The Last Iota

by Robert Kroese

  “Ninety-nine,” said Keane.

  “You got it,” I replied. “Less than one out of three got out alive, and most of those were badly wounded. I’ve seen that tattoo a couple times before. Other Petoskey guys who made it out of Jeddah. They are, generally speaking, not a group of guys you want to fuck with. Survivors. Mean as hell, with a huge chip on their shoulders.”

  “Do you think the guy who got away was a Ninety-niner as well?” asked Keane.

  “No idea,” I said. “Could be. I wouldn’t be surprised if the guys who killed Selah were Petoskey, either. They definitely had some kind of special ops training.”

  “Petoskey doesn’t seem to exist anymore,” Keane said, looking at his comm display.

  “They lost their contract with the army in ’25. Political bullshit meant to scapegoat the Petoskey guys for their own slaughter. Anyway, Petoskey folded not long after that.”

  “This is interesting,” said Keane, his face still buried in his comm. “Petoskey’s assets were bought by a company that was later merged into Green River.”

  “Green River?” I said. “I keep seeing their trucks all over town. Supposedly they’re building some kind of training facility out in the desert. They provide security for a lot of companies in the Middle East.”

  “Yes,” said Keane. “Including Saudi Arabia.”

  “Well, not anymore,” I said. Saudi Arabia didn’t technically exist these days. Since the Wahhabi coup, it was officially known as the Arabian Caliphate.

  “Right,” said Keane. “Green River had a contract to provide security for Gerard Canaan’s company, Elysium Oil. That didn’t go so well for them, though. They underestimated the strength of the Wahhabi forces and lost control of most of Elysium’s facilities. The new government nationalized everything and Elysium’s stock tanked.”

  “I’m not seeing what any of this has to do with the iota coins.”

  “Nor I,” said Keane. “But this is the second connection we’ve found to Gerard Canaan. He was also on the board of the Free Currency Initiative.”

  “It makes sense he’d get into iotas. He lost his shirt on a physical commodity; maybe he figured he’d fare better with a virtual one. But you’re saying you think he sent those guys to get the coin from Eric Brassey as well.”

  “It’s a working theory,” said Keane. “It coincides with the idea that the value of the physical iotas is somehow linked to the value of the iota currency.”

  “How?”

  “Hard to say,” said Keane. “We need more data. This Green River connection interests me. Something isn’t right there. What have you heard about this training facility they’re building? I’m not finding anything online.”

  “It’s supposed to be a secret,” I said, “but you can’t do something on that scale without people noticing. Rumor is the facility is supposed to be somewhere south of Riverside, near the old air force base.”

  “Hmm,” said Keane. He spun around in his chair and tapped a series of keys on his notebook. While he did whatever he was doing, I lay back and closed my eyes. I was on the verge of sleep when he spoke again.

  “Strange,” he said. “I’m scanning the satellite imagery for that area, but not seeing anything that looks like a training base. Frankly, I’m not seeing anything that looks like anything. If there’s a building here, it was built by Wile E. Coyote to trap the Road Runner.”

  “Maybe look in a wider area?” I asked.

  “I’m going to try running a differential on satellite imagery from a couple years ago. If something large was built in that area recently, this should pick it up.”

  While Keane was doing this, Olivia walked in, wearing nothing but a towel. I had to remind myself that behind that pretty face was the mind of a megalomaniacal narcissist. It didn’t stop me from looking, though.

  “What are you gentlemen up to?” Olivia asked, sitting down on the bed next to me.

  I found myself unable to speak.

  “Looking for the Road Runner,” Keane said. After a moment, his brow furrowed.

  “Find something?” I managed to ask.

  “Hmm,” said Keane. “Building. Looks like a warehouse, though. Not a training facility. Wouldn’t you expect a military training facility to have … I don’t know, an obstacle course or something? An athletic track, at least? There’s nothing here but a big square building. Not even a parking lot.”

  “Maybe there’s parking under the building?” I suggested.

  “What are you looking for?” Oliva asked. “Did you say something about a training facility? Maybe I can help.”

  We ignored her.

  “I’m not seeing any other candidates,” said Keane. “It’s either this building or … hello.”

  “What?” Olivia and I said together.

  “This property is owned by a real estate holding company. Care to guess what company is leasing it?”

  “ACME?” I suggested.

  “Empathix.”

  “Selah’s company?”

  “That’s the one,” said Keane. “I think we found our training facility.”

  “But they don’t do military training. They develop holograms and sim … oh.” It made perfect sense, now that I thought about it: With the sort of virtual reality training simulations Empathix employed, the trainees wouldn’t need tracks or obstacle courses. Just a building and some VR goggles.

  “What are you two talking about?” asked Olivia. “What’s Empathix?”

  “Olivia,” said Keane, “what do you want?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what do you want? Why are you here?”

  “The same as you,” said Olivia. “To figure out who Tad Curtis is working for. Who killed my mother.”

  “Good,” said Keane. “We need you to do something.”

  “What?”

  “Get us into that Empathix facility.”

  ELEVEN

  The next morning, Keane and I were sitting in the lobby of the Empathix building, a big steel box in the desert just outside Riverside. Keane had done some digging and found a comm ID for a guy named Sam Chaudry, who was evidently in charge of some kind of augmented-reality project called Minotaur. Sam’s current address was listed. Keane had guessed, based on Chaudry’s résumé, that he was in charge of the Riverside facility. Olivia had called him, pretending to be Selah, and had managed to get us an appointment for 8 A.M. I was half-expecting to be met by armed Green River mercenaries—or worse, the police—but promptly at eight a small man in a suit and tie walked into the lobby, smiling nervously. Evidently Olivia had impressed upon him that we were very important investors who needed to be given a tour of the facility.

  “You must be Mr. Barnes and Mr. Hewitt,” said the man. “I’m Sam Chaudry. Selah Fiore told me you were coming.”

  “Hi, Sam,” said Keane, shaking his hand enthusiastically. “Jack Barnes. Selah’s told us a great deal about your Minotaur program, and we decided it was time to come see for ourselves.”

  “I was actually very surprised to hear from Ms. Fiore,” said Sam. “She’s never been to this facility. I wasn’t sure she was even aware of Minotaur.”

  “Oh, she’s aware, all right,” said Keane. “She’s very impressed with your progress. Didn’t she say that, Mr. Hewitt?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s what she said. Very impressed. With Minotaur.”

  “Well, that’s great to hear,” said Sam. “I know she’s a very busy woman. So, did you want the full tour of the facility, or just get right down to business?”

  “Let me ask you something, Sam,” said Keane. “If I were to characterize this building as a big steel box in the desert with some fancy equipment inside it, would that be accurate?”

  “Er,” said Sam. “I suppose so.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Keane. “Then let’s skip the box and go right to the fancy equipment. Minotaur is what we came to see, Sam. Let’s get to it.”

  “Very good,” said Sam. “Follow me, gentlemen.”
>
  We followed Sam down the hall to the elevator, then got off at the second floor and went down another hall to a small control room that was separated from a much larger room by a thick sheet of Plexiglas. Sam opened a cabinet and pulled out a helmet with a large visor. He set this on the desk behind him and then opened a sliding door to retrieve a fairly convincing mock-up of an M4-A4 carbine, the current standard-issue weapon for the U.S. Army.

  “So,” Sam said, “which one of you wants to be the guinea pig?”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, taking the mock gun from him.

  “Fine,” Sam said. He reached into the closet and pulled out something that looked very much like the vests worn by the men who had broken into Eric Brassey’s house. I handed the gun to Keane while Sam helped me into the vest. He then handed me a pair of leather gloves. “This way, gentlemen,” he said, walking past me with the helmet. He opened a door that led to the larger room and we followed him inside. The floor of the room was made of something slightly spongy, like a gym mat. Red circles, about an inch thick and maybe ten feet in diameter, covered the surface of the floor in a staggered pattern. In the middle of each circle were two small platforms in the shape of footprints.

  “If you would, Mr. Hewitt,” Sam said.

  I stepped into a circle, placing my feet carefully onto the footprints. As soon as I had done so, a padded metal ring, about three feet in diameter, descended from the ceiling and stopped just above waist level. Looking behind me, I saw that it was suspended by a single robotic arm.

  “What’s this for?” I asked. “In case I—”

  Suddenly a series of small belts, articulated like earthworms, shot out of the floor, wrapping tightly around my boots. I instinctively tried to lift my right foot, and yelped as I realized I was pinned. I fell forward, catching myself on the padded ring.

  “Sorry,” said Sam. “I’d have warned you, but it’s sort of a rite of passage here. Everybody does it.”

  “I’m not sure what the point of this simulation is if I can’t move my feet,” I said.

  “We’ll get to that,” said Sam. “Mr. Barnes, could you hold the gloves for a moment?”

  Keane took the gloves, studying them with interest. Sam handed me the helmet.

  I put on the helmet and managed with some difficulty to get the chin strap fastened.

  “Good,” said Sam. “Now the gloves.”

  Keane handed me the gloves. As I put them on, Sam explained, “All of this gear—the vest, the gloves, the gun—are approximate versions of the real thing. Except for the helmet. The helmet is a production-model Minotaur combat helmet. This is exactly the same helmet worn by soldiers in the field. The line between augmented reality and artificial reality is a very fine one, as you’ll see.” He handed me the gun. “You know how to use one of these, Mr. Hewitt?”

  “I have some idea,” I said.

  “Excellent,” said Sam. “I could try to explain to you how this works, but it’s easier just to show you. When you’re ready, go ahead and put the visor down. Mr. Barnes, this way, please.”

  Sam led Keane back to the control room. I flipped the visor down and found myself staring at a wall. The same wall I’d been looking at before I put down the visor.

  “Is something supposed to be happening?” I shouted.

  “Patience, Mr. Hewitt,” Sam said in my ear. “And there’s no need to shout. There’s a mic built into the helmet.”

  “All right.”

  “Now, I have several scenarios to choose from: jungle recon, desert stronghold assault, urban pacification—”

  “Urban pacification,” Keane and I said together.

  “Very good,” said Sam. “Give me a moment, Mr. Hewitt.”

  I waited a few seconds. “I’m still not—” I began. Suddenly I was standing on a city sidewalk. It was the middle of the day; the sun was almost directly overhead. The street was deserted, and most of the stores on both sides of the street were closed and locked up. Several were boarded up. The street signs on the corner said FLORENCE and COMPTON.

  I was inside the DZ.

  “This is amazing!” I exclaimed. I had gone several steps down the street before realizing my feet were still strapped to the pads on the floor. How the hell was I walking? I stopped, looked down, and raised one of my feet. Nothing seemed amiss.

  “We can see what you’re seeing, Mr. Hewitt,” said Sam in my ear. “If you’re wondering how you’re able to walk, your feet are attached to articulated pneumatic joints that allow your legs a full range of motion. The pads sense when you lift or push down with your foot and respond accordingly. When you step forward, the arm slides backward, giving the illusion of forward motion. I don’t recommend trying to run yet, as your brain may have difficulty equating the passing of objects with the lack of actual forward motion. You get used to it, but it can cause a sense of vertigo in newbies.”

  I nodded, now looking at the gun in my hands. What had clearly been a model of an M4-A4 now looked very much like the real thing. It was incredible. The simulation somehow recognized the model and rendered it as the real thing, so convincingly that I would have sworn it was a real gun. Next I looked at my hands and arms. The visor had transformed my street clothes into a combat uniform and boots, but other than that it rendered my body exactly as it actually looked. Opening and closing my hand in front of the visor, I found myself wondering if I was actually looking at my hand or if I was looking at an extremely realistic simulation of my hand. What was the difference? How would I know?

  “Don’t get all solipsistic on us, Hewitt,” said Keane in my ear. “Some of us would actually like to look at things other than your navel.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I’d forgotten Sam and Keane were seeing everything I was seeing. The technology was essentially the same as that which Selah’s director had used to insert thirty-year-old Selah into a scene in place of an android. Empathix had developed both.

  “He’ll wake up soon enough,” said Sam.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, suddenly on edge. I scanned the street for signs of movement.

  “Just that it’s a combat simulation,” said Sam. “Not a standing-and-looking-at-your-hands simulation.”

  “Want to give me a clue as to what my objective is?” I said. “Who are the bad guys in this scenario?”

  “Whoever’s shooting at you,” said Sam. “Try not to get killed.”

  “Fantastic,” I said. I had gotten to the corner, and I peered around and scanned the intersection. Still I saw no one. “Are there any people in this—” As I said it, I heard gunfire from somewhere to my right. Higher than street level. Somebody in one of the windows down the street. I moved backward to take cover in a doorway.

  “Who’s this guy shooting at?” I said.

  “You tell us,” said Sam.

  I was about to swear at him and explain that generally soldiers did not get dropped into a hostile environment, alone, with no idea who they were supposed to be fighting, when a shattering window behind me answered my question. I peeked out from around the corner and saw movement in a third-story window kitty-corner to me, second building down the street, third window from the right. If that was the shooter, he was too far away for me to take out with an M4-A4 and no scope. I left my doorway and ran down the street, intending to take cover behind an abandoned car, but came to a halt after a few steps, a wave of disorientation flooding over me. I saw what Sam meant about running. My legs moved and the scenery moved past me, but the actual sensation of motion was a bit off.

  “The pads tip forward slightly as you run,” said Sam, “giving the illusion of momentum. But it’s very difficult to fool the vestibular system. As I said, you’ll get used to it. Just take it slow.”

  “Take it slow,” I muttered. Easy to say when you’re not being shot at. It took an active effort to remind myself that this was a simulation. The only hint was the vertigo I got from running. I decided to walk the rest of the way to the car. Bad idea.

  Somethin
g hit me in the chest, just below my left collarbone, and a split second later I heard a gunshot. It felt like getting hit with a ball-peen hammer. A red outline of a human figure briefly flashed in the upper right of my field of vision, a radiating red circle showing where I’d been hit.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “He’s using live ammo.” It was a stupid thing to say, of course. There was no “he,” there was no gun, and there was no ammo. The vest was rigged.

  “Pneumatic percussive vest,” said Sam in my ear. “The interior is fabric composed of alternating cells filled with gases that react explosively with each other. When you get hit, the Minotaur system signals the vest, which sends a current to the appropriate area, opening microscopic gates between the cells. The cells momentarily expand to twenty times their previous size. I’m told it feels very much like getting shot.”

  I could confirm that. At least, it felt like getting shot in a bulletproof vest. Having a bullet actually tear through your flesh was a whole different level of unpleasantness. “What if I get shot somewhere the vest doesn’t cover?” I asked. Recovering from the shock of being shot, I ducked down and took cover behind the car.

  “We have full percussive suits,” said Sam. “But the manufacturer is still working some bugs out. The system will alert you if you get shot somewhere else; you just won’t feel it. All this stuff is designed by another company. We just do the software.”

  “You do the training as well,” I heard Keane say.

  “We work closely with our clients to develop training programs,” Sam said. “The training itself is generally conducted by their personnel, but of course they have to understand the software to train their guys. It also helps to have them on-site because it’s an iterative process. We learn about user-experience problems firsthand that our own testers wouldn’t spot. Sending a software tester into an urban combat simulation and sending a trained soldier into the same simulation can have quite different outcomes, as you might imagine.”