Battlecraft VR

by Linden Storm

  She looks out the window and sees nothing but the wall’s shimmer. Much too late to climb out and try another way into his chamber.

  She could try a desperate run across the ladder hole, shooting blindly up at Ryu, but he’d surely get off a fatal shot before she did. All she has left, she thinks, is a bow, a knife, and two fire arrows.

  I’m screwed, she thinks.

  But she begins rifling her bags, searching for something, anything else she can use.

  And then she finds it: William’s parting gift, one explosive charge, detonatable via fire arrow. She takes it out of her bag and looks it over.

  Beautiful. Enough power to blast a ten-foot radius to rubble.

  The ceiling is twelve or thirteen feet up.

  As quickly as she can, she finds her rope, climbs on a pile of barrels, and lashes the charge to a crossbeam near the ceiling of her chamber.

  She retreats to get a good angle on the charge. The wall is approaching, but there might be enough time.

  She crouches behind her best shield.

  She nocks her bow with one of her two remaining fire arrows and shoots it up at the bulbous form of the charge.

  There’s a pop and then a respectable explosion, slivers of wood shooting out, dust roiling. She smiles, thinking of the real-life shed she had demolished with a bulldozer’s fanged bucket.

  But, as in the IRL fight, the battle isn’t over yet.

  Ryu isn’t dead when he falls through the floor.

  He rolls.

  Good idea, Belle thinks, to mitigate the damage from the fall. She might have done the same thing.

  Except that he has rolled the wrong direction, toward Belle’s position, not away from it.

  Before he can jump up, Belle brings her knife down and slashes through his neck.

  Blood gushes from the gash.

  Time slows. She stares at his unblinking eyes as his corpse winks out of gamespace.

  He’s dead. Really, completely dead.

  Ryu’s dot stays red for what seems like an eon, then finally changes to a red X and begins blinking.

  She looks around. The walls have stopped their inward progress.

  Which means…Yes.

  She’s the last one standing. She feels the adrenaline pumping through her veins, warming her numb, exhausted limbs.

  A scream of joy escapes her lips.

  And then she feels hands on her back, her shoulders, and her head.

  She’s near collapse from fatigue and emotion, and someone lifts her headset off. She feels the cool air drying the sweat on her face and neck.

  And she is free of the chafing rig and she and Marina are lifted up on the shoulders of their teammates.

  Nick, William, and Paul are weeping and roaring with happiness.

  “We won! We did it! We won!”

  Belle and her sister are lofted above the others, making a circuit of the whole stage. The arena is exploding with the crowd’s roar, the colored foam noodles waving in a frantic victory dance.

  Even the other players are applauding.

  She is in shock. Has it really happened? Everything she dreamed of, has it really come true?

  She laughs and pumps her fists.

  She has never known such happiness.

  ∆∆∆

  Lane is standing near the winner’s platform, holding a microphone. “And the Untouchables win! They are your champions! I can’t believe it. It was a magical match. The whole team was amazing, but Marina, amazing. And Belle just executed…”

  “….perfectly on everything,” J.T. says. “The two of them were double trouble for the Lords of the Imperium Continuum.”

  Lane touches his earpiece. “They’re calling them the Quasars, J.T., the Twin Quasars of Battlecraft.”

  Graffiti and blue noodles fill the air of the arena, epic music plays, the crowd goes wild.

  The Untouchables hug, laugh, whoop, and raise the trophy over their heads.

  The cheers go on and on.

  Chapter Seventeen

  They Played Their Hearts Out

  The worst people act like the best people. That’s what Harold has learned from his recent experience. Criminals acting like cops. Rich guys acting like they’re regular people. Clowns acting important.

  You can’t trust appearances, not anymore.

  Sometimes, though, the axiom operates in a positive way, when a famous lady wearing blue lipstick and talking with a British accent seeks a relationship with an old farmer.

  Tonight is shaping up to be one of the best nights of his life. The Untouchables have won, and Gemma Gosnold has said she wants to spend time alone with him. He makes her laugh. She wants him close by. She wants to hear his life story.

  He can’t help but wonder what it would be like to go to bed with Gemma, and the thought of it makes him giddy. He wants her for her smile, her courage, her wit, and her verve. He feels as if he’s on the verge of the greatest adventure of his long life. He only hopes he won’t disappoint.

  He watches the party as it slowly ramps up, the Untouchables trickling in after checking into the hotel and cleaning up.

  Rupert, costumed in an ermine cape and crown, raises a mug of something electric blue from which a thick curl of smoke rises nearly to the ceiling. Gemma clinks her glass of champagne on Rupert’s mug, then beams her beautiful smile all around the company, ending her gaze on Harold.

  He raises his glass and grins.

  Here he is, drinking a small whiskey at the victory party, feeling more excited than ever in his 78 comparatively dull years. Love, winning, and sex—not yet, but soon. He glances at himself in the ornate wall mirror and sees a goofy and extremely happy old man.

  He comes to himself with a start, frowning, as he remembers to be on high alert. It’s not over yet. Not for the first time, it occurs to him to marvel about how much of life and outcomes are determined by stupid mistakes. How could those renegade law-enforcement types have expected their scheme to come out right? And how far will they go to fix things for themselves?

  It’s as if they’d concocted a plot while high on ganja or drunk on vodka, and then, like stupid movie villains, carried it out and kept going past the point of ridiculousness, careening straight into the murder of an innocent woman. Poor Jenny Wishkowski.

  With a stab of shame, he reflects on the fact that at least she’s no longer a suspect, being dead and all, most likely at the hands of the true murdering kidnappers, but there it is.

  Harold wishes he could figure out the who and the why. Whoever they are, why did they do what they did? What do they have to fear or gain?

  He’s sure the whole story is yet to be revealed, so he is on alert, pacing the cavernous foyer of the Westin’s Presidential Suite, checking in with his friend Jack Bieker in his role as the Grand Poohbah of the Elven Knights of Zobilla. Every five minutes he texts Jack to make sure the exits and elevators are being covered.

  And then Jack calls.

  “What’s going on?” Harold says into the phone. His heart is racing as an adrenaline rush heats his blood and makes him cough.

  “I can’t tell you, Harold,” Jack says. “I promised.”

  “You’ve got to tell me,” Harold says. “I’m your eyes and ears in the penthouse.”

  “It’s not bad news, not really,” Jack says.

  “Not really? Not really?” Harold says, trying not to sound angry or hysterical—and failing. He catches Gemma’s eye across the room and she raises her eyebrows. He wishes he could reassure her.

  “The good news outweighs the bad,” Jack says, hedging obviously.

  “What’s the bad news?” Harold yells into the phone. Nothing is going to mess up this celebration. Not after all they’ve been through. He will not allow it. He catches another glimpse of himself in the fancy mirror. And old man, eyes wide, purple face contrasting with bright white hair and beard. The picture of a codger about to stroke out, he thinks.

  Harold breathes and consciously brings the conversation down to the l
evel of a quiet argument. “Look,” Harold says. “I have to know what’s going on.”

  “I’ve been threatened with arrest for interfering in a federal investigation.”

  “So, it’s the FBI,” Harold says. “The FBI is here, which means the kidnappers are here, too, and the FBI is looking to capture them. Am I right?”

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Okay, well, I suppose it was inevitable that someone would finally catch onto those racketeering jackasses. None of the Untouchables are in trouble, I hope?” Harold says. Now his heart is racing and skipping, and he feels short of breath. And he’s dizzy. He moves to the uncomfortable chair in the corner behind the door and sinks onto it, falling the last few inches and hitting his butt hard enough to jar his tailbone. He yelps.

  “We asked about the Untouchables. They’re not in trouble, so that’s good news too,” Jack says. “Are you all right, Harold?”

  “I’ll be all right,” Harold says, “once I know what’s going on.”

  “Facial recognition picked the bad boys up at the airport. They are being watched every second. The feds even seem to know what they’re saying to one another inside their rental car.” Jack snorts. “Rental cars are surveillance machines nowadays. They must be extra stupid to talk amongst themselves in a rental car.”

  “They are an extra-stupid, extra-violent version of degenerate corrupt official, going after innocents for God knows what moronic reason. We still don’t know the why of it,” Harold says.

  “I thought it was Marina’s husband tracking her down out of jealousy,” Jack says.

  “But that can’t be right,” Harold says. “We know he was friends with the sheriff who kidnapped us, but Marina’s sure he was only tangentially involved. They’ve killed his ex-wife, now, who he was close to, and I don’t imagine that pleases him.”

  “I see,” Jack says.

  “My belief is that Wishkowski has just been an intermediary. Probably unwittingly.”

  “I get it, but who’s behind the sheriff? Somebody must be paying him,” Jack says.

  “True. But we don’t know who it is.”

  “Can’t be the bro-gangs,” Jack snorts. “Those guys rarely get the nerve to come out of their dark holes, as you know, and our moles say they’re not all that interested in attacking the Twin Quasars of Battlecraft at the moment. They’re too mainstream-popular.”

  “I know,” Harold says thoughtfully. “I can’t figure it out. I keep thinking things like ‘follow the money,’ but that hasn’t gotten me anywhere, either. Did the FBI tell you what the bad guys are saying in their rental car?”

  “Something about cleaning up their mess.”

  “Do they have weapons?’

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “Law enforcement personnel, no matter how extra-stupid, are allowed to check firearms in their baggage.”

  Harold lets it sink in. And then he gets mad. “We’re bait, goddamn it,” he says. “The FBI is using the Untouchables to catch the criminals.”

  Jack says nothing.

  “I want you to send more help up here,” Harold says firmly.

  “I was told to stay away. The feds are, believe it or not, dressing up like Elven Knights, and they don’t want any amateurs messing up their op.”

  “If you’re all wearing the pointy ears and feathered alpine hats, they won’t know who’s who, not for sure. Get up here and bring your nephews. Do it now.”

  There’s a pause. But then Jack clears this throat. “Okay, Harold, you’re right. Family is more important than threats of jail time from the FBI.”

  “Damned right,” Harold says. “I’m stationed by the door of the penthouse suite. I’ll let you in. You come on up.”

  It’s not five minutes until Jack is at the door with his enormous nephews. Harold shakes their meaty hands.

  “I don’t think you actually met before,” Jack says. “This is Loto and this is Rangi. Their mom, my brother’s wife Talia, is Samoan, in case you’re wondering, and she does happen to be the daughter of a pro football star of bygone days. Loto and Rangi played a little football in school, but now they’re more into wrestling and cage-fighting-type sports.” Jack peeks in at the lavishly decorated party suite. “We’re amongst a bunch of stars smashing up against each other.”

  Loto and Rangi stare open-mouthed at Gemma, who is dancing near the buffet table. She's in her Chagrin-lite regalia—blue cape, bodysuit, platform boots.

  It seems to Harold that everyone’s in costume but him, but he realizes he has a hard time these days deciding what’s a costume and what isn’t, with people who live full time in mixed-reality games wearing capes, strange facial features and appendages. Or wearing bodysuits that can look like anything at all if you’re looking at them with your smartglasses on.

  “The suite is a whole floor,” Harold says, sweeping his hand out to indicate the 3,000 square-foot space, a windowed wafer on the top of the cylindrical north tower of the Downtown Seattle Westin. “Come on in.”

  The main room is crammed with over-the-top props from the game, food, and drink. Drapery in magenta, evergreen, cherry, mango. Tableaux of overflowing treasure chests. Stage-set stone walls. Fairy lights strung everywhere. Real gold coins scattered about.

  Harold and Jack and Loto and Rangi move around, assessing the exits and eyeing all the guests.

  Rupert, sitting now at the head of the long dining table, holds his chalice in one hand and his phone in the other.

  “My liege,” William is saying. “I’ve got to thank you, man. I can’t believe you paid for all of this. For us?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Didn’t I tell you? I’ve decided to be less....” Rupert waves his beringed hand.

  “Cheap?” Belle says.

  “Frugal,” Rupert says, grinning. “Look here.”

  He reaches into a bag under the table and pulls out a hat. It’s identical to the RoadTrek hat they’d lost on the trip home.

  “Harold, this is for you,” Rupert says.

  “That’s not my hat,” Harold says. “It’s new.”

  “You’re an ingrate, Harold,” Rupert says.

  “I have a question,” Nick says, raising his hand. He’s wearing a satin goldenrod cape that matches his favorite shirt, and it billows around him when he moves. “Who are the big guys?”

  He points his forehead at Loto and Rangi.

  “I don’t know,” Rupert says. “Maybe they think they have a right to be here. Should we have them shooed off?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” William says, eyeing the nephews and smiling benignly.

  “They’re fine,” Belle says. “They’re welcome.”

  Rupert lets his jaw drop theatrically. “What? You’re going to be nice now?”

  Nick grins. “Remember when she was the meanest barista in town?”

  “Maybe I’ll just go,” Belle says.

  Rupert slams a fist down on the table. “This party is going to be a fun and relaxing experience. I decree it.”

  Belle delivers a theatrical bow.

  Marina joins the group from one of the bedrooms, where she has been conducting a long argument with Paul. Paul follows, wearing his accustomed camo attire.

  “Somebody talk some sense into his woman,” Paul says.

  Marina shrugs. “I do not consider Jimmy Wishkowski my enemy.”

  Gemma throws her head back and laughs. “He tried to strangle you! And he kidnapped your team.”

  “Not Jimmy. He did not kidnap. It was his friend,” Marina says. “And we still don’t understand why.”

  Gemma shakes her head sorrowfully. “People don’t always have good reasons for what they do. Maybe it’s simply that he’s a dick,” she says.

  Harold feels his phone buzz in his pocket. Jack and Gemma and Rupert reach for their phones too, all at once, but Gemma is the fastest. She looks at the message, then puts her fingers to her mouth and emits and ear-splitting whistle.

  “
He’s here! Jimmy Wishkowski is here!” she says.

  Harold grabs Jack and they move toward the door, where the nephews are already on guard.

  The door opens.

  A sheepish-looking maid with cash in one hand and a key card in the other.

  She steps back, but it’s not Jimmy Wishkowski at the door, it’s Jason Costello, Rupert’s former COO at Spigot Games.

  “Jason?” Rupert says, crowding into the vestibule. “What are you doing here?”

  Jason is panting. “I came to warn you.” He’s wearing a fuchsia brocade jacket and billowy trousers that end mid-calf.

  Harold’s skin crawls. There’s something incredibly dodgy about Jason Costello, though he doesn’t look like he could hurt anyone, he’s so pale and thin and delicately turned out.

  Harold wonders if the skin-crawling is caused by something he should be remembering about Jason and his cronies, the executives and attorneys who had been pushing Spigot’s initial public offering so they could all get rich on stock.

  The IPO had gone forward, but the stock had tanked, probably forever. Rupert’s resignation had seen to that. Harold wonders if Costello is here to convince Rupert to change his mind and return to Spigot. Good luck with that, he thinks.

  All those execs and attorneys must be peeing their undies and unloading their remaining assets right now.

  Harold eyes Jason. He fixes his gaze on the cold green eyes behind floating smartglasses and decides the pretty clothes and nonthreatening physique are a disguise. Jason Costello needs to be watched—and watched carefully.

  Harold feels a heavy pressure on his shoulder and turns around to see Rangi behind him.

  “Is this the guy you’re worried about?” Rangi says.

  And there, just outside the door, is Jimmy Wishkowski.

  Belle moves forward, scowling. “What the hell happened to our Security detail?”

  A wave of rage overtakes Harold.

  He decides in that moment he isn’t waiting, and he isn’t taking any more chances.

  Before his mind fully registers what his legs are doing, he runs forward, but just as he reaches Wishkowski, Loto grabs him and hauls him back.

  Then Jack grabs one of Wishkowski’s arms, and Rangi grabs the other. They pull Wishkowski’s arms back roughly. Rangi duct tapes his wrists together behind his back, and Wishkowski, red-faced already, chokes and roars.