Battlecraft VR

by Linden Storm

  There are orange cones, trucks backing up, homeless beggars, other smokers, intrusive pigeons, and scurrying rats.

  Gemma takes off her headdress but lights her long cigarette from a borrowed match supplied by a security guard. Paul takes one of Gemma’s cigarettes and smokes too. Marina stands a little apart.

  “So, what makes you think Rupert is in trouble?” Gemma says.

  “You heard about the team’s arrest?”

  “Yes, last I heard, Rupert stormed out of a meeting with Harold in tow and commandeered a company jet—he’s in trouble, by the way, for that stunt.”

  “He flew to Nevada and bailed out Belle, William, and Nick, then all five of them got in a van Rupert had bought and started driving here to meet Marina and me,” Paul says.

  “Good heavens, why?” Gemma says. “Why wouldn’t he fly them here?”

  “Something about wanting them to bond,” Paul says, frowning.

  “Well, that’s just a formula for calamity, darlings, don’t you think?”

  “Um, yes,” Paul says. “Calamity, that’s a good word.”

  Gemma takes a long drag on her cigarette, turns her head, and blows it out over her shoulder with considerable force. She watches her smoke curl for a moment. “And now the rest of the team is missing? Why do we not think they have simply become distracted with the lovely views or checked into a spa?”

  “Rupert? You know as well as we do that he’s never out of touch unless he has to be. Like if he’s having a medical procedure or a romantic encounter—and sometimes you can reach him in the middle of those things, too. Nick is the same way,” Marina says.

  “I suppose that’s true,” Gemma says. “But there’s more. Something you’re not telling me, I sense.”

  Marina kicks at a piece of garbage on the ground. “I left my husband and he is looking for me.”

  “Oh, dear,” Gemma says. “You were worried about that before, weren’t you, dear?” She looks at Paul.

  Paul shifts uncomfortably, avoiding Marina’s inquisitive gaze.

  “I thought things might be wrong there, yeah,” Paul says.

  “And you were right,” Marina says, patting Paul’s arm reassuringly.

  “Ah,” Gemma says. “How do you know he is looking for you?”

  Marina touches Gemma’s arm. “He has sent his friend, the Sheriff of Maricopa County, after our friends. As a result, I believe we must go physically to find them, and we must not delay.”

  “But how are we going to find them? We don’t know where they are, do we?” Gemma says.

  “I have calculated a likely location,” Marina says. “Please help us.”

  “I plead the press of my duties,” Gemma says. “How can I leave now? This convention represents up to fifteen percent of my annual income.”

  “This will be a great adventure,” Marina says. She blurts it before thinking it through and immediately sees it was the right thing to say. Gemma’s right eyebrow arches as the smoke curls up from her cigarette. This woman is an artist and an actor. Appealing to her imagination might be the best tactic by far.

  Gemma looks intrigued, almost hungry. Whatever satisfaction she’s getting from bits of attention, even adoration, from fans—it’s not the same as playing the part of an action star.

  She claps her blue-gloved hands in delight. But then she shakes her head and says, “No, sweeties, I can’t. I’m presently quite, quite broke.”

  Marina opens her bag. “I have money,” she says.

  Gemma whistles. “My goodness, dear, how much is in that knapsack?”

  “I can give you two thousand dollars.”

  “It’s not enough,” Gemma says. “I’d need ten. At least.”

  “What?” Paul says. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Nonetheless,” Gemma says, eyeing the cash.

  “Fine,” Marina says. She picks up a pile of bills. Ben Franklins with their holographic bands wink in the slanted sunlight. Sundown’s in an hour. They need to get going.

  “So much currency,” Gemma says. “You must have been gambling.”

  “Yes, I was in Las Vegas,” Marina says. “They still use cash. It’s like stepping back in time.”

  “Arcane gambling laws require cash currency,” Gemma says. “On the other hand, can you imagine the societal carnage if the American masses could simply press their fingers to the slot machines and wake the money-gobbling monsters that way?In addition to drug addicts, this nation would have finger-gamblers living in plastic tubes under freeways and bridges. But why do you need me if you have so much currency?”

  “We need stealth,” Paul says. “We can’t buy or rent a vehicle, or the enemy might see us coming.”

  He notices the exhilarated, hungry look assert itself again on Gemma’s sharp, even features.

  “It’s a covert op, isn’t it, darling?” Gemma says. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  “Good,” says Marina.

  Paul rolls his eyes behind Gemma’s back. Marina shoots him a look that says keep quiet.

  ∆∆∆

  Paul notices his hands are shaking violently as he and Marina and Gemma hike through the parking garage in search of Gemma’s vehicle. He tries his breathing exercises but as usual he’s so wound up he can’t even tell if they’re helping.

  Which means they’re not working, dumbass, he thinks.

  “They make the stars park on Alpha Centauri,” Gemma says cheerfully.

  “You are a good walker,” Marina says.

  Gemma shrugs. “Years of practice.”

  Paul marvels at the pace Gemma can attain in that footwear. It must be like walking on stilts.

  They pass a clot of neon-vested men who stare open-mouthed at them.

  No wonder, Paul thinks. An exotic-looking young woman, a man with a divot in his skull, and a seven-foot-tall blue alien.

  It doesn’t help that Gemma makes noise as she walks. The clunk of the heavy platforms on concrete, the jingle-jangle of her various weapons and shields and pieces of armor.

  Paul wonders how old Gemma is. What was the show she was on? He knows her character’s name was Chagrin, but he can’t remember the show’s title. It wasn’t Stargate or Firefly. It was a television series that in the early 2020s acquired a fanbase whose passion far exceeded the reach or popularity of the show

  Whatever her age is, Paul thinks, she moves like a young woman. She's obviously an opportunist, but he is beginning to like her. She loves attention, but she has a sense of humor about herself.

  But Paul is worried. This mission, or whatever it is, is going to be dangerous.

  Marina is scary-smart, but how much help will she be in a physical encounter? If Gemma is as flaky as she sometimes seems, can she be counted on in a crisis? The people they’re going after are violent; the risk could be unacceptably high. He makes a private decision that he knows has serious implications, but he believes he has no choice.

  “We need to make a stop on the way,” Paul says.

  “Where?” Marina says.

  “In Milpitas,” Paul says.

  “That’s south of here,” Gemma says. “Is it on the way?”

  “Not exactly, but it’s nonnegotiable,” Paul says firmly. “Come on, let’s go. One step at a time.”

  Paul is on probation, and the terms of his release include a list of contraband he’s not supposed to have in his possession, but right now he’s sure of one thing: Under these circumstances, if Marina’s ex and his friend the sheriff are after the team, they’re going to need weapons.

  They make room for themselves in the van. Gemma drives, efficiently getting them onto a reasonably direct route that allows people-driven vehicles. It’ll take a while, but they’ll get there.

  ∆∆∆

  Paul has never been to Milpitas, but he knows that it is chopped into four cities by a fast, tangled cloverleaf junction and consists mostly of thoroughly paved farmland, apartments, and brown hills ravaged by drought and wildfires.

  Everyone works for a
tech company, and most work for the behemoths—Google and Sorcerer. Boeing is manufacturing drones there, now, too, in a new robotic factory. The techies commute to work hubs that sprawl in glass-topped, low buildings, offering a variety of collaborative and solo environments to encourage productivity.

  Thus Milpitas is full of drones, automatic vehicles, buzz, plentiful day work, humans, wine and food, swimming pools, tract homes, and asphalt.

  In the heart of Milpitas is a gun shop called Red Bone. It’s the kind of place that does not want to be noticed. Paul knows it exists because he’d had a buddy who’d been in the Marines, a gun nut who called Milpitas his hometown.

  The only clue Paul can find on the internets is the name of a strip mall, a phone number, and an old photograph of a door with a red crossbones logo. He knows he needs an appointment, which is just as well, since it’s getting late. It’ll be well past nine by the time they get there.

  He gets Gemma to circle the strip mall and its environs, but it takes him a while to find the nondescript, poorly lit door.

  Red Bone turns out to be in a warehouse next to a loading dock. Backed up to the dock are drone-driven semis being unloaded by a single worker wearing an exoskeleton.

  He asks Gemma to park far away and says he’ll find them when he’s done. They reluctantly agree.

  “Maybe we’ll visit the grocery,” Gemma says.

  “Good idea,” Paul says. “Some supplies would be good.”

  He exits the van and pads up to the door and knocks on it. There’s no bell.

  No one comes.

  He tries again, pounding this time, then tries calling the phone number, leaving a message as he’d done before. When no one stirs, he wanders toward the loading dock and looks up at the worker in the exoskeleton. She’s an older woman of Asian descent.

  “Excuse me, do you know where the proprietors are?” he says, tilting his head at the Red Bone door.

  “Why are you going to that place?” she says, looking him up and down from the inside of her battered shell.

  Paul thinks about how she has nothing to fear while she is wearing that thing. It could pick any man up and throw him forty yards or snap his pine.

  He shakes his head to clear that image, talks himself down. She’s probably just a feisty Milpitan protecting her turf.

  He raises his hands in a friendly gesture and slowly climbs the stairs to the loading dock surface so he can venture a closer look at her. She’s a tiny, wizened lady with short graying hair, and she’s wearing layers of clothes inside the shiny exoskeleton, even though the temperature must be in the high 70s.

  A turtleneck, a couple of scarves, a long-sleeved shirt, a vest.

  She peers down at him through colored smart glasses.

  “I see you’re a veteran,” she says.

  “How did you know?” he says.

  “Number one, most people looking for Red Bone are veterans. Number two, I have illegal facial recognition and surveillance on my specs.” She bugs out her eyes and grimaces.

  He decides to ignore the provocation. “Nobody’s answering the door,” he says. “Their message said they’d meet me here if I named a time, and I named this time. Ma’am.”

  He adds the ma’am because he hears his father’s voice in his head requiring the honorific when talking to any woman, especially if she’s older. He can’t help but smile when he thinks of his dad, who has never lost any of his passion for being mannerly. His mother has always been more indulgent and flexible that way, but she’d let his dad lead him in those types of things, while reserving the right to lecture him about the more nuanced issues concerning gender and relationships. Paul remembers the gentle but persistent way she’d trained him all his life to stand up for women who were being harassed or insulted or teased by bullying men, and again he feels ashamed about the way he’d scared his wife. He covers his face with his hands, trying to shake off the shame spiral.

  He hasn’t talked to his folks for weeks, but they text him every day, and he always texts back. The last thing he wants is to think they’re worrying about him, especially when he’s worried about himself.

  The lady in the exoskeleton nods at Paul. “Don’t worry, young man, the Red Bone people are here. Looking at you right now.”

  “That’s a coincidence. You’re looking at me right now too, ma’am,” Paul says, smiling.

  “You caught me,” she says, smiling. Her white teeth gleam in the half dark.

  The area is lit up, but the lights are the amber color that throws enough light to see where you’re going but not much else.

  The lady shrugs and twists, and the exoskeleton falls open and delivers her to the ground.

  Without the exoskeleton, the lady is as tiny as a child. She tilts her had back and peers up at him. He offers his hand and she examines it, then looks at his face and head.

  “Looks like something or someone got you, kid,” she says.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, smiling. “What’s the matter, do you have some gaps in your data?”

  She grins. “I do. A blank spot a little over a year ago.”

  “It’s good to know the government keeps some of its promises,” he says.

  She nods, accepting his evasion.

  “So, ma’am, what have you decided? Can I come in?” he says.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” she says.

  “Do you mind if I ask your name?” he says.

  “It’s Alice Tam,” she says.

  “Well, Ms. Tam, I can’t tell you why I need the weapons. I can only tell you that I am a good person trying to protect other good people from some heavily armed bad people.”

  “Do you expect me to believe you, then?” she says.

  “I’m betting that besides facial recognition, you also have illegal lie detection. You can tell I’m not lying.”

  “Fair enough,” Ms. Tam says, smiling up at him. “I guess the only remaining question is why I should take the risk.”

  “I have cash?” he says. “Lots of untraceable cash.”

  Ms. Tam smiles big, showing her white teeth again. “That is a rare thing these days, Mr. Boone, and lucky for you I can’t resist it.”

  Indicating that he should follow, she moves back into the darkness. “That door is just a decoy,” she says over her shoulder. “Everyone has to come through me.”

  They proceed into the dark interior of the warehouse. Alice Tam is holding a powerful flashlight that cuts a tight band of bright light twenty feet ahead. Paul thinks he sees a door down there. He smells garlic and ginger and simmering beef and realizes he’s hungry, and he thinks about Gemma and Marina waiting for him. He hopes they’re finding some food. They’re all going to need the fuel.

  “Did you see Monument Peak on your way in?” Alice Tam says.

  “I don’t know, ma’am, I saw some hills, though,” Paul says.

  “Those are the Diablos,” she says. “Do you know what Diablo means?”

  “Devil?” he says.

  “That’s right,” she says. “Those hills are the only reason I live in this place. That and the excellent farm-to-table restaurant scene.”

  “How’s business?” Paul says.

  “Not bad. And you’re correct to bring that up—I should include the business climate in my list of reasons to live in Milpitas. Since the early 2000s, Milpitas has been the city with the most techies per capita of any city in the world, and those people have money. Plus, there’s a healthy percentage of paranoid ones who have secret safe rooms and apocalypse lockers and bolt holes and all that stuff. My personal opinion is that most of them would freeze up in an apocalypse. If the internets winked out they wouldn’t be able to figure out how to wipe their own butts.”

  Paul laughs. His stomach is nervous about this move, which could land him in jail for years, but when he thinks about Marina, Gemma, and the others, he knows he has to proceed.

  “I have a list for you,” he says to Alice Tam, showing her a scrap of paper covered with his hasty scribbles
.

  ∆∆∆

  In the van, Marina and Gemma eat hot containers of noodles from an excellent Japanese udon shop. The soup is made with chewy, flavorful noodles, luscious broth, locally grown eggs and creamy, fresh tofu.

  “How does it feel to be a star?” Marina says.

  Gemma laughs. Her laugh is high and exuberant and wild, like the call of a panicked tropical bird. And very loud. Marina stops chewing and waits for her to wind down.

  “Star? That’s what they call us at the Cons, sweetie, but obviously I’m a lowly laborer in the fields of fame,” Gemma says. “In our entertainment economy, acting or performing as a musician or dancer or whatever is no longer an uncommon profession. It still amazes me that I can patch together a poor living on the basis of my role in an ancient video series.”

  “It’s impressive,” Marina says. “And obviously arduous work. From what I observed, you are very good at it.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. I am, actually.” She laughs again, and Marina can’t help but join in.

  Gemma takes a large mouthful of noodles and chews seriously for a moment. “I am good at it, but frankly I don’t love it as much as I appear to. I’d rather be acting for the streams. The only real roles I get now are occasional voice gigs from Rupert. Thus the panic in my heart at the thought of Rupert in danger.”

  Marina watches Gemma’s face and chews thoughtfully.

  Gemma touches her arm. “Of course, he is my, um, friend, sort of. So I’m worried about him. Of course I am.”

  “Of course,” Marina says, not really believing. She knows Gemma’s type. She is self-focused, even narcissistic. She can’t help it. She obviously loves performing, all that attention from strangers. Marina shudders.

  And then she remembers that in some sense she too is a performer now. People sometimes recognize her on the streets. For her, though, it’s the very high price of playing the game, not a benefit.

  “Why are you so involved in this adventure, if I might ask?” Gemma says. “It can’t be good for your marriage.”