Battlecraft VR

by Linden Storm

  “Wait! Wait!” Wishkowski cries. “Marina!”

  Then Wishkowski leans forward and vomits something chunky and horrible and brown onto the marble floor of the entryway.

  Wishkowski is in no shape to form additional words. His knees buckle.

  The whole group is gathered around the vestibule.

  “The FBI has been called,” Jack says.

  “I know,” Wishkowski says, panting and dry-retching. “I called them two days ago. I’m their informant. They’ve given me a deal.”

  Marina steps forward and stares at her in-name-only spouse, hands on her hips. “Did you help your friend kidnap my friends?” she says.

  “No! It was a misunderstanding,” Wishkowski says. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “These types always have an excuse,” Gemma says.

  Wishkowski looks up at Gemma, registering the sling on her arm. The feeling Harold gets from his expression is one of sincere and utter shame.

  “After that fight I had with Marina,” Wishkowski says, “The time I, uh, threatened her and she ran away? I blacked out, and when I realized what had happened, I felt terrible. But I didn’t have anything to do with McKendrick and his goons going after your friends. They were using me to find you, but I didn’t know that.”

  “Why did they do it?” Marina says. “You owe us an explanation.”

  Wishkowski turns toward Jason Costello.

  Jason gazes back at Wishkowski out of those cold green eyes.

  Belle is standing close, and Harold glances over at her as a realization hits her—her face registers shock and then hot, intense rage. Harold puts the pieces together, too.

  Here we go, Harold thinks. We are figuring it all out.

  ∆∆∆

  Belle watches Wishkowski accuse Jason Costello—of what?

  Oh.

  And she begins to work out how it must have happened.

  Jason had wanted Rupert to give up the Battlecraft team because his divided interest was interfering in the company’s IPO. It was making Rupert seem unstable, unreliable, and unfocused. It was generating bad publicity, poisoning the stock price.

  Costello wanted Rupert to attend only to Spigot business, to do his job pumping up the company, praising the management, and reassuring potential stockholders, analysts, and the press.

  A successful IPO would make Jason a billionaire, and a failed IPO would likely ruin his chances at billionaire-dom for life.

  But Rupert wasn’t cooperating. He’d refused to give up the team, even with the IPO looming.

  When Marina had disappeared, Costello had decided to take advantage of the situation. He’d done his research and uncovered the relationship between Wishkowski and the corrupt sheriff.

  So he’d approached McKendrick with a large pile of money and hired him to keep the Untouchables out of touch and away from Rupert.

  He’d figured Rupert would naturally write the Untouchables off and go back to his real job.

  That’s when Harold had crashed that meeting and convinced Rupert to join his rescue effort, fly to Nevada, and bail out the team.

  “Did you tell these guys to run us all off the road?” Belle says. “Because that was really stupid.”

  Costello says nothing.

  “I don’t think he did,” Wishkowski says. “McKendrick did that on his own. When Costello heard about it, he was furious. He knew that if Rupert found out what he’d done, he’d be screwed. So he told McKendrick to keep you all prisoner until he could lure Marina there and do away with all of you at once.”

  “You were going to have me killed?” Rupert says to Costello.

  “No,” Belle says. “He was going to have all of us killed.”

  “You’re all crazy,” Costello says.

  “No, we’re not,” Rupert says. “You had to cover up the crime. And at least if I was dead, I couldn’t generate any more bad publicity. You could take over as CEO, postpone the IPO, and go for it again after everything settled down.”

  “He and McKendrick were going to blame the murders on me,” Wishkowski says. “But then you guys escaped.”

  Belle is about to punch Jason Costello in the face when the door opens again and Sheriff McKendrick and two of his goons storm in, brandishing guns.

  Everyone scatters.

  Belle dives behind furniture as she hears several guns fire at once. The sound fills the space and shakes the walls.

  Harold is on his stomach next her, breathing hard. He looks up and nods to tell her he’s okay.

  Belle can’t see the sheriff from her position crouched behind a sofa, but she has an angle on Jason Costello and watches in horror as his head jerks back and half his face is blown off.

  So much for the protective functionality of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Belle thinks.

  Harold pulls an ancient revolver out of a secret holster under his pant leg and peeks up over the couch. He grins at Belle and then fires.

  “Got one,” he says, as Belle pulls him back down.

  She can’t see what’s happening, but she hears grunting and furniture being overturned and stuff smashing on the floor.

  And then, before she can stop him, Harold is standing up, climbing over the couch, and rushing toward the chaos and blood near the door.

  ∆∆∆

  It all catches up with Harold. The rage, the insults, which causes the physical urge to beat the shit out of the king of the degenerates, the corrupt sheriff who caused so much suffering and pain and put his grandson and his friends in danger.

  He feels it coming up, adrenaline or plain old hate flooding his arm, legs, chest, and gut, and while McKendrick is pointing his gun at people and threatening them or shooting at them or spewing invective, having just murdered a man, then denying what he surely did do right in front of the people he did it to, yelling some confused, senseless babble about the integrity of borders, making America great again, Jews never replacing him, death to faggots, a woman’s place, the “N” word—all that horrific, sickening shit—Harold bends half over, balls his hands into fists, climbs over the sofa, springs from his still-powerful legs, and barrels into McKendrick, hitting him square in the middle and pushing him into the vestibule’s wall mirror so hard that McKendrick’s back busts the mirror into shards that rain down on both of them. They thud to the marble floor, their breath huffing out, bones cracking and ligaments popping, but not Harold’s bones and ligaments, not this time. The gun slides across the room, out of reach, and McKendrick cries out in pain.

  Then Harold is sitting on McKendrick’s chest for better leverage as he thumps him, and there is blood, with maybe another bodily excretion or three, and still Harold pummels McKendrick in the face, knocking a tooth loose, dislocating his jaw, while the man struggles but can’t muster much fight, having been bested by an old guy in the grip of righteousness and maybe some of that thing, whatchacallit, PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, or just plain old, out-of-control, pissed off, volcanic rage. Harold hears his mother’s voice as he punches McKendrick repeatedly in the nose, “Why son, I believe you just lost your temper, there, why don’t you apologize?”

  But he won’t be apologizing. He is all in the right and this poor excuse for a human being is all in the wrong.

  And then he’s being pulled off McKendrick by Loto and Rangi and he goes limp, passing out for a second.

  A moment later he’s being hauled vertical, with his toes barely touching the ground, and he’s thinking about how the color of fresh blood is so right. A pool of it spreads slowly from a four-inch cut in McKendrick’s scalp, his pulpy nose, his broken mouth.

  The blood is just so perfectly red. It livens things up.

  Harold’s head is swimming and his knees are weak—Loto and Rangi are holding him up with their substantial arms—and in what’s left of the mirror he catches sight of himself, blood on his face and in his white hair, which is standing up in white peaks like wild, speckled meringue, and the nephews are grinning, and he grins too, and he sees that h
e must have bit his tongue or gotten punched in the lip, because his teeth are covered in that same red—scarlet red, blood red—but he grins even bigger.

  He feels better than he’s felt in a while, having blown out the lump in the back of his throat—a lump caused by shame or guilt or fear or rage or all of that—which had formed during the experience in the shed and had not gone away.

  Well, it’s pretty much gone now. He feels free.

  And then a whole bunch of FBI agents disguised as Knights of Zobilla flood in, weapons drawn.

  “On the floor! On the floor now!” an agent shouts.

  “Oh, please,” Belle says acidly, shrugging and holding her hands palms up. “There’s nothing left for you clowns to do.”

  ∆∆∆

  William, Paul, and Nick return to their own suite.

  “I can’t sleep,” Paul says.

  “Me neither,” Nick says.

  “I can,” William says. “And I will.”

  “How can you? After everything that’s happened?” Nick says.

  “I'm with Nick. I'm wound up. We don't even know what’s next,” Paul says.

  “We know that we won the Battlecraft VR finals. We are the champions. Which means we are a team and we are set. Everything else can work itself out,” William says.

  “You’re right, man,” Paul says. “He’s right, isn’t he, Nick?”

  But Nick is asleep, sprawled face-first on the sofa.

  William finds a blanket and covers him up, and he and Paul step out onto the deck to watch the sun rise.

  “What are you thinking?” Paul says to William.

  “I'm wondering if you and Marina are together now,” William says, grinning.

  “Really?" Paul says. “Me too. I have no idea...I was wondering the same thing about you and Belle.”

  William laughs. “What? She hates me.”

  “I don't think so, man,” Paul says.

  William shrugs. “Actually, what I was thinking was that all the hell we've been through has been worth it.”

  “It's been amazing, right?” Paul says.

  “Yeah,” William says. “That’s for sure...Do you really think she doesn't hate me?”

  “Yeah,” Paul says. "I do.”

  “In the case of Belle Morris, that's a big win," William says. “I'll take it.”

  They both laugh.

  ∆∆∆

  The sun is rising, coloring the eastern face of Mount Rainier a delicate shade of pink. Marina has not yet gotten used to the beauty of this sight; she believes she never will.

  Marina stands next to Belle on the deck of the second-best Westin suite, since the best suite is now a crime scene. They look to the southwest over Elliott Bay.

  Harold’s long gone, having exited with Gemma right after the melee. William and Nick and Paul have retreated to their own suite, and Rupert is working, doing damage control for his new company, the one he’s conjuring out of the ashes of Spigot Games. He’s mentioned a man named Brannon, some kind of virtual world writer and designer, and he’s said their next project will completely change the world.

  Marina clears her throat. “May I ask you a question?”

  Belle looks at Marina, raises her eyebrows, and says nothing.

  “Why didn’t you respond when I tried to get in touch with you years ago?”

  Belle shrugs. “I honestly don’t remember that. I suppose I thought you were spam. Marina from Tashkent offering me a sister in return for a small deposit in an Uzbek bank account?”

  “That is not what I said.”

  Belle says nothing. Marina follows her line of sight and they watch an early ferry approach the dock far below.

  “I had to come here to get your attention, and even then you didn’t believe me and would not listen,” Marina says.

  “I’m listening now,” Belle says, turning to look at Marina. “What?”

  “I want to tell you about our father,” Marina says.

  “Your father,” Belle says. “My sperm donor.”

  “He did not think of you that way,” Marina says evenly.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he told me.”

  “I didn’t think he even knew about me,” Belle says. Marina can tell by the sudden light in her eyes that she wants to know everything, but she does not want to admit it. “Why didn’t he get in touch with me?”

  “We were in the middle of a war,” Marina says. “But I know he tried. How old were you when you went to foster care?”

  “I don’t remember it. My records say I was two—almost three,” Belle says.

  “Our father did try to find you. He had been in touch with your mother until you were taken away. He told me he had no official rights. His name was not on the birth certificate. But he looked for you as best he could. With the travel ban, he could not come here.”

  “He really tried to find me?”

  “Indeed. And he talked to me about you. He never forgot about you. When he finally accepted that he would never find you himself, he made me promise to find you.”

  Marina looks in Belle’s eyes and sees one fat tear trace a wet line down her cheek.

  Belle wipes the tear away with her fingertips. “What was he like?”

  “He had a strict moral code, his own code that he always followed. He was clever and funny and maddening.” Marina smiles. “When he laughed, his eyes closed, but you could still see the twinkle there. He had hope for himself and for us and for you until the very end, even when he was ill, and even when they took him away. He never gave up. He was as stubborn and willful as you are.”

  “And you,” Belle says.

  “Maybe,” Marina says, nodding. “One thing I know: he would experience great joy right now to see us together.”

  They watch the light spread up from the horizon, coloring the clouds over the Olympics.

  Marina feels Belle move closer to her, feels the hesitation and then then relief as Belle, unbidden, wraps an arm around her shoulders.

  “All our friends are safe,” Belle says.

  Marina thinks of her brothers. There will be time to bring them out of danger, she thinks, and there will be money and a home.

  In the meantime, Belle’s touch—her sister’s touch—feels right.

  Marina watches a seagull circling, its righteous call breaking the morning silence, telling creation to get on with things.

  Marina is sure she and Belle have never touched like this, never shown each other physical affection, and yet it feels as natural as the clouds, the wind, and the sea, and just as eternal.

  Epilogue

  Harold stands in the rain and gazes at the gargantuan structure before him.

  “To a new year in a new home,” Rupert says.

  It’s January. Cold rain is falling from a dark sky, and Rupert is dangling a huge key from his index finger.

  “The key is symbolic, of course. The house has state-of-the-art keyless entry and security, lightning-fast connectivity, an award-winning chef, and a chauffeur.”

  “A chauffer?” Harold says. “Why would you need a chauffeur in the era of self-driving cars?”

  “It’s mostly an honorary title,” Rupert says. “I was planning on offering the job to you, Harold. What you’ll really be doing is what you always do anyway. Heading up the fan club, watching over everyone, guarding the door, and getting the Untouchables to the arena on time.”

  Harold feels his throat thickening and hot tears gathering in his eyes. “Me?” he says. “Damn, son, have I landed in a universe where the stingiest billionaire has found it in his heart to be generous?”

  “Shut up, old man,” Rupert says. “And come inside.”

  The house looks more like a hotel or a museum than a home. It sits on a ridgetop high above Elliott Bay and takes up two or three acres of prime, high-bank real estate.

  According to Rupert, it has twenty-two bedrooms, three kitchens, two media rooms, eight separate offices overlooking Puget Sound, a rotating art colle
ction, and a VR recording studio.

  Fans have already gotten wind of its existence, and they’re milling around on the street while a crew gets to work on a tall fence.

  “It’s a high fence, but not opaque,” Rupert says. “I want them to see the team coming and going. We’ve got to keep them in the news.”

  “They’re not going to like that,” Harold says, but he’s smiling.

  “Too bad,” Rupert says. “They have expenses now. There’s money to be made.”

  Harold knows someone who’s going to like all that attention just fine. Gemma, his—what?

  His girlfriend? The term seems slight and inaccurate for the relationship he has with Gemma. He never feels lonely anymore, or old. And he’s never been happier.

  Lately he’s been wondering if he should ask her to marry him, but he fears she’ll laugh in his face, that marriage is such an old-fashioned notion she won’t take the question seriously, and that will hurt his feelings.

  There’s time, anyway, he thinks, to convince her. He pictures the wedding in his imagination—Gemma in blue, of course, a breathtaking bride descending the grand marble staircase he sees right now, right in front of him.

  He follows Rupert inside, crossing the threshold of his new home.

  ∆∆∆

  Inside the house, Marina surveys the room. The Great Room, apparently, or so she’s been told.

  Everything here is oversized. But then, their assemblage of eccentric characters needs a lot of room.

  The Great Room has high ceilings and a big central seating group: two giant L-shaped sofas covered in grey upholstery and festooned with dozens of multicolored pillows. So many pillows. There’s a giant fireplace with a fire roaring away in it and more pillows on the raised hearth.

  Marina stands near the fireplace and watches indulgently as Belle, William, Paul, Nick, and Gemma argue. They remind her of her family back home, before the war.

  “I don’t care. I want the bedroom with the view of the mountains,” Belle says.