by Linden Storm
Wait. He’s letting his mind play tricks on him again. He breathes. “May I be at peace,” he whispers to himself.
He’s got to calm down, so he can help find Marina, so they can play in the tournament, so he can prove to his parents that he’s capable of running his own life, so he can get a life.
Breathe.
It doesn’t help that William and Belle are fighting.
Nick sighs. William wants to please everyone almost as much as he wants everyone to get along. Belle is as self-contained and armored as anyone Nick has ever met, and he’s known some academic types who could freeze molten rock.
He glances at Belle, who is sprawled sleeping on one of the beds. Her face is relaxed, and she looks young and undefended. She starts talking in her sleep, alternately pleading and chewing someone out, and Nick’s glad he’s not with her in her dream.
Nick sits on the other bed, his phone and Marina’s journal in his lap.
A custom alarm whoops three times, stops, and whoops three times again.
It’s the alarm Nick set to go off if Marina surfaced on any network or device.
Nick goes to work on his phone, tracing Marina’s location.
“Gotcha!” he cries. “Cap, wake up! I got a ping from Marina!”
“What?” Belle says, already jumping up and looking over his shoulder. “Did you talk to her?”
“She’s not answering, but the ping came through from a game forum site. There’s no mistake,” Nick says.
“Finally!” Belle says. “Let’s go! I’ll call Paul and make sure he knows.”
∆∆∆
Because he has nothing else to do between PTSD treatment and anger management sessions, Paul Boone is wearing his gaming gear and playing on a portable rig. It’s just casual Battlecraft skirmishes, and he’s using an anonymous alt. His rig when fully assembled barely fits in the shabby room.
His alarm goes off.
Paul rips off his headset and disconnects his harness. Since they were about to execute on their endgame, the people he was playing with will complain like whiny babies, but it’s only a casual match, and his phone alarm wouldn’t sound now unless it was a communique from Marina.
He looks at his phone. Yes! It’s a post by Marina on one of the Battlecraft forum sites. In an obvious non sequitur at the end of the post, she mentions the city of Las Vegas.
He goes to work trying to raise her—calling, messaging, posting—but it’s crickets. She’s gone offline again.
∆∆∆
In Dayton, Washington, a picturesque town in the Palouse, there’s still a couple of hours of daylight left. Harold is in his pasture on six acres at the end of Fourth Street, feeding a small herd of sheep. A few feet away, a late lamb tries to stand and falls in the scrubby grass, bleating. Chickens cluck and pick at kernels of corn near their coop. The air smells of freshly mown grass, manure, and river mud.
At the edge of Harold’s property, beyond his barbed-wire fence, golden wheat fields roll out to the banks of the Touchet River, and beyond the river the hazy Blue Mountains rise into sapphire skies. It’s been another warm day, but a cool north wind is gaining strength. Harold’s thriving corn stalks ripple and sway.
Harold is receiving regular text updates from Nick. He knows Nick, William, and Belle have talked to Marina’s ex-husband. He’s worried. His grandson is a smart guy, but he’s not practical. He doesn’t understand what people are capable of. On the other hand, he’s sure Belle has enough street-smarts to make up for Nick and William’s deficits in that department. That girl is rude and mean as a cornered badger, but she’s as tough as one too.
And it’s a good thing. The current threat may have relatively recent origins, but Nick and the team have been under threat ever since they started winning and a modicum of fame found them. Harold’s been keeping close track of the threats for some months. He’d become concerned when he saw a rash of twisted remarks on the forums—sick comments by trolls who called themselves fans. Some of those old-time gamer bros practically foamed at the mouth at the very idea that there were female pros that were winning big tournaments. This meant that they were particularly nasty when it came to the Untouchables, with two women and a gay man—Nick—on the team.
On his own, Harold had researched the problem and joined an anti-troll group called the Elven Knights of Zobilla. Since their founding, the Elven Knights’ goal had been to vanquish the sexist, racist, and homophobic trolls that infested gaming culture. Their leader, a guy by the name of Jack Bieker, is Harold’s own age, and when he talks about their movement, it’s in the manner of a civil rights protestor—proudly and righteously. Bieker makes Harold want to cheer out loud.
But Jack is not a warrior for no reason; the other side is fighting back every way they can. There have been epic battles in comment columns, and these slip occasionally onto mainstream media outlets, and even into real-world action. Harold’s not sure how he feels about that, but he understands how it happens.
Recently, the Elven Knights have won several important victories in the form of public humiliations, career ruination, and financial penalties against the evil trolls. These events are spoken of reverently in the secret meetings of the Elven Knights, with much fake reasonableness, as if the Knights regretted that their actions had been necessary. They didn’t regret anything, really, not even the illegal hacking they’d perpetrated in the name of their cause. Justice was the goal of the Elven Nights of Zobilla, and they refused to be diverted or shamed for using tactics the other side had been employing for years.
Harold’s phone alert beeps. He takes off his gloves, hauls the phone out of his overalls, pats himself for his glasses, puts them on, and reads the text.
It’s surfaced that Marina is in Las Vegas, and the team is heading out. A smile spreads across his face. He hopes the team’s troubles are over, but he vows to keep close track of the situation. They’re highly competent in the game, but sometimes Harold wonders if their IRL skills are what they should be.
∆∆∆
Belle throws her bag in the trunk of the rental car. She goes for the driver’s door, but Nick is opening it. She waggles her thumb at the back seat. He grimaces. She knows it’s hard for him to fit back there, but she’s not about to give up the driver’s seat, even if the car does drive itself.
Belle climbs in.
William says something she can’t hear to Nick, but Nick shakes his head and gets in the back, twisting his body to fit his legs in on the seat. William slides into the front passenger seat.
As they’re leaving the parking lot, Belle notices a black SUV with tinted windows parked on the street. She watches in the rearview mirror, but the SUV stays put. She feels a sense of relief at the idea that the mysterious vehicle is not following them, and then starts thinking about what they’re going to do once they get to Las Vegas, which is about five hours to the northwest.
How are they going to find Marina in a city the size and complexity of Las Vegas, even if she’s still there? And if they do find her, what are they going to say to her? If she wants to quit the team, how are they going to convince her to come back?
Chapter Four
They Have To Stay Focused
Belle watches the car determine the fastest route from Phoenix to Las Vegas.
They head out. The car carries them through miles of poor, half-abandoned strip malls, then takes I-10 West, heads north on the 303, and picks up Highway 60, a separated two-lane road that will take them all the way to Vegas. The Phoenix-Vegas route arrows through a couple of small towns—horse trailers, stucco, beat-down offices and stores, tumbleweed-strewn lots, fast-food chains—and then settles into traversing gray scrubland dotted with saguaro, prickly pear, barrel cactus, sagebrush, and trees that look like they’d work better as kindling than as shade.
Belle, William, and Nick are mostly silent as they re-scour the interwebs for signs of Marina. There’s nothing.
“Do you think she did it on purpose?” Belle says.
&nb
sp; “Yes,” Nick and William say in unison.
“Because she never does anything by mistake,” Belle says. “I agree. But it really pisses me off that she’s gone dark again. What is this? A demented scavenger hunt?”
William sighs. “It’s obvious she’s in trouble. That husband of hers is scary. Maybe she thinks we’ll know how to find her, but he won’t.”
“I don’t know,” Nick says. “I’ve never really understood her strategies. I just know it’s always better to go along with her, because she’s always right.” He rubs his temples. “By the way, I’m about to burst a major artery in my brain. I have a terrible headache.”
“Drink some water,” Belle says. “You’re dehydrated again. And quit crying like a small helpless infant.”
Nick takes a gallon jug of water out of his daypack and drinks about half of it. “You’re awfully quiet, William. What’s up with you?” he says.
“Nothing,” William says, looking out the window at the parched, rocky landscape and endless powder-blue sky. “I want to get on with it. Let’s find Marina.”
Belle can see William is annoyed with her, but she can’t worry about that. Finding Marina is going to be hard, and she’s going to have to maintain her focus in order to accomplish the goal.
When they near Las Vegas, Belle gives the car instructions to find them the cheapest room available, and well before midnight it delivers them into a trash-strewn parking lot that shares a ten-foot-high, barbed-wire-topped fence with an airport runway. She waits for William to complain—no doubt he’s appalled by the dusty plastic awnings, the peeling paint, and the rickety railings at America’s Best Value Inn—and she’s lying in wait to put him down for his fancy tastes. But he says nothing. Every few minutes, jets thunder overhead, drowning out any conversation, but the desk clerk, a greasy-haired codger wearing a stained shirt that had once been white and scuffed yellow loafers, assures them it’s not noisy all the time—when the wind changes, the planes will start using a different runway.
Belle nods automatically and offers her chip. The price of the room is so low, even Belle is shocked. She knows it’s going to be one of those places where they charge for everything—not just the extra cot, but also the towels, soap, water for the shower, air conditioning, and lights—but she figures they can control those costs if they’re careful. Anyway, she thinks, she can always play some blackjack and win money to keep them going. She’d promised herself she’d never gamble again after her last run, which had lasted a week, involved almost no sleep, and derailed her life, but these are once-in-a-lifetime circumstances. Plus, her last foray had been years ago. Maybe it won’t be a problem this time.
She remembers her stretch in a juvenile prison. She winces. At the age of sixteen, when she’d been masquerading as a twenty-one-year old cocktail server, she’d been swept up in a raid on an illegal poker game. She shudders as her dread of ending up in jail again twists her stomach.
But this is different, isn’t it? Vegas is so big, surely there’s a way to play, win, and get away with the money, all while searching for and finding Marina. A win-win-win, as they say.
Once they secure the room—with its scary bedspreads, hairballs, and stained popcorn ceilings—they freshen up in a rusty shower with expensive but ordinary soap and water. The place smells so thoroughly of ancient cigarette smoke, Belle wants to leave the room before the smell seeps permanently into her skin.
They resume their places in the car. It will drop them off and return to the motel, then come pick them up later when it’s called.
Belle is anxious to find Marina, so they can get her back on track and practice. The game’s in less than ten days.
She’s determined to keep things moving, keep William and Nick on task. William is obviously tired of the Marina-finding project, but he’s coping. Nick, on the other hand, could fall apart any minute. He’s not made for hunting missing persons in the real world in the middle of the summer.
∆∆∆
“Summers are long and hot in the southwest,” Nick says, swigging from his water jug. He’s sweating, but the sweat seems to dematerialize as quickly as his body can make it. Even in the middle of the night, Las Vegas is hot.
Nick is trying to ignore his aching legs as he trails endlessly after Belle and William. They’re hiking the Las Vegas Strip, deciding which casinos to try next.
Belle doesn’t seem to feel the heat, even though she’s wearing her usual long black jeans and a leather vest.
Most of the people, Nick notices, are scantily dressed. There are women in bikini tops and stretchy skirts, skimpy sundresses and sandals. Men in fedoras and baseball caps, flip flops and shorts. Some are shirtless. Shirtless and ripped or shirtless and beer-bellied or shirtless and hairy as gorillas.
“You see everything here, don’t you?” Nick says, grinning as another huge, sweaty, shirtless man rushes by. The man’s skin is as smooth as glass and he moves like a dancer. He’s beautiful, Nick thinks, but he’d never approach one of these Las Vegas pretty boys. Or any pretty boy, really. He prefers nice, regular-looking guys who want to talk about ideas.
“You shouldn’t talk about how people look,” Belle says. “Don’t you have another shirt?”
“What?” Nick says. He looks down at his outfit, which he thinks is fine. He is of the opinion that pants can never have too many pockets, especially when you’re on a trip, so he’s wearing his long safari shorts. And yes, he’s also wearing his favorite shirt, something he bought on Sorcerer Marketplace for a pittance. It looks like an old-fashioned painter’s smock. It’s orange—or maybe goldenrod—with gathers at the neck, and it falls loosely to hip level. Because it’s a smart shirt, it cleans itself, alerts him when he’s received a message from any social site or game where he maintains an active account, and adjusts to the weather, becoming waterproof in the rain and conserving body heat or wicking sweat as needed. It tells him when his heart rate or respiration is elevated. It vibrates violently in case of any disaster alert or civil defense warning.
“I love this shirt,” Nick says.
William pats his shoulder. “You look cool in it, man,” he says. “Don’t listen to her.”
“Not cool. Not even in the sense of body temp,” Belle says.
William shakes his head and looks at the ground. Nick hopes William doesn’t secretly agree with Belle. He also hopes William is going to stick with the team. Living with Belle Morris in the real world is harder than he thought it would be.
“It’s okay,” Nick says, wanting urgently to break the tension. “I probably do look like a dweeb.”
“You look fine, man,” William says, frowning at Belle.
She keeps walking; William stays close behind her.
Nick follows Belle and William into a huge marble and crystal casino, blessedly cooled just this side of arctic.
They make their way to a $20 blackjack table.
“We’re lucky to find such a low limit,” Belle says.
“Twenty bucks a hand is low?” Nick says. He can’t understand how all these thousands of people can afford to gamble here.
“Very,” Belle says.
“That one over there is a thousand,” Williams says.
“Remember not to underestimate me or lose focus,” Belle says to Nick and William. “Just listen carefully and do what’s expedient in the moment.”
“Remind me how we’ll know it’s time to leave?” Nick says. He’s tired and he’s trying hard not to complain about his sore legs and feet and back.
“Don’t worry. I’ll give you hints,” she says. “Don’t get distracted by the card game. Stand behind me and watch. When the time comes, things will happen fast, and we’ll have to move. Just like in Battlecraft.”
“But it’s not Battlecraft,” Nick says. “Battlecraft has no pit bosses or security guys in suits.”
“True,” Belle says. “But it has lots of rules. You have to be aware of the rules. The subtle ones and the ones written in red letters on signs. Their defi
nition of cheating is not the same as ours. We can stay on the right side of our line, but we might step over theirs. They get to throw out anyone they want.”
“Great,” William says drily.
“I’m going to play at various tables and win a little money, and while I’m doing that, I’m going to ask the dealers about Marina. If I ever think we’re getting too much attention, I’ll get up and we’ll go on to the next casino.”
“That should work. Because you look just like her,” Nick says. “The dealers will talk to you about her because they’ll believe you’re her sister.”
Belle puts her hands on her hips and stares at Nick, leaning forward so they’re nose to nose. “Yeah, all right. You won the sister argument. Move on.”
Nick holds his palms up, surrendering.
Belle plays for an hour, wins more than a thousand dollars, and keeps playing. During a shuffle-break, William speaks into her ear, telling her it’s time to move on. She stiffens, but she does cash out and leaves the table. In this manner they move on to another casino and another.
All Nick can think about is how exhausted he is and how much his body hurts. They’ve been trudging through casinos for five hours, scanning the crowds and asking around about Marina. He ticks off the casinos they’ve visited: Caesar’s, Paris, Bally’s, the Venetian, Harrah’s. There’s no sign of Marina.
It seems hopeless. There are nearly fifty casinos on The Strip, dozens more in the downtown area and the outskirts. All of them seem packed with people walking, gambling, dancing, swimming, sunning, cavorting, flirting, eating, drinking, vaping, even smoking old-time combustibles. Hundreds of thousands of people. If Marina doesn’t want to be found, they won’t find her. But doesn’t the ping mean she does want to be found? What game is she playing?