Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  I already know about Peter Bishop giving Weiss access, but decide to let her go.

  “To what end? Did he seem like the sort of guy bent on planetary destruction?”

  “No, no, just wait,” she balks, her hands on the side of her head. “This was 2004 when he was trying to sell that last version of the game, only it was buggy as hell.”

  “And too big for a console?”

  “Well remembered Lyds,” she points at me, standing up on wobbly legs in the center of the room. “So he’s got a game that’s buggy and too big for a console. He’s in the last days of serious PC simulation gaming. What is poor Elliott to do?”

  “I’m hoping you’ll tell me,” I sigh, then burp.

  “If he had access to a Quantum computer he’d load all the CD’s into it, then pray it could de-bug the crap out of it. Maybe even compress it so the program would fit on one or two discs,” she declares, then spins in a circle, before falling back on the second queen bed.”

  “Wouldn’t the guys working on the fancy computer know it had this other program running on it?”

  “Probably not,” she states confidently. “A Quantum computer runs a million times faster than anything we would ever see. If it’s as advertised, it could run a hundred massive programs at once without slowing down.”

  “Maybe he was letting it de-whatever, then—.”

  “Bug, de-bug,” she cuts me off.

  “Right, he had it de-bugging, but they took the computer out and tossed it in the Tesla Drone. He didn’t work there so maybe he didn’t know the schedule.”

  “He may have erased it,” she argues. “What’s running now could be from a ghost image.”

  “Ghost?”

  “Yeah, back when video games were lame,” she sighs. “Like Pong or Breakout. If you played that same game too much the television screen would have a ghost image burned into the CRT tube.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, and there is a theory that a program that runs over and over on a hard drive can leave a ghost copy.”

  “Or he deleted it, but the code remained on the drive, even though the library card was removed.” I offer, recalling our previous conversation about computer memory.

  “Well remembered once again.”

  “So, what we may have here is a rogue version of Dynasty Evolved running in the background of the Drone?”

  “Background, foreground, or on the side,” she pauses, twisting her lips. “The ATM nonsense makes me think he’s going for a Cultural victory.”

  “Which would look like what?”

  “To claim a Cultural victory a player would have to raise their popularity to a certain mark, then be elected Undisputed Overlord.”

  “Overlord?”

  “Sort of a cross between the U.N. Secretary General and Anti-Christ.”

  “How does crashing the ATM’s get Drone boy the title of Overlord?”

  “It doesn’t,” she sighs, tipping a tiny vodka bottle over, but finding it dry. “It does destabilize the U.S. and doing that makes it unlikely anyone could attain enough votes to actually become Overlord.”

  “No one is going to be Overlord.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she groans, rolling over and riffling through loose bottles on the bed.

  “What about the China thing? Why is he doing that?”

  “It’s bigger than just China now,” she lectures, tipping over another empty.

  “Again, I ask why?”

  “A game consists of five players. He’s playing the Persians and it would appear China and the U.S. are two and three.”

  “How do you know he’s playing as the Persians?”

  “Darius,” she sighs, but watches my blank expression. “Darius The Great? Emperor of Persia? Ugh, you need a history lesson.”

  “So he’s playing us against China?” I plow ahead, ignoring her jab.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “Other than collateral damage what does he gain?”

  “Unclear at this time, but out of curiosity who do you think the other two players are?”

  “No idea, but I have been wondering about my ten turns. How long do you think a turn is?”

  “In Dynasty Builder a turn starts out being equal to a hundred years, but reduces as time passes. Around 1980 a turn is equal to two years. After that, it doesn’t get any shorter no matter how long you play.”

  “Darius isn’t waiting two years.”

  “No, he’s not, but mathematically speaking, ten turns at two turns each is twenty years.”

  I frown at her, but she finds an unopened mini peppermint schnapps and tosses her hands up in victory.

  “Oh,” she points a finger at me before twisting off the top of the bottle. “I think you’re a player.”

  “I’m not a country.”

  “Technically speaking, ancient Persia isn’t a country anymore either. I said five players, not five countries. Each player chooses a civilization to play as, but technically speaking you could be a player.”

  “You’d know better than I would, but what leads you to that conclusion?”

  “Darius talked to you,” she declares, then winces as if experiencing an acid burp. “He negotiated with you directly. Like it or not, you are an active participant in the game.”

  “How could I possibly participate?”

  Kara rolls over and sits up like a shot. She takes a pony tail in each hand, then closes her eyes and hums. I’d interrupt, but I’m too sleepy. I crawl off the floor, onto the unoccupied bed. I’m digging a pillow out from the comforter, when I am hit by a pillow thrown from the other bed.

  “What the—.”

  “We need my laptop,” Kara demands loudly. “You can’t possibly be expected to win if you can’t get at the game menu.”

  “Game menu?” I mutter, throwing the pillow back. “And who said anything about winning?”

  “I had assumed you didn’t want Darius to win.”

  “Fine,” I agree, then push myself to wobbly feet. “Let’s go get it.”

  “You can’t drive,” she snickers, waving a hand for me to sit down. “You’re drunker than Marigold on Christmas.”

  “Marigold?”

  “My mother.”

  “Your mom has a drinking problem?”

  “You have no idea,” she smirks. “Got my dad thrown in jail one year.”

  “For what?”

  “Let’s see. I must have been around ten. We went to Marigold’s sister’s place for Christmas dinner.”

  “Why do you call her Marigold and not mom?”

  “Mother’s care for their children,” she explains, rolling her eyes. “So, Marigold hits the eggnog pretty hard. By the time the pumpkin pie makes an appearance she is pretty well trolleyed. Then she started a fight with her sister.”

  “Trolleyed?”

  “Sauced, wasted, drunk.”

  “Noted,” I burp, then point at her. “And the sister is your aunt?”

  “Yeah, Rose,” she clarifies. “They start arguing and before long Marigold up and throws her pie at Rose. Dad manages to keep her from climbing over the table, but in the scuffle Marigold whacks her head on the table. It wasn’t serious, but her eye puffed up and grew a huge shiner. Everyone calmed down and we finished eating, but Marigold went to use the bathroom, then called the cops when no one was looking. Next thing Dad knows, the boys in blue are knocking on the door and slapping cuffs on.”

  “Didn’t Aunt Rose explain what happened?”

  “No one said anything,” she shrugs. “Everyone there was from Marigold’s side of the family. No matter how many pies get airborne, they stick together.”

  “That’s absurd,” I grimace. “So, they arrested him?”

  “Yeah, he stayed locked up over the holidays, then Marigold bailed him out.”

  “She have a change of heart?”

  “Nope, she just needed him to go back to work and pay the rent.”

  “That’s horrible.”

 
; “Oh, come on now. You must have at least one holiday ruckus story?”

  Kara could not be more on point with her assertion. The holidays at my childhood home could turn ugly at any moment. Often times my older sister’s drinking would force her ejection from the festivities. It’s been ages since any of these memories were culled out of my brain. I’d prefer to leave them buried.

  “Not so much,” I answer, fudging the truth. “A few fruit cake disputes, but mostly it was calm.”

  Luck, you,” Kara burps again. “How about we swap a few years’ worth of memories so I can see how the other half lives.”

  I shake my head and she flips me the bird, then laughs to illustrate it was intended as a joke. In truth, I am doing her a favor. I wouldn’t wish my childhood Christmas’ on anyone.

  “Are you sure we can’t go get the laptop tonight?” I ask, redirecting the topic of conversation in a more favorable direction.

  “No way,” she groans. “You’re drunk.”

  “Am not,” I argue. “I’m trolleyed.”

  “On that we agree.”

  Unable to argue her point, I dig out the pillow and get comfortable. A half hour later when I get up to use the bathroom Kara has built a nest in the other bed. In the center of carefully placed pillows and comforters, she’s curled up sleeping. Her breath whistles as she exhales.

  “Sleep tight bestie.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The morning begins with Hal’s suits pounding on the door. They are eager to get back to the plane. I text Hal, explaining that I am going to need another day. He agrees; then I listen through the door as his agents’ phone rings. A muffled conversation with Hal sends them elsewhere, allowing me to shower in peace. They will just have to wait another day.

  Kara and I have coffee at a quirky doughnut shop with a fifties drive-in theme. At her request, I take a picture of her sitting in the lap of a seated Elvis Presley statue. She seems to find some hidden irony in the act, but it’s lost on me. Kara eats as if it’s the last food she will ever see. When I ask her about this she becomes agitated. She plows ahead on a rant about my thinking she’s fat, then pouts in silence. I verbally back pedal the rest of the meal, eventually giving up. In an ironic twist, she pulls my plate across and finishes the last of my pancakes. It requires every ounce of self-control I possess to refrain from commenting.

  I can’t say for sure if it’s a surprise or not when it turns out she lives with her mother. At thirty-five no less. Her mother, who must be sixty, sits in a lawn chair in the front yard of her apartment building. She’s reading a paper and smoking, wearing only a long nightgown and slippers. A plastic bird bath sits next to her, the ashtray and a bottle of Snapple nearly tipping it over.

  Kara introduces me as her bestie, but her mother pays little attention. Glancing back as I pass through the front door, I find her eyes glued on the morning paper. The mother is almost certainly the root of Kara’s dark side. Then again, I haven’t seen the father yet.

  The home has only one bedroom, and the kitchen is claustrophobically small. One corner of the living room is partitioned by a sheet thumbtacked to the ceiling. Behind it resides all of Kara’s possessions, a significant number of them piled in laundry baskets next to a worn-down couch. I find it horrific and depressing, but she doesn’t seem to notice. The scent of cinnamon cuts through a stale fog of damp cigarette butts. At the end of the couch a selection of scented candles covers the top of an end table. Brown wax flows across the surface like lava, several wax cups with Dairy Queen logos are glued in the overflow.

  She draws a computer bag from under the stack of pillows that lay at the far end of the makeshift bed. Tossing it in the center, she reaches back into the pile, pulling out a tattered paperback book. She removes two more, discarding them on the floor, before coming back with a partially full bottle of Coke Zero. Unsure what she’s looking for, I sigh, feeling as if this plan of attack is taking too long. She notices me hanging back, and frowns.

  “Grab my lap top, she orders, pointing at the bag. “Just let me change and we can bug out.”

  “We can’t look at it here?”

  “No discs,” she reveals, unbuttoning her shirt with her back to me. “A bunch of my stuff is over at Pete’s.”

  “Who’s Pete?” I groan, turning slightly and putting a hand over my eyes as she continues to undress.

  “Ex,” she grunts, the sound of the zipper being pulled over and over as she tries to get into a pair of black skinny jeans.

  “Of course, there’s a boyfriend.”

  What I had hoped would be a quick stop to look at whatever she wants me to see on the laptop is quickly morphing into an Easter egg hunt. I toss the shoulder strap of the laptop bag over one arm and wait by the door. When she comes around the corner I am greeted by the aforementioned black jeans, black tennis shoes and a black shirt that spells out YOU ARE HERE in white block letters. Messy pig tails still sprout off the top of her head, but are pulled up through a visor. On the back of her shirt is a huge white X, apparently noting the spot where the wearer is located. After a brief exchange with her mother, who she refers to strictly as Marigold, we get back on the road.

  Just when I feel it might be possible to make some forward progress, she orders me to stop at the first gas station we pass. I fill the tank while she buys a carton of smokes, three packs of gum, Twinkie’s and a Red Bull. While at the gas pumps, I study her through the glass. My best guess is that the three hundred bucks acquired yesterday was a windfall. She seems excited to wander around the store shopping, even if it’s only a Circle K.

  We drive forty minutes on the highway, then another ten on two lane blacktops. Pete’s place turns out to be a two story clapboard house right on the main drag. Light blue paint adorns half the building, while the other half seems to have missed the last refurbishment, and is left peeling off in long yellow strips. There’s a wooden porch with two recliner chairs visible. I’m pretty sure those are designed to be indoors. At least twenty beer bottles, some green, some brown, line the railing.

  “Pull in the drive,” she orders, leaving her skull purse and unicorn behind. “Don’t get out.”

  “Fine by me,” I agree, pulling into the drive, but leave the car running.

  “We had a bad break up last month. He’s not really over it.”

  Before I can answer, she’s out the door. Kara gets only halfway up the steps, when the screen door opens revealing a skinny man. He’s older, probably late-forties, although fifty isn’t out of the question. He wears grey colored uniform pants and a matching shirt, the name on a patch, too small to read from this distance. I roll the window down to light a smoke, observing their interaction. The two greet each other with a hug, but her body language is rigid. They disappear inside, leaving me to wait. I burn through three cigarettes before she re-appears on the porch, a pink Hello Kitty backpack over one shoulder.

  “It’s about time,” I grumble to myself, tossing my butt into the yard and rolling the window up.

  Pete follows her out the door, then grabs her by the arm when she tries to go down the steps. Kara spins around, but is captured by the front of her shirt. My first reaction is to hop out, but to do what. I’m not armed and hand to hand combat has never been my forte. Didn’t she tell me to stay in the car? Pete drags her back to the door, her tee shirt nearly pulled over her head in the process, but stops before crossing the threshold.

  It’s a tense moment, then I notice he’s looking at the street. Crossing onto the sidewalk is one of Hal’s guys. I think his name is Pierce. He’s holding out his credentials, but I’d imagine they probably aren’t afraid of a badge in this neighborhood. Pete drops Kara, who stumbles, landing on her knees near the porch steps. As if this is a regular occurrence, she dons an innocent face and pulls down her tee shirt, but the front pokes out like a tent from the tussle.

  A conversation takes place, then before Pete can do anything he regrets, Pierce pushes his right elbow back revealing his side arm. Apparently, Pet
e is done arguing, backing up and nudging Kara with the toe of a work boot. I step out of the car, but Pierce shakes his head ever so slightly to stay put.

  “Kara,” I shout. “Let’s go.”

  She gets to her feet and shuffles down the steps to the car. Once she’s in, we watch Pete retreat inside, then Peirce passes by my window.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “I didn’t know you were still on me?”

  “Just keeping the peace,” he offers, but it’s clearly more than that. “Just do whatever you need to do, but do it quickly.”

  “Tell Hal message received.”

  Pete, who had gone back in the house, returns carrying a large box. He launches it into the yard, clothing of all sorts, including undergarments rain down on the lawn. Kara scowls at the scene, but nods at me to go. Two more boxes fly off the porch before we get out of sight.

  “You need any of that?”

  “It’s just stuff,” she declares, but is fighting to remain calm in front of me.

  “But you got the discs?”

  “Yeah, let’s head over to Mickey Rat’s.”

  “Kind of early for a party,” I remind her, more like a mother, than a bestie.

  “Agreed, but we need internet access, miles and miles of it.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  A gal in a red polo shirt, the title of Manager stitched into the front, lets us in through a side door. She displays a nose ring the size of a hula hoop and a dyed streak of purple in her hair. A string of tattoos depicting barbed wire circle her neck. When she greets us, there is an accent that may be Serbian, but at the very least foreign. When they hug, I imagine Kara’s lip ring getting tangled in the manager’s nose ring. Lord knows what else is speared by stainless steel.

  They don’t open until two, but Kara receives special treatment. She sets up her laptop in the middle of a pool table. There’s a cover over it, and I wince when she starts spreading out her stuff. Glen had a pool table in our basement and forbade me from setting anything on its precious surface. I doubt he played pool more than a half dozen times in the four years we lived there, but he treasured that table. Old habits die hard.