “Let’s move!” he ordered.

  They followed close on his heels, hunkering down low through this stretch of woodland that thickened into denser jungle as they rose up from the base of the mountain. They needed better cover. He glanced back and was relieved to see Carlos trailing behind. The four figures moved furtively through the winding mossy trail for a long stretch before they paused to catch their breath.

  Tosh came up beside Bo. “What’s happening here?”

  “Check your weapon,” Bo said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is it loaded?”

  Tosh removed the magazine of his SCAR. Same result—no live ammo.

  “I was afraid of that. We’re target practice. That’s what’s happening.”

  Kaden followed a trail up the face of the mountain looming over War Games Valley. The scrubby grassland at the start of her journey had given way to windswept rolling hills and woodland, growing lusher with every step. The trail knifed through thickets of giant ferns, heart-shaped orchids, and red and yellow heliconia plants. Above the thin patches of jungle brush, birdcalls and screeches in the hardwood trees announced her presence.

  She could see hiking through here one day when she wasn’t trying to escape with her life.

  Up ahead she spotted a small squadron panning out to cross a stream. They were all wearing
AR glasses as they advanced through the brush. She could tell they weren’t soldiers or commandos. They must be the tourists taking part in the War Games simulation by the way they were moving and holding their weapons. The glasses probably let them see the heat signatures of their targets.

  She kept fifty yards behind the group. She had her Scorpion drawn but aimed downward. Don’t want to accidentally shoot one of these tourists playing soldier.

  There was no mistaking the semi-automatic weapons the AR players were using: the M4 carbine, a descendent of the M16. The M4 was now the standard infantry weapon of grunts in the U.S. Army and Marines. Ever since boot camp, Kaden had been a student of weaponry. She knew the military had switched over to the M4 for its collapsible stock and shorter 14.5-inch barrel, as opposed to the longer twenty-inch barrel of the M16A2. That made it easier to carry in tight spaces like helicopters and Humvees and easier to use during combat on close-quarter battlefields—like in the jungle.

  She smiled at the clever mashup of realistic traditional weaponry and high-tech wizardry. They must be shooting blanks and the simulation would fill in the blood and guts and all the grisly realities of war.

  Beyond the unit in front of her, she spotted a hint of movement on a thin trail that cut through the brush. Maybe a large animal, maybe an enemy target.

  A burst of gunfire from the squadron tore through the silence, raking the underbrush and slamming into trees and boulders. Damn if this didn’t look super-realistic. She smelled the aftermath of sulfur still wafting above the jungle floor. High in the trees, monkeys and jungle birds squawked about the nonsense below.

  “I think I got one!” someone said in a low voice.

  “Shut up, you idiot,” came a rejoinder.

  The squad leader signaled for his squad to divide and move forward in a pincer movement. She followed the unit to the left.

  She reached the spot where the tourists had laid down a deadly fusillade at the shadows in the brush. Her fingers traced the holes from the bullets that ripped into the tree bark.

  Oh my God! What were tourists doing roaming around the backwoods of Samana Cay firing live rounds? The simulation should have meant they were firing rounds that looked real. But they’re firing the real thing.

  She moved into an exposed trail and crouched low along the side. No bodies here, thank God. She still didn’t know who or what they were firing at. This whole island may be one big fetishized techno wet dream, but when the players can’t tell the virtual from the real world, that’s a problem.

  Another flurry of gunfire came from the M4s farther up ahead. She paused to decide on her next move. This was crazy dangerous, following a pack of inexperienced tourists through the jungle as they fired live rounds at anything that moved. Was Lucid part of this group or not? She hadn’t spotted him yet.

  To her left, a figure emerged from the brush. Kaden instinctively raised her gun and aimed. But the figure was unarmed, dressed not in camo but in shorts and casual island wear.

  It was a girl. A teenager.

  She looked dazed. A tangle of dirt and small sticks laced her disheveled brown hair. Her face was streaked with mud. Her eyes darted as she coughed and spit up blood. Kaden drew nearer and the oddest thought flashed through her mind. She was pretty once.

  “Help me!” the girl cried. She flung her body forward and clutched at the air in front of Kaden as if she couldn’t see.

  Kaden reached out and grabbed her hand in support. “What’s your name?”

  “I—I don’t know!”

  43

  Samana Cay

  On the main screen of the Bliss Lounge, Volkov watched Zaven Kasparian arrive in a caravan of black SUVs. His entourage included one body double, two mistresses, and a platoon of bodyguards. Volkov didn’t know if Kasparian was coming as friend, foe, or frenemy, but he would do his best to enlist his help.

  The Americans and Interpol had warrants out for Kasparian’s arrest based on charges of money laundering and human trafficking—he had a nice little business selling women online. Lately the warrants had put a crimp in his overseas travels and lavish lifestyle.

  But today, in Samana Cay, the Armenian was a VIP. And Volkov, for the first time in his life, would play the gracious social host. He was uncertain he could pull it off.

  Dražen Savić escorted Kasparian to the luxury pool lining the island’s southwestern cliffside with its majestic view of the waterfall beyond and the long sweep of white sandy beach. Teal and tan umbrellas rimmed the pool, which ended abruptly with a water slope that cascaded down to the hillside below. Guests spilled out around the pool right up to the twenty-foot zone set up around the Jacuzzi by Volkov’s security team—off limits to everyone except Kasparian, himself, and the occasional butler.

  Volkov stepped out of the doorway and onto the large patio in his royal purple bathrobe.

  Kasparian, a big man with big appetites, looked over, smiled, and marched briskly to meet him. “Good to see you, my friend.” They shook.

  “And thank you again for your hospitality,” Volkov said. “I was happy to hear you wanted to follow up so soon.”

  “There is still much to discuss. This time, without interruption.”

  Volkov gave the cue for the DJ to begin spinning a special selection of high-energy tunes he had personally selected. He called it the Apocalypse Mix.

  From the edge of his field of vision, Volkov noticed several faces in the crowd turn his way, trying to steal a discreet look. He could hardly blame them. Maxim Volkov in the flesh is a rare sight. His usual attire—a ski mask, balaclava, executioner's mask, or motorcycle helmet—would hardly do at a high-end affair like this. So he decided to wear a sporty sailing cap atop a holographic foil sheet mask, similar to the kind sold over the counter to help exfoliate the skin. But the lightweight mask had a twist: It was personalized to resemble a skin-hugging, fibrous-material Guy Fawkes mask with its rosy cheeks, handlebar mustache, and soul patch.

  Anonymous indeed.

  “Apropos look.” Kasparian took in his appearance. “It says, ‘Incognito.’”

  “Just for a short time. Then we retire to the cocktail lounge, followed by a special evening I’ve arranged.”

  “I hope it involves Fantasy Live.”

  “It does.”

  Volkov had not created Fantasy Live to satisfy the libidos of men like Kasparian, but he knew it would be a powerful lure and serve his business needs as well as his long-term vision.

  He showed Kasparian to the changing room at the end of the patio. Then he removed his robe and ascended in his matching purple swim trunks to the elevated Jacuzzi with its glorious view of the beach, waterfall, and bikini-clad women brought in for the party.

  As he looked over the scene of throbbing, gyrating bodies, he considered how tame this event was compared to the parties put on by other billionaires. No call girls, no blow, no light shows, no private helicopter waiting to give guests a private tour of the island.

  But he was different from other members of his class. Never ostentatious or flashy. Not interested in buying superyachts, wineries, paintings by Renaissance masters, fleets of classic automobiles. Not tempted by having his name inscribed on sports complexes or tall buildings or other phallic symbols. No, the usual displays of vanity that animated the super-rich did not interest him. He had no desire to flash his billions.

  He had other plans. He wanted to make a more fundamental mark on the world. People would speak his name centuries from now.

  He looked up and watched Kasparian arguing with his two mistresses, who didn’t understand why they couldn’t join him in the Jacuzzi. But Volkov’s bodyguards had strict instructions not to allow anyone except Kasparian to pass.

  The Armenian brought his great white walrus belly up the steps and he sank into the bubbling waters opposite Volkov. Kasparian was no fellow immortal, not a true equal, and yet he was a peer. A man wealthy beyond words. They spoke the same language of riches and power.

  “I’m intrigued by the ord
erliness I saw throughout your village,” Kasparian began.

  “Thank you.” Volkov had directed Savić to meet the Armenian at the airport and have a little head-of-state procession through the heart of Samana Village.

  “How did you manage to accomplish this? I don’t think I saw a single jaywalker or scrap of litter.”

  “Two factors. Watchfulness. And our points system.”

  The watchfulness piece was well understood, with the CCTV cameras from the Sharp Eyes program stationed at every intersection and in every public building. Less understood was the homegrown system of rewards points that was the lifeblood of Samana Cay’s economy.

  “Your citizens receive points?”

  “Samana Cay has no paper currency. All transactions are based on monthly point totals. Citizens receive auto-texts notifying them of points achieved or deducted for actions small and large.”

  Kasparian nodded and beckoned for the butler, who gained passage after Volkov signaled with his fingers to let him through. “I see. And who decides what points to award or deduct?”

  “My team and I established the Samana Cay Points System with rewards and penalties, and our AI dispenses points based on what it observers. Jaywalking, a fifty-point deduction. Service in the Military Police, a thousand-point bonus each week. Our tracking system has a record of where every resident has been over the past three years. When your actions and behaviors have a direct bearing on whether you can afford to feed your family come Friday night, the level of conformity achieved is astonishingly high. We’ve built accountability into the very design of our community.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “In effect, we’ve gamified social actions on Samana Cay. The next step is to export our innovation to all four corners of the globe. We’ll need a common global currency during the Transition. Think of it! What happens when humanity itself becomes gamified? When we can use rewards and punishments to push our new world in new directions?”