by Nick Cole
Later he pulls out a radio. I’ve never actually seen one. A real radio that tunes in signal-based radio stations. The only radio I’ve ever even tried has been internet stations. Generally I prefer my own playlists. But he places the radio on top of the sailboat’s cabin and tunes in a station. He looks south toward Mexico as though seeing the signal come over the curvature of the Earth. As though he needs to look to find it, dial it in, capture it for the evening. Then he adjusts the radio once more. Tiny, minute, delicate adjustments to land the signal in the optimum place of reception.
I feel like some kind of magic is about to happen. I can feel the electricity of it in the air. Like getting to hear what we’re about to hear is something special. Not just something that can be demanded from the internet. But something that has to be captured. Something that requires a little effort.
And then, through the static and fuzz, the plaintive wail of mariachis comes over the airwaves. Mario sits back. He claps his hands and makes us two more beers. We’ve already drunk several.
A song comes on and he holds out both hands.
As though this song is very special to him.
It is.
His old, tired, tanned and weathered face smiles beatifically as the mariachis sing “Son de la Negra.”
And we sit there in the harbor dark, drinking beers and listening to the mariachis croon about true loves long lost and still hoped for.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In time Mario takes his stove, cooler, and radio, and leaves. The night is warm. I go down into the galley—Mario informed me the kitchen is called a galley—and set up my laptop. The boat has an electrical hookup from the dock.
I log onto Civ Craft’s main site and read through the news feeds. I study the maps. I research the clans. Later, on toward one a.m., I open the bourbon. Clevinger’s. It’s the only brand they carried, so it would do. I pour a finger and step out onto the main deck. The cockpit. Where the big wheel is.
I watch Calistan’s Gold Coast glitter in the night. It’s a playground for the top of the food chain. People who don’t care about anything other than where the next scene is. That much is evident and they don’t try to hide it. Their Instaflash accounts—I took a Civ Craft research break to do some internet surfing—glorify obnoxious amounts of extravagant spending and waste. Because they can.
Why would they care about the actual state of the country beyond their precious Gold Coast?
They’re the top of the food chain.
Except on Civ Craft. There they’re holding a small series of hills that extend from the Tharsis Bulge to the Valles Marineris. They’ve done no research and development, while other civilizations are already building huge cities and opening trade routes with one another.
Right now, they’re being menaced by a loose confederation of Asian gaming clans who call themselves the Geeks. The Geek League, to be specific. Each clan has gone in hard on some kind of nerdstalgia and has crafted their entire society—culture, look, tech—to reflect their obsession. But they’re growing, and Calistan isn’t.
The League occupies a series of low mountains and wide valleys to the west of Calistan. Across a huge sea of craters. And they need Calistan’s land in order to connect trade routes with other civilizations.
The question is how to get them distracted from their constant incursions against Calistan.
I pour more Clevinger’s and watch the bioluminescence of the water in the harbor. I try to think of all the history I ever learned, because one thing I learned long ago, in some History of Gaming class, was that war never changes.
I think about the World Wars. The Brushfire Wars after the Meltdown. Antarctica I and II.
Nothing leaps out at me. Nothing presents an easy historical solution to all Calistan’s problems in one easy op. The main thing they need to do is start building a civilization. Simple as that. But they started off so warlike that they’re now viewed by the Geek League and others as a nuisance that needs to be disappeared. And maybe as a potential resource base once things have settled down. Enemy colonies are already starting to sprout up all over the Calistani in-game territory.
I have to go further back. Think about the old wars I don’t know much about.
Sparta versus Athens.
The Hundred Years’ War.
The Mexico Conflict from just before the Melt.
I’m ready to give up. I could stream documentaries for the rest of the night and still not hit on anything that might inspire me.
I pour another bourbon and sit back down at the computer, intent on closing the lid and wrapping myself up in my coat for the night to get some sleep. But I know there’s something naggingly familiar about the information staring me in the face.
The Geek League.
Like… like… Ancient Greece.
I try to read up on some old general called Thucydides. He wrote a book… History of the Peloponnesian War. It was about a long war between the Greeks. Sparta and Athens. City-states fighting for regional supremacy.
And laying waste… that’s the part that intrigues me. Ruining the other team’s stuff, especially when they’re heavily invested in the making of that stuff.
And then I’ve got it. I stare at the map of Mars for a long time. And slowly… it all comes into focus. I stream some classical music and get down to work. One song in particular. I put it on. I study the map again. Study the approach to the Geek League’s city-states.
I see hover tanks and troops moving across the sea of craters along their frontier. See the Geek League getting real concerned about a focused invasion right into the heart of their city-states. See them getting distracted from their expansionistic yearnings.
Maybe it’s just the Clevinger’s talking.
Of course… if you don’t want to be attacked… then you have to invade. That’s the answer to getting the Geek League out of Calistan. Invade them back.
Just like the Persians did to the Greeks. Another Greek war. Except this time we won’t lose.
I see it all. Every move to Game Over.
And then I close the lid and try to sleep.
Chapter Thirty
Beyond the last door within the caves below the old manor house sinking into the swamp, I find her. A bloody angel. She is both magnificent and gorgeous in death. Dark crow’s wings spread out across the floor where she has been slain. Her face is familiar. She wears a kind of ancient sliver plate armor. A broken sword lies nearby. An old dagger, carved from the tooth of some long-dead titan and worked in crawling nonsense runes, erupts from her chest.
I approach cautiously, crossing the cold floor of the last room in the dungeon below the ruin that lies beyond the slaughtered town. In the gloom beyond this sacrifice I see a twisting set of stairs winding back and up toward the surface. An exit along which Alucard must’ve gone after leaving this little trap for me.
When I see her face I think of some familiar song I once knew. A long time ago in a life not this one.
Silvery tears stream down her cheeks. She opens coal-dark eyes and stares at me. She knows she’s dying. That death has come for her.
I wonder if I am death?
I kneel and remove the dagger from her chest.
Because I am not death.
She gasps to life as her chest attempts to hold on to the dagger. Her back arches and she wails in sudden ethereal torment. And then the dagger is out. She places a long, slender, alabaster hand over the wound, and all that is left of that scar is a memory.
She smiles weakly at me.
There is a flash of light. Of warmth. Of safety. Of home. Wherever that is for her. The beauty of her knowing such a place is so overwhelming that I close my eyes as I’m driven to the floor by the mere glimpse of her expression when remembering such a place.
And I know that time has passed.
That all that happened long ago.
I am lying now on the stone floor. I can feel the coolness of these caves. Of this place of death.
I push a
way and stand. The angel has gone. But she lives, and somehow that is enough for me. I turn to the stairs and begin the long climb back to the surface.
I will find Alucard’s trail once again.
I will find Alucard.
And I will slay Alucard.
As if that can make all things right again.
Chapter Thirty-One
In the morning, aboard the gently rocking sailboat, I wake to the sound of a distant foghorn. I lie there for a long time listening to it before I realize what it is. I’ve never heard one before. It’s mournful and patient. Those are the words I think of as I listen to it. That it’s giving all of us a gentle warning that the waters of the harbor are not safe.
That life, also, is not safe.
I’m cold. Shivering even. I get up and put on some clean khakis, a t-shirt, and my old trench. I go out to stand on the wet deck. Everything is sheathed in white fog. I can barely see the island the boat is docked to just a few feet away. I can only see a little bit out into the still water.
I hear the horn again, sounding its low, mournful warning that nothing is safe right now.
If I’m going to leave Calistan, sail away in this boat, now is the moment when no one would see me go.
Except I don’t know how to sail.
Someone comes by, rowing a small boat loaded with fishing gear. They smile once at me as they come out of the fog, and continue to pull at their oars. A few seconds later they’re gone. Swallowed once more by the swirling mist.
I forgot to get coffee at the market yesterday.
I put on my Docs and trudge off to the store once again. An hour later I return with more supplies, coffee among them. Shortly I have a cup ready, though I had to just boil the grounds in a pan and pour the syrup it became into an old mug that remained in the mostly bare cupboards.
Still… it’s coffee.
Coffee will get you through a time of no money.
Money will never get you through a time of no coffee.
Truer words have seldom been spoken.
I stand on deck, mesmerized by the fog and the sounds of the harbor. Sounds coming from things, events, and people I cannot see, and have to imagine, out there in the swirling mist.
I think about my plan.
I need to talk to Enigmatrix… but I have no contact for her. So I wait until the fog burns off and Rashid shows up in a totally new and different high-end sports car, I kid you not.
“The other one needed an alignment,” he says as we slide into a bright-red Ferrari 208Redux.
First-world problems, I tell myself.
On the drive over to the Cyber Warfare Center, I lay out my plan for Rashid.
“Here’s how we get the Geek League off your back…” I yell above the whine of the engine. He had no idea who the Geek League was until I told him it was the confederation of Asian clans that had been whaling on Calistan.
“The Japs!”
I nod for the sake of agreement.
“Basically,” I continue, “we’ve got to get them interested in something else besides attacking Calistan.”
Rashid nods as if this is obvious.
“So,” I say, “we’re going to invade their land. Then they’ll get interested in looking after themselves instead of you.”
He shoots me a quick scowl. “We’ve been attacking them, PQ.”
“I know. I didn’t say attack. I said invade—as in full-scale invasion. We’ll be so busy breaking all their stuff they won’t have time to bother Calistan. That’ll give you the time to get some building projects in order and start developing your tech tree instead of going broke on micro-transactions to replace what you’ve lost.”
“We’re not going broke,” he cries indignantly over the beautiful Ferrari’s howl.
“I know… but you’re not winning the game either. You’ve got to have tech to win a tech victory. There are no micro-transaction victories.”
I distantly wonder if anyone has ever talked to him like this. I suspect no one has and that gives me a secret pleasure in doing so.
“Who are we gonna invade?” he asks as though only just tuning in to this part of the conversation.
“The Geek League. The guys giving you a hard time.”
“Japs!” he mutters disgustedly.
“Some but not all. Specifically, we’re going to target three clans and we’re going to ruin their clan cities. And I mean ruin them.”
“Which three?” asks Rashid, now definitely interested.
“Marvel Rainbow Avengers. The Super Terrific Robot Overlords, or as everyone else calls them, the Cylon Republic. And Team Commando Joe.”
“Never heard of them,” says Rashid naturally, and he can’t help but come off as cavalier.
“Rashid,” I say. Again, I really enjoy treating him as though he’s stupid. “These are the people who’ve been attacking you. You should know this intel… bro!”
I touched it up with the “bro.” Have to make it seem like I’m on his side. In the inner circle. Definitely not working for the CIA. Best way to stick the knife in. Even though I don’t know how any of this will come out, I know, definitely, that I am not on his side. At all. Definitely. I know that at this specific moment. Regardless of what is to come.
He slumps his shoulders and leans into the wheel.
“You’re right,” he confesses. I should’ve known that.”
“Okay,” I begin. “All these cities run alongside a river they’ve managed to engineer along a basin west of your lands. I’m going to lead an army in there and ruin them. I’m going to break stuff and go for broke. I’m not holding territory because we can’t hold it. We’re just going to do war. Got it?”
“I guess,” he says glumly. “What do I do?”
Here’s the tricky part.
“Two very important things. One… you’re going to run the micro-transaction supply lines. I’ll need a lot of equipment to keep them busy. I need you to run your army of micro-transaction purchasers and keep your clans supplied and online in the fight. We’re going at this full tilt and we can’t stop because we’re out of assets. No guns, tanks, or players, and we stop, got that? We’re dead in the water, they roll us up and come at Calistan with everything they’ve got.”
He doesn’t say or do anything. He just stares ahead out the windshield.
“Two… and this is how you win the game, Rashid…”
And by win the game I mean impress your dad, which you don’t know that I know is the real purpose of this whole exercise. Impress Daddy and become sultan. That’s probably your biggest concern right now.
“You’ve got to build Calistan online. You’ve got to build a vibrant thriving city and develop tech, science, and cultural resources.”
“So I’m not going to fight with you?”
“You are. I’ll bring you into the fight at key moments. Each time we wipe out a city you’ll be right there on the big old killcam the streams are showing. I promise. But let me fight the battle until it’s time to get you there. You keep me supplied. And build up your people.”
Then I add… “Because that’s what a real leader does. Then I’ll bring you in for the glory kill. Got it?”
He nods to himself.
I’ve got him. His ego has shown him the easiest way to be fed. And he likes that.
“What about Enigmatrix?” he asks suddenly. Not out of concern. But out of something else. Something far more cynical.
“She’s going to be running strategic for me. I’m staying forward in the battle to keep your clans focused on the objective at hand. But I need her to coordinate airstrikes, indirect fire, and reinforcements. Basically all three of us have to work together to get Calistan in the game. You’re supply. She’s support. I fight. You get the glory.”
* * *
We make our way down into the lower vaults of the Cyber Warfare Center without a word between us. In fact, Rashid hasn’t said anything since I laid out my plans.
Perhaps I overplayed my hand in being a l
ittle mean to him.
Within the main conference room, we’re greeted by the same assortment of generals as before. Real generals. Here to play a game. I should have realized how bizarre that was from the start. But now I understand. It’s not just a game.
The kid who would be king is on the line.
And not just one kid.
Rashid’s brother is here too. And he’s brought his own small entourage. Guys in dark robes and gray beards. They’re definitely a faction. Even though, for my sake, they’re supposed to be on the same team, it is clear… they are not on the same team. And judging by the murderous look Omar shoots Rashid—and the equally un-brotherly look Rashid gives in return—this is not the prelude to a warm family reunion.
Sure enough, Omar and Rashid immediately begin to shout at each other in whatever language it is they speak. And within moments everyone is shouting at everyone. Angry, harsh words in their harsh, angry language. Suddenly Rashid lunges forward and knocks his brother to the ground with a right cross. And small subcompact machine guns appear in hands all around the room. From beneath robes. From behind backs. From out of nowhere. Even the clerics have weapons.
A tense silence overwhelms this underground conference room deep beneath the caliphate of Calistan. As though each person is daring every other person to just start shooting.
I sit down in a chair.
It makes a small squeak.
A few people cast quick glances my way. Then they return their attention to the people they’re intent on murdering in a sudden blur of gunfire.
“Guys,” says Rashid softly. Very softly. He has a gold-plated Desert Eagle out. It’s stuck into his brother’s cherubic cheek. “Guys… c’mon. Weapons down.”
No one moves.
Rashid lowers his weapon.
“Weapons down, guys,” he says in a soothing tone.
I tell myself to start breathing again. I try not to get too focused on how close I am to being suddenly riddled with bullets.
“PerfectQuestion has a plan that’s going to get us out of this mess,” announces the prince to all the angry people holding automatic weaponry. No doubt set to indiscriminate fire.