Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  Unlike the previous night, halogen lights illuminate the pool room, making it feel like an interrogation. An older man in a backwards baseball hat runs a vacuum across the ragged carpet while the manager works on inventory behind the bar. It takes ninety minutes to load all the discs onto her laptop. Mickey Rat’s opens in a little less than an hour so this is cutting it close.

  “Dial down your anxiety,” she grumbles, spinning a pen between two fingers as she watches the screen. “The sort of people who come here don’t even get up before three in the afternoon.”

  “What’s the word?”

  “It’s chewing on it,” she huffs, shuffling through the sea of discs laying on the pool table. “This laptop is better than the one I had in 2004. We just have to wait.”

  Horns suddenly blare from the laptop speakers. She waves me over and we stand, watching the game intro. It’s all black with white stick figures marching down a huge hall.

  “Seems pretty lo-tech?”

  “It’s a beta. They never released this version so they hadn’t done the glitzy part. Here we go. This is the sign-in screen.”

  “Sign-in?”

  “Yeah, this is a beta so the player has to enter a sixteen-digit code to gain access. It’s four number segments grouped between dashes.”

  “And you have this number?”

  “Of course,” she snorts. “But you’d never guess it.”

  “One, two, three, four, five, six.”

  “It’s not a briefcase lock.”

  Kara bends at the waist and types in a long series of key strokes. Her tiny fingers fly across the keys in a way that makes me feel ancient. I had quite a bit of trouble getting the cash register to work at Old Navy. On the screen a white hourglass flips over, the sand pouring out, then flips again. This goes on for several minutes, then the screen freezes. Undeterred, Kara holds the power key down, re-boots and tries again. This goes on until well after Mickey’s opens for business, but she is right about the crowd. Only a few die hard patrons wander in, most taking up residence in the video game room.

  “Possibly we need to buy a faster laptop?” I suggest, watching her enter the code a fifth time.

  “You can try,” she exhales, backing up with hands on her hips to watch the hourglass. “But you’d never find one sitting on a Best Buy shelf that’s faster than mine.”

  “Possibly my people might have access—.”

  “We’re in,” she mutters, watching the Dynasty Evolved menu open.

  I watch Kara, bent over typing, then notice three other kids watching. There’s sort of a semi-circle around the pool table. Are they interested in the game, or just looking at her butt? The set up to play takes another ten minutes, during which the other spectators grab a beer and a chair. When the game starts running, I am underwhelmed.

  “That’s it? Pre-schoolers have fancier games on pretend tablets,” I argue, thinking of Jessie playing the Pepa Pig dress-up game on her Nabi tablet.

  “Cut me some slack,” she grimaces, watching the monochromatic board game play out on her screen. “I disabled the video enhancement.”

  “Why?”

  “So the bloody thing would run,” she complains, not looking up.

  The assembled crowd eyes me as if I am an idiot. They clearly understand why a person would disable the graphics. I am a Yankee in King Arthurs court.

  “How are we going to use this to stop Darius?”

  “Don’t be silly.” she chuckles, backing up, then pulling me a few feet away by the arm and lowering her voice. “We aren’t going to beat a Quantum Computer running amok with only my laptop and a buggy beta.”

  “I was under the impression we were going to gain access to a game menu.”

  “We do need that,” she whispers, then rolls her eyes. “We can’t possibly use the game menu on this version. Two clicks in and it will lock and we would have to re-boot and start all over.”

  “So,” I remark, then pause waiting for some reason not to abandon this line of investigation.

  “We need access to the chat board.”

  “Really?” I fain excitement, then lose the urge to continue. “Are we going to chat him to death?”

  “Relax bestie, put a pin in that anxiety and watch.”

  I lean over her shoulder as she uses the game menu to open a message board. The board is nearly empty, just one or two postings. What is she up to?

  “These message boards are for beta users. It’s so they can post comments as they play. Gives the programmer a chance to make changes and issue a patch or two.”

  “By programmer, are you referring to Weiss?”

  “Duh. The only way to access them is to run the game, then sign in. The last post was mine, back in 2004,” she points out, scrolling to a post with the ID tag LADYGREY from June of that year.

  “You’re Lady Grey?”

  “You’re missing the headline. The only people who had the ability to post here were beta testers who had the discs a decade ago. These boards are a dead stick.”

  “Why do we need them?”

  “We need a functioning copy of this game,” she suggests, turning to type. “To find your Drone we need access to the game menu and for that we need a finished product.”

  “I thought there never was a functioning copy of Dynasty Evolved?”

  “Not a commercial copy, but think about it. If Weiss used your Quantum Box to defrag his program, maybe he has a version that runs.”

  “Elliott Weiss is a ghost,” I point out, then shake my head and try to be more specific. “My people have been hunting him for a decade.”

  “Your people would be?” she asks, pausing for me to answer.

  “That’s hardly the point,” I groan, refusing to add to Hal’s media trouble. “Wherever Weiss went, we aren’t going to find him now.”

  “You certainly won’t with that attitude,” she chirps, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me closer to the screen to read her new post.

  LADYGREY: Darius is misbehaving. Maybe his father should step in?

  I read it several times, then notice Kara and what appears to be three enthusiastic followers all wait for me to have an epiphany moment. When this doesn’t happen they share sympathetic looks as if I am puppy who peed on the carpet. I hate this generation.

  “Just put me out of my misery,” I beg.

  “There’s only one person besides me who has access to that board.”

  “Elliot Weiss?”

  “That took a while.”

  “There aren’t any other betas?”

  “Might have been, but it’s been over a decade. I doubt any of them is still trying to run this game.”

  “You think he will message you back?” I inquire, still trying to sort out a game plan that gets me anywhere near the Tesla Drone.

  “If he’s out there,” she sighs, waffling a hand back and forth. “If so, then we have a shot.”

  “How long?”

  “Let’s have a smoke and see.

  Kara clears off the pool table, suggesting that she can put the laptop on the bar. She holds it out in front of her gently, walking in slow motion, each step taking ten seconds or more. One of the onlookers is watching me, more than her. Is the laptop in danger of exploding?

  “Let me clear off a spot,” I exclaim, pushing empty cups to one side.

  I scoot my stool away and take a step back as she moves even slower.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I exhale, hanging on her every step.

  “Yeah,” she whispers, then drops the laptop to waist level. “Be less gullible.”

  Laughs from the strays around the pool table rain down on me. Kara plops the laptop on the bar, then high fives the manager, who had come around to our side of the bar to watch. I have been played for a fool. A feeling that is not all together new to me.

  “You’re very hard to like.”

  “Just having a little fun,” she giggles, receiving another high five.

  More patrons have been arriving, most payi
ng no attention to us. The house lights dim and we sit on stools, flicking ash into a blue Maxwell house coffee can. Every few minutes Kara hits refresh to check for a Weiss reply. She gets drawn into a conversation with the gal in the manager shirt, who washes glassware in a huge sink behind the bar. She’s absolutely relaxed here. A feeling I have not felt in so long.

  Kara plays a few games of pool with two guys nearly half her age, nodding at me to hit refresh every so often. Whenever she shoots, the guys she’s playing against stand behind her and ogle her butt. She’s like royalty here. What I wouldn’t give to feel the way she must. Since Glen died there hasn’t been anywhere I feel wanted, or for that matter, appreciated. Not surprisingly, I doubt Kara’s a candidate for murder-suicide anytime soon. I watch her, envious, for over an hour, then she comes back to check the laptop.

  “Haven’t you been refreshing it?” she complains.

  “Sorry, I was daydreaming.”

  “Dreaming in here?” she scoffs, lighting a cigarette and hopping onto her stool. “Nightmares maybe.”

  “I don’t know. You got a pretty good thing going on here.”

  “You’re daft,” she snorts. “Thirty years old and I work at the frigging Dairy Queen.”

  “I just meant that,” I start and freeze, forcing myself not to comment on her age fib.

  “You’re the one who’s got it made. Flying around in private jets and driving fancy sports cars.”

  “It’s not what it looks like,” I sigh, thinking of Dexter’s repeated warnings.

  “Ha,” she blurts, leaning backward, her elbows on the bar behind her. “Big wad of cash and two-armed guard dogs to do your biding. I’ll swap with you any day.”

  “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

  “Prove it,” she baits me.

  I shrug and hold out my hands.

  “Gimmie,” she chirps, holding out her hand. “The money, the phone, the works. I’ll be you and you can make hot fudge sundaes forty hours a week.”

  “If only,” I sigh. “Hey, what about the Dairy Queen? Are you missing work today?”

  “Never again. I quit that taco stand this morning. Called them up and told them I was out of there.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’d have never gotten the time off to tag along with you and stop Darius,” she scoffs. “Figured I’d beat them to the punch and quit.”

  This is shocking on several levels. The headliner is that she thinks she’s coming with me. Did I infer this at any point? I cull through my brain for any leading conversations. My game plan had been to garner whatever information I could, then fork over a large cash gift before getting back on private jet and out of Kansas. I’m watching her refresh the laptop and it’s clear now she’s unaware of the actual plan. If I tell her now will her assistance be lost?

  “I’d hate to drag you away from you family,” I stutter, “or your friends here. By the looks of it, they might be lost without you.”

  “Family,” she laughs. “It’s just me and Marigold, and you can have her for a nickel. As for this place, you’re wrong. Ten years ago maybe, but the scenery in here rarely changes. We just add social castaways and tech school dropouts every now and then.”

  The hole in which I sit just gets deeper and deeper.

  “I bet you have a guy,” she beams. “Probably a big house somewhere.”

  I think of Glen and Jessie. At one time I did have all the things she aspires to. I did have it made. She takes a drink, then returns her attention to me. The corners of her lips begin to curl down, and I realize she’s aware of my growing anxiety.

  “Check the message board,” I cough, a hand over my mouth to hide my reaction.

  She does and the laptop pings. On the screen there is a reply.

  TINMAN: Does LADYGREY have any suggestions?

  Kara stares at me, then widens her eyes. “What now?”

  “This was your idea,” I argue. “Run with it.”

  LADYGREY: Do you have a bugless version of DB Evolved?

  TINMAN: Possibly

  LADYGREY: I need access to the game menu

  There is no instant reply. After ten minutes, Kara sulks to the lady’s room, leaving me to observe a half dozen Goths playing pool. My phone vibrates with a text from Hal. He wants to know if I have any news, but I don’t.

  “Or do I,” I mutter, an idea popping into my head.

  Turning sideways on my stool I refresh the screen, then it dawns on me. LADYGREY is already signed in. I don’t need a password. After scanning the room for Kara, I post on the message board.

  LADYGREY: Can’t stay on here. Help me please! 700-656-2424

  Kara saunters out of the lady’s room, stopping to chat with one of the players. I am gambling that Weiss will text my phone. If he does, then Hal will be able to find him. I’m watching Kara, thinking she might not be keen on this tactic. I glance at the screen where my post is listed under hers. If she sees this, I will have no choice but to bring her along on whatever phase two of this debacle turns out to be. I can’t believe I am about to do this.

  I pretend to stretch, then knock Kara’s computer into the sink behind the bar. There’s a pop when it splashes in, cord and all. I try my best to look shocked, but Kara races over in frantic concern. She and two other geeks drag it out, then try to dry it off. She’s furious, but doesn’t seem to suspect foul play. They try for a half an hour to boot it up, but decide they will have to take it apart and store the innards in zip lock bags of dry rice.

  “Now what do we do?” Kara sobs, heartbroken, watching two guys disappear under the curtained doorway, on the way to the game room with her laptop.

  “For one thing, you’re going to need to buy a new laptop,” I decree, pulling out the untouched roll of 100’s. “Take this and get a nice one.”

  She stares at the money like it’s acid, refusing it. This is in stark contrast to her previous attitude about the three-hundred I gave her at the Dairy Queen. Oh, what a difference a day makes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s a lot of money,” she balks.

  “How much money did you have tied up in that one?” I demand, wiggling the wad at the curtain.

  “I don’t know, probably four grand.”

  “Then this is just enough, with a few hundred for mental distress.”

  She takes it and picks at the edge, thrumming the crisp bills.

  “I need you to get a new laptop, then load your discs and check for a reply,” I instruct, aware it will take a long time, thus providing me ample opportunity to escape.

  “I’d have to custom order,” she frowns. “Unless mine dries out. Although I might be able to transplant the hard drive into a loaner.”

  “Then you better get started,” I pat her shoulder and slide off my stool.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I have to report our progress to my boss. I was only supposed to be here overnight. He’s expecting me to bring back his private jet.”

  “I have to come with you,” she pleads. “You need me.”

  “Yes, I do, but stay here and see what you can do about your laptop. You have my number. Call me the minute you get the message board up.”

  “I guess,” she whines, scanning around the pool hall.

  She follows me out to the car, even though I suggest she stay. I am unsure if she suspects my impending abandonment or not. In my opinion Kara is too smart to miss it. Or possibly my ruse will be too pathetic to fool her. She stands slack shouldered as I open the car door. Guilt washes over me, making every breath a struggle. Why do I care about leaving her when I’d swap places if I could? I reach under the visor and retrieve the other roll of cash.

  “Here,” I peel ten hundreds off the second roll of bills. “Here’s some working capital over and above the computer replacement. Use it for whatever you need and call me with an update.”

  She takes it, folding it over and slipping it in her pocket, the previous gift still clutched in her other ha
nd. While disappointed, I can see she’s already re-routing her energy to sorting this out. I have clouded her perception of this situation with cold hard cash. My phone vibrates with a text from Weiss.

  TINMAN: Have passport issues. Can you travel?

  “Gotcha,” I whisper, eyes on the screen.

  “Got what?”

  “It’s my boss,” I pretend. “I’m going to catch hell.”

  “Tell him I will get us back online.”

  “I will,” I assure her, then receive an oddly emotional two-armed hug. It goes on for nearly a minute, her hands clutching my shoulder blades.

  “Are we still besties?” she begs, a curious catch in her throat. “You and me, right Lyds?”

  “Absolutely,” I assure her, a pit in my stomach. “Call me with an update.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” she salutes, her smile forced, but welcome.

  I watch her move through the gap in the fence on her way back. I’m parked in front of the Chinese place, which is doing a bustling business this afternoon. Weiss replied, so Hal must be aware of his location. I tap out a reply.

  ME: Not a problem. How shall we proceed?

  Before he can answer, I get a text from Hal.

  DADDY: He’s in Canada. Acquisition is underway

  ME: You’re welcome

  I barely get onto the main road before my phone rings. Hal talks, but I crane my neck in an attempt to see Mickey Rat’s roof over the tree line. Am I a deliberately an evil person or is it accidental?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Even on Hal’s private jet, which has to belong to some government agency, we cannot fly into Andrews. The National Guard has the District on lockdown as rioting continues. It’s a reminder of how isolated the small town gamers in Wichita are. The world disaster never even came up in conversation with them. We fly to Lindbergh Field in San Diego. Agent Katz is nowhere to be seen, but two Agents deliver me to the Four Seasons. I am informed that Hal will be along tomorrow, and that I should relax. Room service provides an amazing steak for dinner, followed by a slice of carrot cake that leaves me speechless. I lay on the bed watching the news until the wee hours, then fall asleep.