Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “How many people were on that plane Hal?”

  “Too many, did you get the canister?”

  “I guess you have to stare at the charred corpses before you start giving a crap,” I bark, annoyed that these things don’t seem to register with him. “Yes, I got the stupid canister.”

  “Smallpox would kill far more—.”

  His reply is lost in the sound of the Mitsubishi Zero screaming into view from the north. He keeps talking, but I lower the phone and watch it make a long arcing pass around the black tunnel of smoke emitted by the crash site. Changing its course abruptly, the Zero makes a sharp turn, passing directly over me. The red circles painted on the underside of the wings remind me of a Charlton Hesston movie I saw as a child.

  Scanning the horizon, I locate the Tesla Drone moving away at a much higher elevation. It’s just a speck, but the odd lateral movement catches my eye. The Zero’s engine growls into a higher pitch as it explodes into the bank of clouds.

  “Twelve-to-one kill ratio,” I sigh, rejoining Hal on the cell. “Your boy in the Zero has his hands full.”

  “Follow them.”

  “In what?”

  “The cigar boat,” he snaps. “If he shoots it down we want whatever you can recover.”

  This is starting to feel like a reality TV show. Hal is probably watching me from a satellite in low orbit. I lift my arm and fly the bird at the sky, but Hal doesn’t comment. I guess he can’t actually see me. As the Zero moves between cloud groups a red puff of smoke comes off the tail making a dash in the sky, then stops.

  “I suppose it was you who put an air show smoker on this guy’s butt.”

  “Aussies did it themselves,” he argues. “That’s a pretty rare plane. Follow it and let me know how this comes out.”

  “I’ll follow just in case the pilot needs a ride back,” I snap, wheeling the boat around and rolling the levers forward. “When I tried to follow the stupid thing in Florida, I could have used a ride to shore.”

  “Excellent.”

  “By the way,” I pause, pulling the levers back so I can hear him clearly. “If your satellites are so good, why couldn’t you see me in the raft?”

  “You’re in a raft?”

  “No, back in Florida. I was left for dead out there and you didn’t come find me with your precious technology. Why is that?”

  “The Drone must have been jamming it,” he replies, but sounds guarded.

  “You and I are going to revisit this conversation when I get back,” I advise him. “Have better answers the next time.”

  “Right, make sure to pick up anything that hits the water and then—.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I end the call, jamming the levers forward. “You need to come up with more convincing lies.”

  The sea is calm and I run the boat up to the point where the speed scares me, then settle in. As I get farther from shore the swells grow, but slowing the boat slightly solves the problem. How did ocean waves become such an important factor in my daily life?

  The Zero outruns me easily, but the red dashes fill the sky like a trail of bread crumbs. The narrow bench seat behind me opens up. I find some warm bottles of water and a duffle bag containing clothes. I toss on a hoodie, featuring a kangaroo drinking a beer and a matching visor. There’s a pair of copper colored aviators hanging off a map pocket in the dash. They are bent and scratched, but remind me of my dollar store specials. With the sun low in the sky, they cut down the glare considerably. I chase for over an hour, drinking a bottle of water before I spot the Zero again.

  It races across the blue canvass above, then banks sharply and disappears in the clouds. A moment later the Drone darts in the opposite direction, much slower, but more agile. After a long slow turn the Zero races overhead, the chirping of its guns audible over the boat’s roar. I pull back the levers and coast to a stop, bobbing up and down on the swells. The Drone easily avoids the Zero, which mows past, starting a long turn to get back.

  “He can’t hit you and you can’t run away,” I speak aloud as if Darius can hear me. “The problem for him is you won’t run out of gas.”

  My phone rumbles in my pocket, but when I fish it out, the caller ID is a surprise. The call isn’t from Hal. It’s a text.

  DARIUS: I offer ten turns of peace.

  When I don’t text back the message repeats.

  DARIUS: I offer ten turns of peace.

  The phone rings after I neglect to reply. Is he calling me? Unable to quell my curiosity, I open the phone.

  “I offer you ten turns of peace,” a deep voice announces.

  “I didn’t know you could talk,” I reply, watching the Drone fly overhead.

  “There is much you do not know. Do you accept ten turns of peace?”

  “How much?”

  “2,000 coins.”

  “The price has gone up since last time.”

  “Do you agree?” he hammers.

  “Maybe, how are you going to pay me?”

  “You will pay me,” the voice demands, managing to imitate anger fairly accurately.

  “How ya figure? From where I’m sitting you’re the one running.”

  There is a long pause. Overhead the Zero sends a hail of lead into a cloud, but the Drone emerges from a different bank of clouds behind it.

  “I offer 1,000 gold coins to call off your attack.”

  “5,000,” I demand, then wait in silence, watching the aerial circus overhead.

  After waiting a full minute, I check to make sure the call wasn’t disconnected. It seems my opponent has a tough decision to make.

  “Agreed,” the voice booms out of the phone.

  “Great, how do you plan on paying me?”

  “Has your banking information changed?”

  I was just kidding, but the idea that he might actually pay me is curious. How much actual money is 5,000 Dynasty Builder coins worth? I try to recall our previous negation. On that day the deal was only 400 coins and he took around 260,000 dollars out of my account. Rough math reveals that 5,000 coins would be what?

  “Over six million dollars,” I whisper.

  “Six million, six hundred and thirty-five dollars,” Darius announces, being far more specific than my utterance.

  “In that case no, my banking information has not changed.”

  The idea that Hal has this phone wired and is unlikely to allow me to keep six million dollars robbed from somewhere else is very clear. On the other hand, the stupid Drone did extort a quarter million dollars from me. Ultimately my decision to play this out comes down to the fact that I can’t actually stop the attack, but maybe I can distract Darius a wee bit. A tactic used with some success by Lady Grey.

  “Payment has been made,” he informs me. “Please cease your attack.”

  Overhead the Zero makes another pass, but I don’t hear any shooting this time. Once the Drone moves out of range, the Zero suddenly pulls straight up, before disappearing into the clouds. I imagine he ran out of bullets. Next, he will assuredly run out of gas. At least if he gets to the water in one piece, I can fish him out. Unlike the Cessna, his landing gear will fold up.

  “Attack aborted. You’re good,” I lie, unable to alter the outcome, but happy to pretend.

  Behind me there’s a scratching. When I turn, the mini-drone holding the canister is turning the propellers wildly. It bounces up from behind the seat, landing on the wooden deck at the stern. Darius is trying to take the smallpox as part of the truce. I scramble to reach it, diving across the bench seat and snag the underside of the structure. Undeterred, the blades whine, pulling my arm straight up as it tries to fly away.

  “This wasn’t part of the deal,” I groan, squeezing my fingers around the framework as I am pulled across the back deck.

  I stop my slide with the toe of my shoe, hooked on the back of the bench seat. I’m looking down at the ocean, my head hanging over the back of the boat. The four blades on the mini-drone wail and I fear I may be airborne if I can’t figure something out
.

  The rope that was once tied to the dock hangs off a cleat into the water. I fish it out, then loop it through the framework, before losing my grip. The mini-drone flies free, then snaps to a stop when the rope runs out. It’s ten feet up, but caught by the rope attached to the cleat on one side and wrapped around my forearm on the other. I climb back inside the passenger area and pick up my phone, which had fallen on the seat.

  “Not very sporting to make a deal and then try and steal something.”

  “I cannot steal what is rightfully mine.”

  “Well, my Dad always said possession is nine tenths of the law,” I quote, fighting the now taut rope line as if I were playing with a kite.

  “Your father was a wise man. I whole heartedly agree.”

  The mini-drone angles up suddenly, the blades now able to make contact with the rope. A dull clicking sound like a Weed Wacker fills the air. Bastard is going to cut the line. Before I can react, the clicking sound is drowned out by a thunderous propeller noise.

  Behind me the Tesla Drone hovers a few hundred feet over the ocean. The clouds above suddenly part and the Zero comes straight down. The antique cuts the Drone in two, wing tips fluttering to either side as they are sheared off. The Zero’s speed leaves no allusions that it will be able to pull up and miss the water. What’s left crashes into the sea a quarter mile to the west.

  The tension on the rope disappears as mini-drone falls harmlessly into the sea. Overhead, following the Zero into the water are bits and pieces of the Drone, which appear to be the remnants of light weight solar panels and fiberglass. The two wing sections flutter down like leaves on a fall breeze, then it occurs to me. If the Quantum computer was in the center, did the Zero take it down? Where is Darius? I check the phone, but the call has been disconnected.

  I take the time to reel in the mini-drone, replacing it behind the seat. Not taking any chances, I loop the rope through the frame work a half dozen times, then tie it off. Cranking over the engine, I gun the boat across the deep blue water, slowing at the spot the plane went in.

  A swirl of debris and a small fuel slick are all that remain. A white wing floats a few hundred yards off and I troll over for a look. The curved end of the wing looks undamaged, but after maybe six feet, the edge is ragged and torn. It’s odd that the outermost solar panels still glow blue. What was this thing really made out of?

  Just before the edge, where the wing was sheared off, a camera is mounted. I pull in the second rope dragging behind the boat and loop it around the camera mount. Once I am sure it won’t come free, I pull the end up and tie if off on the same cleat. I got Hal a hunk of his toy. Maybe I can trade it for some of the six-million.

  Scanning the horizon, I can’t find the other wing tip. I’d guess it sank as the one tied to my boat is doing so. The rope keeps it from going to the bottom, but if that breaks there’s no stopping it. Once it sinks a few feet, I only know it’s there by the glow of the panels. I lean down to start the boat, then realize the rope will snap if I move. I am going to need a ride. Dropping into the seat, I make a call. When Hal answers it’s a relief.

  “Can someone call a taxi?”

  “I can’t see the Zero on satellite, but tell me about the Drone?” Hals eager voice begins.

  “Zero’s gone, but I got a third of your toy hanging under my boat on a rope.”

  “He shot it down?”

  “Not in so many words,” I inform him. “Same result. Most of it went down with the Zero, but I have a wing section.”

  “That’s excellent.”

  “Less excellent, being that I can’t move the boat or risk snapping the rope off.”

  “Stay put, I have a seaplane on the way. They will drop some guys to deal with the boat and bring you back to the mainland.”

  “I don’t suppose you got a doctor on board that plane,” I wince, a hand on my side.

  “Stay calm and I’ll have you eating room service before you know it,” he remarks. “Keep your phone on so they can find you.”

  I turn sideways in the passenger seat, putting my feet up on the railing. In all the excitement, John’s death never really registered until now. This is further deepened by memory of nearly telling him about Vicky. Did I tell him as a stall tactic, or was I desperate to tell someone? I pull the envelope out of my pocket and dangle it over the side. Should I just drop it in the ocean?

  I haven’t spoken to or seen my sister in seven years. My last memory is of her sitting in the back of a police cruiser, pounding her hands on the window.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” I sigh, pulling the envelope back in the boat and tearing the end off to remove the letter.

  Chapter Forty

  There is only one sheet of paper inside. At the top is the letterhead of the California Correctional System, complete with an ornate seal. Her words are written in cursive, a style my sister made me practice until my fingers were numb. She was a stickler for penmanship. I lean back on the seat and read.

  Dear Pixie,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I have written you many times, but the letters always come back to me. I can’t say why this surprises me as you have never come to visit. Don’t feel bad, if anyone came to see me the guards would be quite surprised. My attorney is going to try to get this delivered in hopes you will attend my parole hearing, but he doesn’t understand our situation. I only agreed to write to stop his nagging.

  We have not spoken since the accident. I understand why, but the lack of closure is a gaping wound I desperately want to close. Your forgiveness is not expected, but maybe just writing this will give closure to both of us in some small way.

  I was drinking in a bar when you called and asked me to pick up Jessie from soccer practice. It doesn’t matter why. I never needed a reason to drink. I shouldn’t have agreed to help, but you hadn’t called me in so long. I desperately wanted to be part of your life again. I’m haunted by the image of you standing next to the ambulance crying. I was locked in the back of that stupid cop car and they wouldn’t let me out to talk to you. At the time, I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d ever see you.

  I was sorry to hear about Glen. My attorney has explained to me that his suicide was a direct result of Jessie’s death. I am so very sorry. One bad decision by me has cost you everything.

  I truly wish only the best for you. Don’t feel pressured to visit or write. I am getting exactly what I deserve. I pray you find peace and a life after all the damage I have caused.

  Your Big Sis… Victoria

  It feels like I should cry, but the tears don’t come. My arm moves over the side of the boat and I release the letter. It flutters away, then hits the water, the paper turning dark as it sinks. Did reading her letter give me any closure?

  My phone vibrates, dragging me out of the funk brought on by the letter. I scroll though my texts, then check the only one listed as un-opened.

  From Bank of America: Deposit logged at 00:02:45 Transaction complete.

  “It’s not closure, but it will do until I get some.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  It’s a warm day and the line is two deep at both windows. Katz parks across the street from the Dairy Queen, putting the rental car in park and eyeballing me. When I don’t get out she starts to speak.

  “I’m going,” I blurt, a little nervous about seeing Kara.

  “I’ll be back in a half hour,” she lectures me. “Don’t hold me up because we have a flight to catch and I don’t plan on missing it.”

  “I won’t”

  “I’ll have a strawberry milkshake,” she directs me, holding out a crisply folded twenty-dollar bill. “Get something for yourself.”

  I slip out and lean in the door, then fly her the bird, the twenty wrapped around my middle finger. I receive a raised eyebrow in return, then the car jerks out from under my elbows, disappearing around the next block. Here and I thought we had bonded?

  I don’t see Kara’s purple moped parked by the side door, but get in line and wa
it anyway. Once I get to the front, a tall blonde asks me what I want. I lean over and check, but it’s a guy serving at the other window.

  “Is Kara here today?” I inquire, leaning down to speak directly into the screen.

  “No Ma’am, she quit a while back,” the high school aged girl informs me. “Did you want to order anything?”

  I stand straight up and scan the line. When I called Kara, she told me she would be here. Did she punk me because I left her behind? She didn’t sound that mad on the phone. Agent Katz is going to have a field day with this, after I used up my favor from Hal to stop here before heading back east.

  “Ma’am, did you want anything?” the young girl asks a second time.

  “Chocolate milkshake,” I mutter digging in my pocket for the twenty.

  “That all?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble, scanning around the parking lot. “No, wait, give me a Strawberry as well.”

  “Size?”

  “Big ones.”

  “That’s fine. Your total is nine fifty,” she announces, two other girls already working on the drinks.

  I push the twenty under the screen and wave off change as I doubt Katz will be looking for any. It takes five minutes, then she slides the screen to one side and pushes the drinks through. I find a place at a round table with a plastic umbrella hanging over it. There’s a few of them, but the others are filled with enthusiastic kids and parents. The straws are in my blazer pocket, but when I pull them out a car horn blares, causing me to jump.

  A lime green VW Bug honks again, then pulls in, parking in the handicapped space. Once the engine shuts off, I go back to the straws, but the horn blares a second time. Before I can toss Katz’s shake at the car, Kara emerges and sticks her tongue out at me. She’s wearing a red blouse with a baby doll collar and white jeans. She looks like a grown up. Kara joins me at the table, her face still serious.

  “Which one is mine?”

  “The strawberry is for Agent Katz and the—.”

  “The other one’s a chocolate malted,” she interrupts me, clearly recalling my previous order. “I’ll suffer through strawberry.”