Battlecraft VR

by Linden Storm

This comment reminds Marina how much older Gemma is, how old-fashioned, really, and to keep the peace she agrees with her. “It’s not good for my marriage—although that’s over now—or my immigration status. Or my personal safety, to be honest.”

  Marina decides to eat a couple of bites. The noodles are so good, and they’re cooling off enough to slurp up quickly now.

  “My eventual goals are to become a citizen of the United States, to play Battlecraft professionally, to be near my sister, and eventually to teach graduate-level mathematics here at a top university,” Marina says quietly.

  “My goodness,” Gemma says. “That last one is an impressive ambition.”

  Marina shrugs. “I have always been sure I would do what I needed to do to meet my goals, but now…”

  “You don’t really think we’re in danger, do you, dear?” Gemma says.

  “Um, yes,” Marina says, chewing and swallowing a delicious mouthful. “I know we are.”

  “Oh, come on. How do you know?”

  “I have hours of surveillance footage in which my husband and his law-enforcement friends discuss their smuggling and thuggery-for-hire activities and also plot to kidnap me, for some unknown reason.”

  “Oh, dear,” Gemma says.

  “One thing I’ve noticed since coming here,” Marina says, slowly and carefully, “is that this country doesn’t always live up to its pop-culture reputation.”

  “Yes,” Gemma says, pausing. “I know coming from England to America doesn’t seem like a big deal to most people—same language and so forth—but it wasn’t a breeze for me, either.”

  “How so?” Marina says.

  “It was a year after my divorce, my first divorce, that is, that I decided to move to Los Angeles. To ride the audition dragon. I was only 22. The casting couch was still a thing to be reckoned with then. It didn’t really begin to fade away until the great Weinstein scandal of 2017—and even then it only slowed for a time—but I persisted, because that is what you had to do back in the day. Fend off hands, offers of massage, whatever. Lucky me, after about a thousand auditions I was offered a one-episode role in a space opera on an upstart channel. No one could have predicted the success of that little show. Have you seen it?”

  Marina nods. “I know the show. You made it as good as it could be. Which wasn’t very good, really.”

  Gemma breaks into her annoying laugh again.

  At least this woman appreciates forthrightness, Marina thinks. Even if it’s about her. Marina chews for a time, begins to feel sated.

  “I suppose we have certain things in common, you’re right,” Marina says. “Being born elsewhere, you never quite belong.”

  Gemma nods. “Yes, and maybe we have something else in common. I think we lead from the outskirts, don’t we? Beckoning the less experienced to follow us into the wilderness.”

  “The wilderness?” Marina says, mystified.

  “I mean, we come from outside this country, and this country, for all its faults, provides an environment combining personal freedom and opportunity. You’d never know it now, sweetie, but this is not the accent I was born with. I grew up quite Cockney, really. Here I could start fresh.”

  “I believe you could. Because you’re the right color, and you have citizenship or a green card, and you have the wherewithal to take advantage of all of that,” Marina says irritably.

  “Tell me about it,” Gemma says. “I’d like to know.”

  “Not enough food, too many criminals. What supplies we had were guarded by foreigners with automatic weapons and body armor, and thugs with clubs would attack you in the street for a bag of dried soy protein.”

  “I see what you mean,” Gemma says gravely. “I apologize.”

  Marina examines Gemma’s face. She looks sincere. Maybe she is not so foolish after all. Or maybe she’s just a competent actor.

  They’re both quiet for a minute or two, picking soft tofu out of their bowls and chewing noodles.

  “May I ask you something?” Gemma says. “Why does this team need you so much?”

  Marina shrugs. “Have you never watched us play?’

  “Yes, but I didn’t understand what was going on.”

  “Fair enough. They need me so much because I’m the best player this game has ever seen.”

  “That’s a bold statement,” Gemma says.

  “I have a strange ability to remember the details of every match I’ve ever seen or played, and those matches number in the thousands. I remember every glitch and quirk. I remember every map and every objective and every obstacle. But more than that, I can see ahead and strategize for the win. Still, this game is a team game, and I cannot win on my own. I need the team to play well and play together, or even I cannot win. Do you see?”

  They chew for a while and then Marina turns to Gemma.

  “Can I ask you something?” Marina says.

  “You can ask.”

  “Why do you work for Rupert? Frankly, he is a bit disrespectful of you.”

  “He can be awful, darling, but he doesn’t mistreat me any more than most of his other minions,” Gemma says, shrugging.

  “But why him?” Marina says. “There must be other day jobs for someone like you.”

  “Because he’s a billionaire, sweetie? They’re as rare as hit shows, in my experience. Not that I’ve been given a fantastic opportunity, or even much of his money, not yet. But I hope it’s only a matter of time if I can hang in there with him. He’s got some troubles ahead and he is going to need associates he can trust.”

  “Can he trust you?”

  “Basically, yes. Because I don’t have much of an agenda of my own. All I want is a little money and a few acting jobs, and he has plenty of both.”

  “Do you really think you’ll be given a chance at better money, working for him? He gives the impression of someone who keeps hold of every cent,” Marina says.

  “Indeed,” Gemma says. “I recall a time when he lectured me for nicking a bag of kettle-cooked potato crisps from his boxed lunch. He made me go out in the October rain and replace it using my own meagre funds. If I could have spit into the bag I would have, but he wouldn’t have accepted a breached package.”

  “After spending time with you, I do not I blame him,” Marina says.

  Gemma looks into her eyes and then starts laughing again. Marina covers her ears, which makes Gemma laugh harder.

  “I like you,” Gemma says, gasping with laughter.

  “I like you, too,” Marina says, realizing as she says it that she means it. “But now I must go obtain some special supplies.”

  Marina exits the van and makes her way to a mall across the highway, where there’s a small electronics and hardware kiosk. She’ll be able to get what she needs in those two places.

  She’s thinking her friends will need a little help—some advantage no one will see coming—and with some luck and work, she can provide it.

  Chapter Eleven

  He’s Past His Prime

  William figures it must be nearly midnight. They’ve been locked in the shed more than twelve hours, with rusty water to drink and no food. It’s getting cold, too, and all they have are some burlap bags and dusty rugs to wrap around themselves.

  He sits on a greasy box and watches Harold panting on his makeshift bed on the floor of their prison. Harold’s face is gray. He grimaces periodically and makes odd swallowing motions, works his jaw, holds his breath, or coughs weakly. He says maneuvers like these sometimes settle his heart rhythm. So far nothing seems to be working.

  Belle has become obsessed with pouring insults and obscene gestures into the camera above the door.

  All William can think about right now is Harold. The old man needs his meds. His condition is worsening with every hour that passes.

  Belle stands and addresses the camera. “Look at him! You fuckers! He’s an old man! Give him his meds!”

  “Shut up in there, or I’ll give you something to bitch about!” says one of the thugs, pounding on the do
or from the outside.

  Belle’s response is to kick the hell out of the door and scream more foul obscenities.

  “Belle,” William says carefully, when there’s a short pause. “Can we talk about this?”

  “What good will talking do?” she says. Her eyes are wild.

  Harold groans and holds his chest.

  “See?” she says, sweeping her arm toward Harold.

  William looks around. There’s a space in the back corner that has boxes piled up around it, and he thinks they’ll be able to talk back there without being heard or seen.

  “Sit here,” William says, moving to the corner. “With Nick and me and Rupert. Breathe.”

  “I don’t want to breathe,” she says.

  Rupert looks up at the camera and then cuts his eyes to the corner. “Do it anyway,” Rupert says. “Please.”

  Belle’s face registers a jolt of recognition.

  Good, that’s it, William thinks. Rupert knows, Nick knows, they all know they need Belle to take a moment and think. If she can focus, she’ll think of something.

  Slowly, Rupert, then Nick, then Belle move to William’s side and sit in a tight circle on the dirty floor. They’re tired, filthy, and sore from their injuries. They need food and rest and first aid, but more than anything they need a plan.

  Once everyone is settled, William raises his hand.

  “We need something clever,” William whispers. “Something they’re not expecting.”

  “Good idea,” Rupert says. “What?”

  “They can’t want an old man to die under their watch, can they?” Nick says. “We’ve done everything we can, but if he doesn’t get his meds, I’m afraid….”

  “Do they care, though?” Belle says. “They ran us off the road and then kidnapped us at gunpoint. They can’t let us go, especially now that they’ve realized who Rupert is, or they’re completely screwed.” She shakes her head, pauses. “Sorry if I’m being negative again, but I don’t think they’re ever going to let us go.”

  “However, they haven’t killed us yet,” Rupert says. “That must mean something.”

  “We have to figure out what they want,” Belle says. “And then we can figure out how to pretend to give it to them.”

  “They haven’t asked for money,” William says.

  “I don’t think they knew Rupert was with us,” Nick says. “They’ve got to be scared shitless that they’ve kidnapped a billionaire.”

  “Unless that was the plan all along,” Rupert says.

  “It wasn’t,” Belle says. “It was a fuckup. Did you see the reaction when they realized you were with us? They thought you’d flown off in your jet and we were the only ones in the van. And they took us because they’re trying to find Marina and her vids. They’re using us as bait to get her here. Then they’ll get rid of us.”

  “Do you think we can use that?” William says. “The fact that they need to capture Marina?”

  Belle thinks. Nick starts to say something, and she raises a finger for silence. Finally, she makes a small whoop and slaps her thigh. “I think I have an idea.”

  “What?” Nick says.

  “We have to trust Marina, right?” Belle says. “Just like we do in the game.”

  “What do you mean?” Nick says.

  “This is going to work,” Belle says.

  ∆∆∆

  An hour later, in what must be the middle of the night or the very early morning, William stands at the door and knocks three times, stops, then knocks three times again. “Hello?” he says.

  “What do you want?” the guard says.

  “Some of us want to make a deal,” William says. “We can give you Marina.”

  Belle starts screaming and flies at William. “You bastard! You promised!”

  She hits him. It stings. He yells and pushes her back. “Hold her!” he says.

  Nick and Rupert rush forward. They each grab one of Belle’s arms. She fights and struggles, but they drag her away from the door.

  She kicks at them. They push her down to the floor. While Rupert holds her down, Nick shoves a rag in her mouth, then ties her hands with a length of rope.

  “Thank God,” Rupert says loudly. “She’s such a screamer.”

  There’s an epic struggle, with Belle thrashing, kicking, and trying to bite. It goes on for a while. Then hears heavy footfalls outside the door.

  “What are you boys up to?” says a new, smoother, deeper voice from the other side.

  William nods at the camera, then at Rupert and Nick.

  “Sir, we want to make a deal,” William says. “We think we can help you.”

  The room feels hot now, William thinks, though he knows it’s got to be in the low sixties. They must be at a high elevation, because even though it’s August, the night is chilly.

  “Give us the old man’s medication, and we’ll help you find Marina,” William says through the door. He’s breathing heavily, even though he’s had no part in the fight.

  There’s a long pause.

  “You could take the pills and then renege,” the gruff voice outside says.

  “Then just give us one dose. That way we have to cooperate to get the next dose.”

  Belle bucks and moans.

  Gliding back a step, William looks up and smiles for the camera. “She’s not in charge any more. We’ve got her under control.”

  The camera whirs as it turns and zooms in on the struggling trio: Nick, Rupert, and Belle. Belle kicks her feet and tries to get up, but Rupert is kneeling behind Belle’s head, holding her shoulders down. He looks up into the camera, tilting his head so he can peer up through his eyebrows and grin maniacally. He manages to look scary in the manner of Norman Bates planning his next shower attack.

  Nick, who is kneeling near Belle’s feet, trying to restrain her legs, loses his grip for a moment, and Belle kicks him in the face. He grunts and pounces on her, punching her in the stomach. Nick then stays on top of Belle, straddling her. He backhands her, and she quits struggling.

  William sneaks a look at Harold. His eyes are closed; he looks like he’s passed out.

  “Look,” William says. “The deal is, you give us Harold’s meds, and we’ll help you find and capture Marina. We can do it.”

  There’s a long silence, some shuffling outside the door, a voice raised, then murmuring.

  “How are you going to deliver on that promise? I thought you said you didn’t know where she was.” The voice was gruff and insistent.

  “We don’t,” William says, “but we know who she’s with. We call those people and talk to Marina. Marina comes here because she doesn’t want her sister to get hurt.”

  “How do we know you aren’t calling in the FBI?”

  “You monitor everything in real time. You tell us what to do.”

  William stands back from the door and waits. Is a pause a good thing or a bad thing? He hopes the silence doesn’t go on too long, because if Harold is getting too worked up, he might lose control, step in, and blow the whole show.

  ∆∆∆

  As the fight unfolds, Harold, lying on the floor with one eye barely cracked open, reminds himself over and over that it’s playacting. They’re giving it all they’ve got, selling it. Chewing the scenery, as they used to say. It looks too real, though, and his heart is tapping out a particularly syncopated sequence.

  But he’s got to wait.

  Hell if I’ll be the one to clue the degenerates in, he thinks.

  I’ll bide my time until I can personally feed them their own balls on a platter.

  Over in the corner, Belle struggles mightily. Look at her go, Harold thinks.

  And then, as the drama unfolds and his grandson slaps Belle, he needs to distract himself. He reminds himself it’s stage fighting and makes his thoughts go to a different place, focusing on the shed or barn or whatever it is, and what a shame it is that it’s been made into a prison. All his life, Harold has worked in places like this, a shelter used for farm animals and implem
ents for more than a century, and all the ghosts of farmers and beasts seem to infuse the dirty floor and walls, the dusty air. Who used those hoes and shovels? Who stored the tractor parts, the harnesses and bits, the burlap bags and wooden crates?

  Harold thinks too, about the sacred bonds being formed now, as this group of individuals do what they need to do, whatever it is, to save his life.

  He knows from experience what this means. When you put everything you have into saving another person’s life, it remakes you into someone nobler, someone bigger. Even if you’re the only one who knows what you did.

  But if you’re part of a group—a platoon, squadron, or team—you create a connection that can last a lifetime.

  If they make it through this attack by these assholes, these young people will look back on this night forever. It will stand as the night that made them. Harold hopes fervently that he will live long enough to see all this come to pass.

  And, looking at the determination on Belle’s face, he believes he will. She’s a magnificent young woman.

  ∆∆∆

  Belle keeps having to remind herself to struggle periodically.

  It’s not time for her to fold yet. She must remain fierce until the moment when the supposed lover, William, declares his never-ending devotion and melts her ice-cold heart.

  It’s so stupid, she thinks, such a sexist cliché, but she’s hopeful the bastards will buy it. It’ll play into all their fantasies about weak women and domineering men, and they won’t even think to question the setup.

  She goes back to rehearsing her lines in her head. Especially the coded message she needs to send Marina.

  It has to be something the enemy won’t pick up on, but it has to give Marina and Paul enough information to proceed with confidence.

  She casts her memory back to a practice session when Marina first joined the team. They’d developed high-risk, high-reward strategies to use against teams that were vastly better than they were at the time. They’d called the set of stratagems “Howdy Marina,” a play on the football term “Hail Mary pass.” There were several variations on Howdy Marina, and the one they chose was determined by the firepower of the opposition and the game map being played. Belle needs to pick a code that will let Marina know they are being held together in a shed by armed men. She needs to remember a game analog as close to their situation as possible.