by Nick Cole
And it will happen here.
I remember reading a blog article on some hyperjet during my gaming tournament travels about the ruins of the first Disneyland. That might be a fun day trip. To see what it had all once looked like before the Meltdown. Before the “Cannibal Kingdom” made headlines and got crushed by the last of a dying government. I like that sort of thing.
Ruins. I like ruins.
Everywhere I go, I manage to sneak away and find some to wander around in for a day.
In the wide circular driveway, on wet paved stones, waits a limo. The air smells of jasmine in a way Singapore never did. A driver in slacks and a crisp white shirt waits, absently polishing various planes on the sedately luxurious vehicle with a cloth he holds in one hand. He is softly whistling.
“¡Hola, señor!” he announces when he sees me emerging from the monument that is Rashid’s home. He looks as if he wants to help me with my bags, but all I’ve brought is my laptop in the messenger case over my shoulder.
“You ready to… to… to…” He struggles, trying to figure out what I am supposed to do as he broadly smiles through a mix of shining white teeth and gold-capped ones. Dark curling tattoos scroll their way up from his wrist to hide beneath his white cotton shirt.
“My name is Juan,” he says. He’s older. Thick iron-gray hair. “I’m sorry… I don’t know what you do. I only know where we are going this morning.”
I tell him my tag. It’s pretty much all anyone cares about.
“Ah! Perfecto! You are PerfectQuestion! ¡Arriba! I have to have your autograph for my grandsons. They are both big-time gamers.”
I’m still stunned that anyone would want my autograph. But I agree. I’m flattered and humbled. And slightly bewildered.
He leads me to the limo and I climb in back. He gets in on the driver’s side.
“I was never a gamer,” he announces as he pulls out of the drive and begins threading the narrow streets back down the hill. There aren’t a lot of hover limos in Calistan. In fact none so far. I wonder if that’s due to the embargo and trade restrictions. “Not after the Meltdown. I was just a kid then. We had to do everything to survive once the government fell apart. Then I got a job with the sultan twenty years ago and was able to give my kids the best. All the things I never had. And now…” He sighs. “I watch and they try to teach me sometimes… but eh, I’m no good. My big thumbs just get in the way.”
“Just gotta find the right game,” I say from the back. Then I lean forward and slide up to the window between us. I’m not that kind of guy. The sit-in-back-and-don’t-interact kind.
“You just gotta find your game,” I repeat. “Then you’ll get good. Then you’ll beat them.”
“Like a fishing game would be great,” he tries.
“If that’s what you like, then yes. There’re games where you fish. Sport fishing too.”
“But I could just go fishing. In real life.”
I agree that he could. Then add, “I’ve never been. Is it fun?”
“Ohhhhh…” he cries with gusty enthusiasm. “It’s the best thing ever. You go out on a boat. Some beer. Good burgers from the galley and you got live bait. Then you fish. And sometimes the tuna run and the captain will chase them and get right in the run and you pull out these great big monsters. Cut them up right there with some lime and salt, some for the beer too… There are few things better than such a day, señor. Trust me on this.”
I do.
“I used to take my boys. But now they work hard for their families. Even they have no time for games now.”
“You’re not… Arab?” I ask.
“No, señor,” he says and looks around as though someone might overhear us. “We are Mexicans. We were here before the Arabs. And… even the gringos if you can believe that. This…” He spread his hands across all of Calistan and what was once the old America. “This was all ours. After the Meltdown, the Arabs took it from the United States. Technically it’s a protectorate. But it’s theirs all the same. The royal family financed a bunch of mercenaries from around the world with the only currency anyone would take during that time: real gold. Then they took over. There were already tons of them living here due to open borders and immigration at the time. Their half of the world was on fire. Then… sharia law and everything within months. The old US couldn’t do anything about it because they were trying to get the US back online after the Meltdown. So they just made the best of it and cut a deal.”
Silence as we drive down the hill.
“How is it? Here? Now?” I ask, because I’m interested in how things really are as opposed to what someone is trying to sell you on a stream, or in an e-mag.
“It’s good,” he says too quickly. A pause. “And bad.” Then: “Probably just like it was with the gringos. But I was young then and we were raised to be angry. Now… well… someone’s got to be in charge. So we can’t live in certain areas… like here. Big deal. But we can work here, which is pretty good when you think about it. They have all the courts and the best jobs, so we get the bad end of that most of the time. But… there’re jobs. We can work for them. Drive them. Care for their children. Garden. In the end… it’s a living. And on my days off I can fish. And it’s not the Meltdown because those days… well… that was a very bad time.”
“You fish out there?” I ask as we come around a turn and the wide vista of the coast opens up, the vastness of the ocean suddenly apparent and clear.
“No!” he cries. “No, not out there. That is for them. We have to drive north or south of the Gold Coast. We can fish in those places. Near the old reactor at San Onofre is the best. The boat I catch out of Dana Point goes south, and we go off San Clemente. Good fishing. If you stay… I can take you sometime, señor?”
“I’d like that.”
I would.
A silence falls between us. As though I’m visiting someone in prison and only now just realizing it. We’ve talked about the food and the limited activities and then there’s nothing else left to talk about. In time I’ll pass beyond the barbed wire and they’ll remain.
A few minutes later we hit the coast road and drive into Newport. Juan pulls into the parking lot of a large building, ancient architecture from long ago. Steel and mirrored glass watch out over a narrow channel in the harbor. Expensive old houses on the other side of the water sit next to leaning old piles of some past glories. But the sun and the sea have faded these beached wrecks, and now they’re little more than washed-out eyesores. Children and people move about the slender beach in front of them.
A sign at the front of the building we’ve just pulled up to announces the old place to be the “Caliphate of Calistan Cyber Warfare Center.”
Leaving Juan and the limo in a parking lot full of sunbaked cars, I enter the dark and shadowy building. It was once something else. I see an old plaque that’s never been removed from the wall. It says something about Sea Scouts. The building is empty and gutted, save a lone receptionist’s desk where two armed guards stand before a newly installed bank vault door worthy of something from a movie about high-tech heists.
The guards nod at me as I cross the echoing marble floor. One begins to turn the massive polished wheel on the vault and dial back the door. It slowly parts from a seam in the wall, and beyond I see a stairway, lit by neon green light, descending into darkness. The other guard, with the barest of humorless smiles, indicates I should enter.
“They’re waiting for you,” he mumbles with naked contempt as I pass.
The stairs lead down at least two stories into some kind of underground bunker. At the bottom, a beautiful woman in a headscarf greets me. She smiles warmly. Her voice is deep and husky.
“Welcome, Mr. PerfectQuestion. Rashid would like you to come to the tactical center. If you’ll follow me.”
We go down more stairs, passing through heavy concrete flooring and walls. This is definitely some kind of hardened bunker. The kind other countries try to hit with bunker busters. Eventually we pass a series of ser
ver rooms where technicians in clean suits monitor impressive servers beyond thick bulletproof safety glass.
A few turns more and we pass down a hallway lined with hatches that lead into gaming suites. One is open, and I glance in to check it out as the receptionist continues on. Some of the best gaming rigs and decks I’ve ever seen are waiting in almost military orderliness and polish. Beaucoup expensive. Chair. VR goggles. Soft gray concrete and recessed blue lighting.
Then I see the blood spatter stain on one wall of the suite I’m examining. Head height. A spray they apparently never managed to make disappear, going out and away along the dull gray concrete wall. Like someone got it in the head and didn’t know it because they were staring at the monitor. I study the wall for another second as the clipped high heels of the woman come back for me. There’s chipped concrete along that blood-spattered wall. I’ve seen enough VFX in-game to recognize bullet-chipped concrete.
“This way,” she prompts in her soft and husky voice. Leaving no room for dissent.
Which way, exactly? What have I gotten myself into? And which way is out?
“Five million,” I whisper so low she can’t hear.
“This way,” she prompts again in the same tone. Soft yet even more firm this time. I have that strapped-into-a-rollercoaster feeling. Like I bought the ticket, and now it was time to take the ride.
In gold, I remind myself. Five million.
Two more corridors and two more bank vault titanic doors and we reach the command center. And Rashid.
Chapter Fourteen
It’s a long conference room straight out of all those movies about underground war rooms and nuclear missiles. Cool and creepy. I decide to just go with it.
Rashid is surrounded by big guys in medal-laden uniforms and a few definite geeks of the Arab variety.
“Guys!” announces Rashid, beaming as he stands up from a digital 3D map projecting out of the huge central table. “This is our new secret weapon! Allow me to introduce PerfectQuestion… this year’s Super Bowl MVP.”
Everybody turns to glare at me. A few almost manage to hide obvious contempt, as if waiting to take their cues from others. The others paste on smiles that are anything but. There’s a dangerous hostile electricity in the room, and I remember the blood spatter on the wall of the gaming suite.
“Okay…” begins Rashid as everyone moves to their chairs without shaking my hand. “Let’s get our new rock star up to speed on what we’re trying to do today.”
I take the closest seat at the end of the table. Only Rashid remains standing. He waves his hand across the 3D map and brings up a new one.
“This is the Valles Marineris canyon system. It’s larger than the Grand Canyon. Okay, PQ…” Rashid looks around and smiles genuinely at everyone. “I call him PQ. Okay, this is where the Japs are building their newest city. Along the canyon’s rim. It’s close enough to our resources to make it a threat. We need to knock it out.”
Over the ether, Enigmatrix’s scratchy voice, the one I heard in the dark the night before, interrupts Rashid, who seemed to be warming up to his presentation.
“Actually, we need to take this city,” she lectures, “if we’re going to build your empire within the game, Rashid. Knocking things out only gives you nothing of value. Nothing to build with. We’re just wasting time and resources.”
The generals at the table—or at least, I assume they’re generals of some sort. They all have medals and scrambled eggs on their epaulets. And bushy mustaches. The generals all get very uncomfortable when she speaks.
Rashid lowers his head and murmurs something to them in Arabic. Then, to the ether, “Enigmatrix, dear, um… they’re not used to… you talking out of turn like that. I know… where you come from that’s okay. But here in Calistan, we just don’t do that.”
Here…?
What don’t you do? Let women speak?
I’ve never actually encountered that in my life. I’ve heard about it, of course, from all kinds of old social justice scolds from before the Meltdown, still railing from their safe-space collectives to anyone who ventures into those slums, as a thing that went on all the time. But I’ve never actually encountered it. Now, unlike all those seminars in school and mandatory videos I was forced to watch at every job, I’m seeing it on a level I never even dreamed of.
At least I think that’s what I’m seeing.
Everyone remains silent. This is the part where any woman I’ve ever known would burst into a full tirade and lecture with lots of anger, animosity, and self-righteous indignation. Any moment now.
Any moment now.
Any…
“I understand,” replies Enigmatrix quietly. And then, “Go ahead with the plan, Rashid.”
Is there five million in gold waiting for her in a safe deposit box somewhere offshore?
Is there more?
How much?
Yeah, even I admit… the gold is changing me.
Rashid points toward the digital display, indicating the canyon. A massive network of alleys and dead ends. Something is marked as a target. He expands the map, and we’re looking at a canyon wall dug through with graphed red lines. A subterranean tunnel system beneath the city on the rim above. A ramp leads to a bunker-fortified entrance guarded by towers on either side. More towers loom on the canyon’s rim.
“We’re going to take out the Japs’ newest city. Today. From the floor of the canyon beneath it. In a few hours we’ll have most of our clans up and running. Hit time is four thirty local. PerfectQuestion, we’re providing a full armored assault against the city above with air cover to get you and one of our special teams inside the complex below. Once inside, we need you to blow up this target beneath the city.”
The map irises in on a subterranean cave within the complex. Then on a specific tower graphed in growing white lines.
“This is down tunnel. You’ll need to secure the rail line through the mines into the central cavern. Arrive at this tower and destroy it. This is the main atmospheric control center for the complex. Without this piece of equipment, the facility will die within hours. The Japs will be forced to abandon it if they can’t restore life support. Then…” he looked at the ceiling, “we can capture the city as General Enigmatrix wishes.”
Again, everyone around the table seems very uncomfortable.
Rashid stands back. Smiling. Then moves around the table adjusting his hands. The map reacts and turns to reveal the central core of the complex.
“Bonus points if we take this baby out!”
“What is it?” I ask when no one else does.
“Central reactor. We overload it and the whole place goes kaboom. Then the Japanese can’t rebuild it even if they want to. The site will be a biohazard.”
I pause, not thinking so much about the tactical situation, but more about how to say what needs saying.
“Right… and this is on your claimed territory?” I ask.
Rashid nods emphatically. He seems very proud of himself. Very proud of his standard take out the enemy’s major power source and blow everything sky high modern movie mega climax strategy. The Star Wars films were still doing this to death. The last time I watched one, they blew up an entire solar system full of Death Stars. It was ridiculous.
And… I’d played enough tactical games to know that good teams in any game defend their reactors, or whatever power source they have access to, mana wells or what have you, to the death. Because… no power, no building queue.
“How big is my strike force?” I ask.
“Thirty of our best players. All highly ranked in your own WarWorld.”
He didn’t say pros. So that means they’re just home-gamers willing to go on a one-way mission. Guys who are really good on console. But not actually good enough to get hired by a corporate team.
“That might not work.”
I float that and let it hang for a second.
And it hangs.
The discomfort inside the bunker is palpable.
Rashid takes off his smartglasses.
“How so?” he asks softly. Genuinely. As though he really wants to know.
“Told ya,” comes Enigmatrix’s reply over the ether.
Why isn’t she in this room? I wonder distantly.
Again, the generals look from one to the other, their faces hard and angry. I assume they’re gauging each other’s reactions to figure out which way the wind is about to blow.
“Because,” I begin, “whoever’s defending that reactor is going to put up a big fight. Don’t be surprised if that team… and I’ll need any info you have on their units, armaments, assets, whatever… but don’t be surprised if they defend that reactor with everything they’ve got. Sure, you might break some stuff. But as long as they hold that reactor… Well, they can rebuild.”
I look around the table.
“So no kaboom if we fail.” Then I add, “You’ll just waste a bunch of your units on the front door. Then you’ll have to rebuild them and… I’m going to have to say that Enigmatrix is actually right. This is a civilization-building game. Breaking other people’s stuff isn’t the goal. In war, yes. But war isn’t the primary goal here. Building your culture index and trade is the focus. So at the end of the day your big win isn’t poisoning your own land, which you’ll need to develop eventually. The land they’re currently borrowing from you. Your big win is taking that city up top.”
No one seems pleased. But I continue on. I’m that kind of guy. Truthy.
“I’m a first-person-shooter professional. That’s why you hired me. And I get that the mission you want to pull today is all that and a bag of chips with a big ol’ explosion to show off on the streams. I can lead that assault and probably break some stuff. The atmo tower seems like a reasonable goal. I can take that. That’s what you’re paying me for. But the reactor ain’t gonna happen. They’ll have all kinds of shooting galleries and interlocking fire set up in there.