Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “Of course,” he sighs. “Take the night here to rest, then go find the girl.”

  “You’ll no doubt understand my reticence to fly commercial. I’ll rent a car.”

  “No time,” he scowls. “I’ll have my guys fly you.”

  “Will Agent Katz be tagging along?”

  “Why? Is she a problem?”

  “No,” I shake my head, looking down the aisle to where she sits at the bar. “We’re getting pretty friendly.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I wind up on a private jet with two agents I have not met previously. Once we get to Kansas, they try and shove me in a black sedan with tinted windows, but I refuse. If I pull up to the Dairy Queen with these two in this car, her outsider mindset will end this before it gets started. I’m sure her cooperation can be bought, but I need to keep her guard down.

  I rent a silver Camaro at the airport, then stop at a Bank of America and pick up some cash. Suspecting the magnetic strip has been ruined by salt water, I go inside. It turns out no matter how much you have in the account, the bank won’t actually give you more than ten-thousand dollars in paper currency at any one time. For the record, the teller tests my card and finds it undamaged. Technology is amazing at times.

  I get it in hundreds and split it into two piles, wrapping each with a rubber band. I leave one over the visor and place the second in my new blazer, having shopped the mall back in Virginia. One good thing about the survive in a raft diet was how starvation shrunk my jean size. When I reach in the pocket, thoughts of my lost photos send a stabbing pain into my chest. Glen’s parents have more pictures, but we aren’t on speaking terms. Gee, I wonder why that might be?

  The men in black follow me, but hang back at my request. There are a dozen people in line at the Dairy Queen, which is a small building with a tall red pointed roof and two service windows in the front. Happy customers sit on picnic tables slurping on a variety of desserts. The parking lot runs down the right side and I park in the handicapped space up front. I am traveling with two CIA Agents as escorts. Let’s assume I can park anywhere I please.

  Kara is working the first window and I stand in line behind a father and his two young daughters. The girls are maybe eight and three, both handfuls of epic proportion. The eldest girl receives a bucket sized hot fudge sundae, while her sister gets an ice cream cone the size of her head. It’s like trying to herd cats, but the father manages to get them to his car. I fear for the upholstery.

  “What can I get you?” Kara mumbles without looking up.

  “I’d love a little clarification on a Technology Victory, but I’ll settle for a Chocolate Malt.”

  She has to lean closer to the wire screen to see who I am. In a stroke of good luck, she smiles, rather than frowns. I really didn’t know how she’d react. She sells me a malt, then I wait twenty minutes until she gets a smoke break. She is wearing a DQ uniform top, a ghastly brown polyester shirt with orange stripes. A plaid mini skirt and black army boots adorn her bottom half, but you can only see her top half in the tiny window. They say Walter Cronkite didn’t wear pants. She joins me as I lean on my rental.

  “What brings you to our fine city?” she asks, pulling a smoke from behind her ear and lighting it.

  “I wanted to pick your brain about Dynasty Builder,” I begin, setting my malt cup on the hood of the Camaro.

  “So you think you’re what,” she points at me with her cigarette. “My new bestie?”

  “You have an old bestie?”

  Kara crosses her arms over her chest, choosing not to reply.

  “Not besties, but—.”

  “Who do you work for?” she demands.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah,” she frowns, then points her cigarette at the black sedan parked on the street a block down. “You and those two suits.”

  “Observant girl.”

  “It’s not rocket science,” she groans. “You stalked me from California, then show up here in a rented car.”

  “Rented?”

  “You set your malt on the hood,” she scoffs. “Either you don’t own it, or you have more money than sense.”

  Turning, I watch the condensation dripping down the sleek hood.

  “Okay,” I beg, scooping up the malt. “You got me, but I’d still like to ask you about the game.”

  “Why should I help?”

  “You’re a Dynasty Builder World Champion.”

  “Try again.”

  “Okay, I got three reasons,” I declare, sucking on the malt, then setting it back on the hood.

  I pull out the wad of hundreds and peel off three, holding them in her direction. I expect her to be wary of taking the bribe, but she snatches the bills and slips them in the waistband of her skirt. Taking one last drag, she flicks her half smoked cigarette at her feet, then steps on it.

  “So, you’ll talk to me?”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “I honestly don’t know, but it’s important.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the bank craziness?” she inquires, looking both ways in a secretive fashion.

  “Observant and perceptive,” I nod, but don’t outright answer.

  “I’m off at seven,” she points a serious finger adorned in black nail polish at me. “Be here without your stalkers.”

  I nod, then she scurries back to the side door and disappears into ice cream city. I’m left staring at the ring left by the malt cup on the hood. Condensation has run down over one headlight, leaving a trail in the fine dust picked up in the parking lot. I retrieve the cup and enjoy the last of it until the sucking sound echoes in my ears. Now, I just have to get rid of Hal’s guys.

  …

  I arrive a few minutes early. Promptly at seven Kara comes out, then strikes up a conversation with a kid on a purple moped. She points at my car, then waves him off. He turns slowly in the parking lot, then zooms past my car. It’s Ragnar, the kid who was wearing the Viking helmet in Los Angeles. Kara walks over, shifting a large desert camouflage duffle bag from one shoulder to the other. I pop the locks, but she doesn’t open the door. Using the button on my door, I roll the passenger window down.

  “You getting in?”

  She’s doesn’t reply, but after a non-verbal invitation, slides in the passenger seat.

  “Was your boyfriend mad?”

  “Yeah right, not my boyfriend,” she grunts, slamming the door. “He wishes.”

  “Does he drive you back and forth to work on that stilly moped?”

  “No,” she groans, suddenly pulling her polyester work shirt over her head. “It’s my silly moped. I just let him borrow it.”

  I nod, watching her even out a black lace bra, then dig around in her bag. I’m uncomfortable beyond words, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She removes a short sleeved white dress shirt and starts putting it on, then notices me staring.

  “You can drive already,” she grimaces. “Unless watching girls dress is your thing.”

  “No, sorry,” I stutter, backing up the car.

  I stop before entering the main road, but hesitate to ask her which way to go. What’s the best place to have a discreet discussion about saving the world? Beside me, she’s trying to button up the shirt, but it’s impossibly tight and she strains to get the buttons to meet the holes.

  Kara is shorter than me, maybe five-three, but full-figured. Her short skirts and tight clothes make her look younger, but it’s odd to think we’re not that different. I’m only five years older than Kara. She finally gets the last button, then gawks at me.

  “Have any opinions on where we can talk?”

  “Go left already,” she snorts, pulling out her cigarettes and rolling the window all the way down.

  I do as she wishes, turning down the road as she exhales smoke out the window. Without an invitation from me, she uses her phone to take over the cars stereo system. Music fills the interior, although I cannot place the performer. We travel without talking, her window down, the music loud. Is she
going to be any help at all?

  “Turn right,” she orders, causing me to slam on the brakes and use my signal.

  When I finally get a chance to turn, she groans quietly, then flicks her butt out the window.

  “Third street on your left,” she barks, shoving her work shirt in the camo bag. “Park at the Chinese place.”

  I park, but see only a dry cleaner and the aforementioned Chinese place actually open in the deserted strip mall. The second I turn off the engine, she’s out and hiking past papered over windows of shops that have gone out of business. I pass one where the brown paper has come loose revealing empty metal shelves in long rows. Probably mom and pop party store. I trail along, watching her smoke as she walks. When she reaches the last deserted store front, she glances over her shoulder and winks.

  “Come on bestie.”

  She cuts down the side of the building, then crosses a one lane road used for delivering to the back of the shops. Is this obstacle course for my benefit? There has to be a parking spot closer than this. I follow her through a split in a chain link fence, coming out behind an Arcade. It’s huge, probably having been some sort of grocery store in a previous life.

  “Is there some reason we parked so far away?”

  She fails to respond to my query, which doesn’t surprise me. After my time in the company of Agent Katz this sort of non-response has become less bothersome. I assume there is a front entrance, but after our hike, we arrive at the rear. The brickwork is painted black, or maybe a dark shade of purple. A yellow neon sign hanging by the door declares Mickey Rat’s, then another Arcade, and a third Pool Tables. Another smaller LED sign glows in red, FREE WI-FI. I haven’t been in an Arcade in twenty-five years. I feel an odd tingle of anticipation wash over me.

  A group of a half-dozen men, or maybe boys is more accurate, smoke to the side of the glass door. Kara is a welcome addition, her short skirt and tight blouse clearly popular. I trail along drawing stares. I’m not going to be popular here, am I?

  “That’s my new bestie,” Kara announces. “What’s your name again?”

  “Mud,” I mutter under my breath, but then clear my throat. “Lydia.”

  “Lyds,” Kara chirps, passing by one of the men who opens the door for her.

  They part like the Red Sea for Kara, but when I try to pass, the doorman lets go of the door. I move quickly to catch it, nearly avoiding being crushed. Looking back as I enter, he smirks, blowing smoke in my direction.

  The huge space is divided up by walls, although one looks like a curtain. A half dozen pool tables with overhead lights hanging on long chains fill the room. An actual bar runs down the far wall with patrons dressed like my new bestie on stools. Sitting alongside beer taps and liquor bottles is a popcorn popper like they have at the movies. On the end, sits a huge Slurpee machine, possibly a 7-11 cast off. This place is half bar, half Chuckie Cheese pizza joint. It’s basically a giant nerd terrarium.

  A juke box plays an Evanescence song, a favorite of Goths for over two decades. What a stereotype. There seems to be only one waitress on this side of the bar, a young girl in black and white stripped tights and a Megadeath concert tee held around her waist with a belt. The makeshift dress swooshes as she passes by with a tray of brightly colored shots.

  “Stop staring,” Kara grumbles, then strides away, ducking under a curtain that passes for a door into another room.

  This one is filled with video games, but not new ones. These are all vintage. There must be at least two dozen filling the low-ceilinged room, illuminated by only black lights. I pass Galaga, Asteroids and Centipede, before coming face to face with Mike Tyson’s Punch out. Kara threads her way through the room, receiving hugs and high fives. I am the recipient of scowls and frowns when passing by what appear to be her loyal subjects. She continues to introduce me as her bestie, which draws expressions of amusement.

  “You said we could talk,” I blurt out, touching her shoulder.

  “We can,” she sings in a sweet tone, turning around and tapping a finger on my forehead. “Go get us a couple beers and meet me back here at Mortal Combat.”

  I size up the two young men playing the old school fighting game, then slink back to the pool room and buy two huge draft beers in wax paper cups. They are only two bucks each, but the taps are filthy and I may not have the stomach to drink mine. I pay with a twenty and leave the change, hoping to upgrade my status in any way possible. When I get to the designated video game, she’s gone, but one of the guys playing nods his head toward a door to the right.

  “She went in there?” I ask, condensation dripping off both cups.

  He nods again, then goes back to killing his friend. I seriously hate this place. If I called Hal’s guys, would they would bust in and raid the joint? There have to be some underage girls or drugs hidden in here somewhere.

  “There you are,” Kara shouts from the doorway. “In here bestie.”

  She takes the beer from my left hand and strolls inside. The room is well lit, florescent lights and a drop ceiling that looks well cared for. A half dozen tables line the walls boasting piles of computers and flat screens. A dozen rolling office chairs litter the center of the room, which is empty. Three guys and a girl dressed like Kara, but much younger play some multiplayer game on a fifty-inch flat screen bolted to the wall. They moan and wince, their chairs rolling back and forth as they play. The room is nearly silent, the trio wear huge brightly colored wireless headphones.

  “Welcome to the clubhouse,” she chirps, sipping her beer, both of her small hands wrapped around the cup.

  In our brief time apart, she has put her hair up in tall pigtails that dangle down on either side of her head. Her bag is gone, replaced by a skull and cross bones purse with a stuffed unicorn keychain hanging off one strap.

  “This your place?”

  “No, no, no,” she chuckles, sipping, then wiping beer foam off her lips with the back of her arm. “This is the gaming room, but it’s quiet in here.”

  “Headphones and all,” I add, pointing at the game players.

  Kara pulls up a rolling chair and sits. I join her, wobbling at first on the cement floor in the wide open middle. On the walls, are game posters and even a few framed pictures. A tattered poster with Kara holding a huge trophy is stuck over some others. The poster announces World Champion in huge red letters.

  “Look at you,” I laugh, pointing at the wall behind her.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she nods, drinking as fast as she can. “What gives? What does Big Brother want with me?”

  “I just need to ask you about Dynasty Builder.”

  “Shoot,” she declares, rolling her chair to the right and setting her beer on the edge of a table.

  “I’m curious to know what Technological Victory looks like?”

  She gives me a queer look as if to say that isn’t an actual part of the game.

  “Is that a thing?”

  “Yeah, four scenarios provide a win for the player. Economic, Domination, Cultural or Technology.”

  “How do you win by Tech?”

  “You recall our previous conversation about game play,” she asks, pausing for me to nod. “You start out a caveman—.”

  “Or woman.”

  “Right, then build your civilization to present day.”

  I nod again, praying this gamble reveals some nugget of useful information.

  “One way to win is by developing sufficient technological advances to colonize Alpha Centauri.”

  “What’s Alpha Centauri?”

  “A theoretical Earth-like planet in another Galaxy,” she mumbles, fishing around under a key board, then coming back with a straw, still wrapped in its paper sleeve.

  This threatens to lose me, but then I recall the Space-X launch at the Cape. Did the Tesla Drone mistake that as an attempt at a Technology Victory?

  “How would you stop another player from achieving that?”

  “You can never win if your capital is taken,” she recites, stopping to
wave at a girl leaning in the door. “So, the first option would be to lay siege to their capitol.”

  “Or?”

  “Well, you could use a spy to disrupt production of the ship,” she suggests, crossing her legs and leaning back in the chair. “Or you could attack and force them to re-allocate their resources to military defense.”

  “Interesting,” I nod, abandoning worry of its origin, and sipping on my beer. “Would asking for ten turns of peace stop a Technology Victory?”

  Kara taps the straw, pushing off the paper, then plops it in her beer. Taking the cup in both hands she takes several long sucks, then eyes me suspiciously.

  “Is this about the United flight in Florida,” she demands.

  I’m shocked by her deduction, but find it counterproductive to lie. If Hal wants to throw her in a cell until she promises to keep quiet, that’s on him. I don’t happen to have a non-disclosure agreement on me.

  “Yeah.”

  “You got two choices then,” she remarks, taking another long suck, then setting the cup down. “You can tell me what this is really about or run back to Uncle Sam with nothing.”

  “Is there somewhere more private we can talk?”

  “They can’t hear you,” she indicates, holding her hands up as if she was donning invisible headphones.

  “Still?” I shrug.

  “You got a hotel nearby?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Back in my hotel room, Kara sits in stunned silence while I spill the beans. I tell her every sordid detail from tagging along with the dive guys, to the lost at sea epic I more recently endured. She sits cross legged on the floor of my hotel room in a pile of empty liquor bottles, pilfered from the mini-bar. Earlier concerns that she wouldn’t believe me are washed away as she hangs on my every word.

  “Let me toss something out there,” she announces after a long pause in the conversation. “What if Elliott Weiss uploaded Dynasty Evolved on this Quantum computer?”

  “What if?”

  “You said he signed in as a guest?” she asks and I return a nod. “If he knew someone working there, he might have done it while they weren’t looking.”