Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “Absolutely not,” he asserts aggressively.

  “Me thinks you protest too much.”

  “It’s not A.I.”

  “Okay, then what happened?”

  “A question we have been trying to answer for over a decade,” he shakes his head. “It just flew away. Are you hungry?”

  I am actually hungry. There were sandwich wraps and water on the plane, but nothing since. Honestly, I need a cigarette worse than food. How long have I been here?

  “Yeah, I could eat. Any chance I can go outside and have a smoke?”

  “You can smoke right here,” he assures me, pushing a button on the intercom. “Danny, can I get a pizza in here and some sodas.”

  He pauses to look at me and I mouth the word Peperoni.

  “Peperoni and lots of cheese,” he barks, giving me the thumbs up. “And I need an ashtray ASAP.”

  “Yes sir,” crackles out of the tiny speaker.

  I dig my smokes out my blazer pocket and put one in the corner of my mouth. Eyeing Hal, I hold out the pack in his direction, but he declines. I have seen him smoke on more than one occasion, but that was a long time ago. I spark it and lay my head back, exhaling into the ceiling vent overhead. The smoke doesn’t get sucked in at first, then an electric motor kicks on and it’s drawn out the vent.

  “Am I not smoking outside because of the load of classified information you laid on me or because we have a lot more to cover?”

  “Yes.”

  This answer is about what I expected. My friend Hal didn’t recruit me simply because of my background. He needed a person at the end of their rope with no family to miss them. I watch him as I smoke and wonder how long he had me under surveillance before calling me that day. I dig around in my memory, but only recall the woman in the courtyard with her child. It’s probably not her. More than likely there was a minivan or SUV in the parking lot. How else could he have known the exact moment I was going to implode all over poor Brittany?

  “Taking over an Embassy, I ponder aloud, sitting up straight. “I don’t know who you work for, but you got some juice.”

  “At present,” he answers, squirming a bit at the inference. “For now, we are just using the basement. It’s hardly a takeover.”

  “Right,” I mutter, exhaling smoke over my head into the vent. “It’s just a loaner.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hal gets called away, so I eat a few slices, then smoke for an half hour. It’s so quiet down here that I doze off, feet on the table. He returns abruptly, tossing down a file with some force to wake me. Startled, I wobble, then drop my feet off the table.

  “You good?”

  I frown, sitting up straight and wiping the sleep out of my eyes.

  “I put out some feelers to the California parole board,” he remarks, picking a slice off the open box. “Just in case you—.”

  “I don’t have a sister,” I snap.

  “Right, sorry,” he mutters as he chews.

  “Tell me about the drone.”

  “It’s just solar panels and cameras, but the quantum brain is what got us in trouble here. From the time we removed the QC from Talus and transported it to be inserted into the Tesla drone, it was under lockdown. I was there at North Base when they took it out of the box and plugged it in, so whatever went sideways happened back at Talus.

  “What’s North Base?”

  “Right, sorry,” he rolls his eyes as if the things I don’t know annoy him. “Just north of Edwards Airforce Base is a dry lake bed. It’s where they used to land the space shuttle.”

  “Okay, that’s North Base?”

  “No, but North of Edwards, past the lake bed we have a facility.”

  “So it’s what?” I squint, then pause. “Area 51?”

  “It’s where we test things that require extra security,” he clarifies, ignoring my jab.

  “Area 52?”

  “Not funny.”

  “Okay, but that’s where the Tesla Drone was?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the bodies of the Martians from Roswell?”

  He frowns, a vein on his bald black head pulsing, so I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “I was there when they pulled the QC out of the crates and dropped it in the Drone,” he starts again.

  “QC?” I shrug, recalling him using this term previously.

  “Quantum Cube,” he groans, pushing the most recent file across the smooth table.

  “What do you think happened to it?” Was it sabotaged?”

  “That’s what we investigated. Only three people had any hands-on time with it.”

  He plucks a remote out of the pile of files and points it at the wall. A huge screen blinks blue, then a video feed from inside what I take to be the research facility appears. Three men in lab coats hover in front of a flat screen. One sits in front at a keyboard, while the other two lean over his shoulder. The man sitting puts a hand on a microphone attached to a long telescoping arm, bringing it to his mouth. He speaks, although I can’t hear what he says, as there is no sound. When he lets go of the microphone, the screen begins displaying lines of text. This goes on for several minutes.

  “So, what am I looking at? They talk and it answers?”

  “Yes, after the Drone went missing, we tore down the lives of all three of these guys looking for the problem. Thought maybe one of them was a spy or a revolutionary, but they all check out.”

  A pile of 8x10’s shows the cube in the lab. Sometimes it’s plugged into other machines by cables and in others it’s just hooked to a monitor. Flipping through, I find pictures of guys in lab coats, but these all look like photos taken for ID badges.

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “On the sign-in sheet at Talus Technologies the name Elliott Weiss keeps popping up,” he reveals, pushing a Xerox copy of a sign-in book across the table. “He’s technically not cleared for this project, but one of our guys, Peter Bishop, signed him in on several weekends. He was the guy talking into the microphone.”

  “Bishop or Weiss?”

  “Bishop,” he confirms. “Weiss was just a guest. We didn’t turn up any footage of him in the lab, although we do have him at the check-in gate.”

  “You think he’s a spy or something?”

  “I can’t say as he’s vanished,” Hal frowns. “He was signed-in the weekend before we removed the QC and took it to North Base.”

  “And your agency, whatever that is, can’t locate one guy?”

  “It appears not. More than likely, he left the country.”

  “A spy?” I toss out, but receive only a shrug in return.

  “We know a bit about him,” he remarks, pushing several sheets of paper with a staple in the corner across to me.

  When taking the papers, I notice there aren’t any folds near the staple. If anyone had looked at this previously there would be a fold mark. I take a peek at Hal before diving in. Are these just copies, or where they created special for me? All this spy talk is making me paranoid.

  The basics are listed, as if it were a job application. Elliott Weiss, born August 2nd, 1956. Went to Stanford, never married, no kids, owned a house in Annapolis, Maryland. On the second page I read about his computer software company. There are several incarnations including a word processing program that did very well until Microsoft got involved. Last on the list of jobs is a company called Insurrection Games. It’s the last place he worked, but he was only employed there for a few months. Is it a coincidence that he was laid off soon after the drone ran away?

  “This doesn’t read like a terrorist.”

  “No, but it’s a loose end we can’t close.

  “Remind me how I figure in to this loose end?”

  “I’d like you to go to Los Angeles and ask around. Insurrection is releasing a new game at E3, so there will be tons of people there.”

  “E3?”

  “Electronics Entertainment Expo, it only happens once a year. It’s basically a trade fair for the
video gaming industry.”

  “And you think someone might know where Weiss is?”

  To this, he simply stares back at me.

  “You think I can weed out some crucial nugget of information that Uncle Sam’s brigade of sleuths have so far failed to uncover?”

  “These folks can smell Law Enforcement a mile away. They run in tight groups and are distrustful of outsiders.”

  “You run out of undercover guys?”

  “We are out of time on this. The clock’s ticking.”

  “So, this is what?” I complain. “A Hail Mary?”

  He shrugs and holds his hands out.

  “For the record,” I frown. “I did what you asked. How am I not done?”

  “Do you want to be done?”

  I pause, unsure what my reply should be?

  “I can give you back your gun and drop you off at the apartments where we picked you up,” he verbally pokes me. “You can get back to your murder/suicide.”

  I slowly raise my hand and fly him the bird. Do I want to go home? Where is home? Have I somehow found a reason to live, or will I be standing behind the next person who crosses me holding the gun? Is it a good idea to try and bail now? Amid this avalanche of questions, one stands out. Is Hal likely to just give away all this money, fix my police issues, then pat me on the back after a week? There is also the classified information I now possess to consider. I watch him across the table, but he’s just posturing, trying to allow me think it’s my decision to make. He already knows I am going to stay.

  “I don’t know. Is there an exit strategy anywhere in my future or is this a never ending series of favors?”

  “Help me solve the drone problem,” he promises. “Then we can have a drink and see what you want to do.”

  “Fair enough,” I nod, thinking it’s a better answer that I expected. “By the way, did you get your hands on the smallpox thing?”

  “Yeah,” he mutters dismissively, rounding up the files on the table.

  “This might sound tacky, but what did you do with the people?”

  “They will be answering questions ‘til the cows come home.”

  “John wasn’t involved is that mess,” I plead weakly. “Any chance you can cut him some slack?”

  He pauses, looking at the table top. I wait, but then decide it’s not my place to ask. Before I can get the words out, Hal shakes his head.

  “He wasn’t detained.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He was on the plane, but not currently in custody?”

  “Good,” I sigh, happy that John isn’t being waterboarded somewhere. “So, I’m off to La La Land?”

  “Yeah, Agent Katz will put you on a flight tomorrow.”

  “Flight?” I sigh. “As in commercial flight, not one of your jets?”

  “Is someone getting spoiled?”

  “No, I just hate TSA lines.”

  “Suck it up buttercup. I’ll have you picked up at LAX. My people will give you everything you need for access at the convention.”

  “What are the chances I get shot down by China?”

  “Low, unless they break U.S. airspace,” he stands and taps his files on the table, “and so far, it’s not that bad.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No,” he shakes his head, then pauses. “Wait, do you think John will contact you?”

  “Why?”

  “You seemed pretty worried about him. Thought maybe you two had something going?”

  My face feels flushed and I wonder how much surveillance Hal had on me out at sea. It can’t have been very much or he wouldn’t have bothered to send me. I’m watching him, but his expression isn’t all knowing. It’s more pensive. Why is that?

  “He might?” I admit, then decide not to offer up his cell number.

  “Let me know if he does. I’d like to ask him a few questions, but it’s not something we’d chase him down to ask.”

  “Will do,” I promise, secretly hoping he calls me.

  “Perfect, Agent Katz will take you to a nice hotel then put you on a flight tomorrow,” he reiterates, pulling open the door.

  Agent Katz stares from the doorway after Hal passes by with a stack of green file folders under one arm .

  “Just you and me then,” I force a smile. “Girls night out?”

  “Not.”

  “Come on,” I pout. “Just you, me, margaritas and karaoke?”

  Katz doesn’t answer, just wags a thumb over her shoulder indicating I should get moving. I start to pick up the files left in front of me, but she shakes her head. Recalling the lack of a fold by the staple, I assume they were copied special for me. Or created just for me. They clearly don’t want them walking out the Embassy door. They are probably headed for a shredder. I leave them and begin down the concrete corridor.

  “You know you like me,” I whisper as I pass.

  “Keep walking,” Katz mumbles.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Just getting inside the Los Angeles Convention Center during E3 would be impossible if not for Hal greasing the wheels. I don’t know who he used to get me a pass, but the yellow placard hanging around my neck has done the job so far. Hundreds of people mill about between exhibits making it hard to see anything but the huge overhead signs. People in costumes are everywhere. There are men in Stormtrooper armor and a wide array of females in cosplay outfits. More than half of the ladies are sporting multi-color pigtails, skin tight shorts and high heels. Of these, quite a few are waving a baseball bat around. Apparently, she’s a popular character, although I can’t place her name.

  I walk for over an hour through a maze of colorful displays, before coming across Insurrection Games. A stage featuring a mock-up space vehicle with six half-naked Asian women is glowing under bright green neon. The ladies, if I can call them that, are holding huge pretend handguns and posing like action figures. Every time the music changes tempo they dance around the stage, then freeze. The stripper version of the Mannequin Challenge.

  On the right, two-dozen flat screens allow the public to play some early release version of the space game, the lines for which are backed up into the aisle. The crowd is mostly younger people, under say thirty. On the other end of the spectrum, there are a handful of much older men, but very few women. Possibly women grow out of what I deem to be childish games and men do not. This sounds sexist in my mind, but watching a fifty-something guy in a Batman costume playing the demo reinforces my assessment.

  The noise from this display is overwhelming, laser sounds and explosions making it hard to hear my own thoughts. On the left side of the stage is a door with a handmade sign that looks out of place in this over produced environment. In red letters it reads Battle Dome Panel, 2 o’clock. I fight my way around the rabid gamers, flashing my pass to the man guarding the door.

  “It’s nearly over,” he shouts over the din, then leans down and lowers his voice. “There’s going to be a follow-up tomorrow after the release.”

  “Thanks,” I shout, slipping in through the door. “I’ll just have a peek.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Inside, at least two hundred people sit in folding chairs or stand in the aisles listening to three guys at the front table. Behind them, posters featuring their game logo and the space ship from the display out front paper the wall. There is a bit of feedback in the audio system forcing the current speaker to repeat himself often. So this is what Nerd Nirvana looks like.

  I lean on the back wall and wait. After fifteen minutes, the crowd flushes out the doors, nearly dragging me along. A throng of middle-aged children in hoodies and logo shirts hang behind barking questions at the front table. One of the speakers is even signing autographs.

  “Excuse me,” I ask, putting a hand on the shoulder of a chubby fan passing me on the way out. “Any of those guys Elliott Weiss?”

  “Hashtag not,” he scoffs, pausing to scan me from floor to chest.

  “Do you think he’s here?” I inquire, then pause. “I mean, i
s he planning to speak?”

  The guys got to be at least thirty, but he looks younger in the tattered hoodie and knit hat. The cap features a dragon of some sort. I can’t place the logo, but recall it from advertising. Game of Dragons or something on cable? The man-child doesn’t answer, his eyes locked on my chest. At least someone thinks I look good.

  “Up here,” I whisper, putting a finger on his chin, raising his line of sight. “I was asking about Elliott Weiss.”

  “Why would he be here? They aren’t releasing a new version of Pong.”

  “Come again?”

  “You play?” he squints suspiciously, pointing at the massively postured front wall. “Are you into Battle Dome?”

  “Sure.”

  “Yeah, right,” he huffs.

  He is suddenly hit by a tidal wave of nerds waving autographed programs. The onrush sweeps him away and out the doors, leaving me tossed against the wall. He turns and eyes me as he goes, but I am unsure if he’s thinking about the question or imagining me in one of the skin-tight suits from the posters.

  “It was sarcasm,” a guy standing behind me remarks, arms crossed.

  “How so,” I sigh, walking down the aisle to where he stands.

  “Pong is ancient. Elliott Weiss hasn’t worked on a decent game since Dynasty Builder. Why? Are you looking for old school?”

  “I had some questions about one of his games. Thought he might be around.”

  He studies me and taps a finger on his bottom lip. He’s twenty something and wearing a logo tee shirt over another long-sleeved shirt. A mess of brown curls hang to his shoulders, a beard that he can’t really grow littering his chin. He also performs a full body scan on me while I try and muster a reply.

  “You a gamer?”

  “Not really?”

  “It’s more of a rhetorical question,” he needles me. “You go to high school with Weiss or something?”

  “I’m not that old.”

  “If you say so,” he snorts and starts toward the doors.

  “You play Dynasty Builder?” I ask, following him.

  “Yeah,” he chuckles, ducking out the doors. “When I was in Jr. High.”

  “Last week?” I yell, but he doesn’t look back.