Looking through the window of the abandoned car, I saw movement. I stood up and took aim, resting my elbow on the roof of the car. It would be tough to hit anything at this distance, but I could give the guy a good scare. I let go a burst of rounds at the window. The faux M4-A4 was loud, and it recoiled just like the real thing. I could swear I smelled the acrid, slightly metallic scent of gun smoke.
I didn’t stick around to make sure, though. As soon as the last round of the burst exited the barrel, I was on my feet, running down the street. I did my best to ignore the vertigo and slid to a halt behind another car. Something in the back of my mind registered amazement at the uncannily realistic simulation of dusty concrete skidding under my boots. How the hell did you program something like that?
The survival part of my brain, however, had already directed my body to take aim at the window again. I took deep, slow breaths, trying to steady myself. I had a clear shot at the window, and was now close enough to hit it if I took careful aim. After a few seconds, I saw movement again, but held my fire until I had a clear view of the shooter’s head and torso. I squeezed the trigger, letting loose another burst. The shooter disappeared from view.
“Well done, Mr. Hewitt!” Sam exclaimed in my ear. “Shall we make things a little more interesting?”
“Why not?” I said, feeling cocky from my success. My confidence wavered as a dozen or more men poured around a corner two blocks down, taking up positions in doorways and behind vehicles. They all carried rifles of some kind, and many of them wore Kevlar vests. They didn’t wear uniforms, per se, but they bore the colors of the Tortuga gang. The Tortugas were the most vicious and powerful gang in the DZ.
“You said interesting, not suicidal,” I said, taking cover behind the car.
“No need to fear, Mr. Hewitt,” said Sam. “The cavalry has arrived.” An overhead sketch of the street appeared at the top of my field of vision. It was just bare lines indicating the outlines of buildings, cars, and other objects, so I could see through it. In the middle was a small blue dot that I took to be me. At the top of the display were a dozen red dots representing the Tortugas. Advancing from the bottom were six green dots with names under them. I instinctively looked behind me, and saw several men in combat gear approaching. I had a brief moment of panic before realizing these guys were on my side.
“You’re the squad leader, Mr. Hewitt,” Sam said. “The men will follow your commands.”
“How’s the AI?”
“Try insulting Sergeant Chao’s sister and find out.”
I located Chao by his label over to my left. He was about five eight, but his arms were like tree trunks. I decided to stay on Chao’s good side for now.
“Hey, Chao,” I said. “Any idea what the fuck we’re doing here?”
“Securing this street, sir,” Chao replied. “We’re supposed to rendezvous with Bravo Company at Gage and Compton at twelve hundred thirty hours.”
The time display on the lower left read 1219. That gave us eleven minutes to take these guys out. As the worst-case scenario was getting a few bruises on my chest, I opted for aggressive tactics. “Chao and Baker, you’re with me,” I said. “We’re going to cross the street and move doorway to doorway, leapfrog style. Gutierrez, Swartz, and Parker, move down this side of the street, using the cars for cover. Stay even with me; I’m going to be moving fast. Suppressing fire only until we get to Sixty-Eighth Street. Gutierrez, when your crew reaches that downed utility pole, spread out and take cover. Be quick about it. We don’t want to give these yahoos time to think. Once you’re in position, lay down as much cover as you can, and Chao, Baker, and I will advance like the badass motherfuckers we are. When we reach the barber shop, reload and advance. Keep shooting until these guys are grease stains on the pavement or we’ve chased them past Gage Avenue. And then shoot some more. Just don’t advance beyond Gage, and watch for friendly fire. Let’s move!”
I darted across the street, trying to focus on the building in front of me to suppress the motion sickness. The Minotaur display told me Chao and Baker were right behind me, and Gutierrez and the others were moving down the left side of the street. I fired a volley roughly in the direction of the Tortugas and then sprinted down the street to the next doorway. “Chao, go!” I said. Chao darted past me, followed by Baker. To my left and in front of me, I heard more bursts of fire.
“Hey, Sam,” I said, fighting nausea. “How the hell do I reload?” I’d been watching my ammo count, in the lower right-hand corner of the display, steadily dropping.
“Pull the cartridge out and slap it back in,” said Sam. “Your ammo supply is theoretically unlimited.”
Well, that was a pleasant departure from reality. I took a moment to remove the cartridge and slap it back into place. The ammo count went back to 30. Very nice. I ran after my squadmates. We reached another doorway, and this time Baker went first. I came up behind him while Chao reloaded. Chao ran after Baker, and I followed. In this way, we advanced a hundred feet or so down the road, occasionally taking advantage of parked cars when they offered better cover than the doorways. The Tortugas began shooting at us shortly after we began to advance, but we were only now getting in the range where they had a chance of hitting us.
“Keep moving!” I shouted, as Chao and Baker began to lag. We were now close enough that a lucky shot could hit one of us, and the worst thing my guys could do at this point was slow down. If one of them held cover for too long, one of the Tortugas might anticipate where he was going to go next, get a bead on that location, and take him out as soon as he moved. Two doorways later, I pointed to a burned-out husk of an SUV. My squadmates nodded, and the three of us made a run for it. On my heads-up display I saw the other three mercs moving up on my left. I glanced over to see them hunkering down behind the utility pole. I motioned at them to spread out, and they did so. Gutierrez was at the end of the pole closest to me, Parker was at the splintered base of the pole on the sidewalk, and Swartz was right in the middle. It occurred to me, as I watched the small, lithe figure of Captain Swartz taking aim over the pole, that she was a woman. Sure enough, when I focused on her dot on the display, a dossier popped up identifying her as Rebecca Swartz. There was even a photo. She was cute. I wondered, with a name like that, whether she was ex-IDF. Then it occurred to me that she was a computer program, and I that I really needed a fucking vacation. I looked back at the overhead display and the dossier disappeared.
“Everybody reload,” I said. “I want that suppressing fire in five seconds.”
I popped the cartridge out and back in, bringing the little number in the corner back to 30. I counted to three and then motioned for Chao and Baker to advance from around the right side of the SUV. They nodded and began to move. I leaned around the left side of the chassis, let loose a burst, and then ran out into the middle of the street, zigzagging as I closed the distance between me and the Tortugas. I stopped, brought my rifle to my shoulder, took aim, and fired.
If—God forbid—you’re ever in a situation like this, don’t do what I did. You will most likely die. In fact, I fully expected to. I did it partly because I wanted to see how my “team” would react and partly because, while the Minotaur system was fascinating, I wasn’t getting any closer to keeping me and Keane out of prison by playing video games. It was time to end this, one way or another.
So I just stood there in the middle of the street, taking aim at the first guy I saw. These guys were hiding behind cars and construction sawhorses; they had either expected to intimidate us with sheer numbers or hadn’t expected us to advance this rapidly, because they sure weren’t trying very hard to hide. I took out the first guy right through the sawhorse he was hiding behind, and then moved on to the guy on his left, who had his rifle propped on top of a Volkswagen coupe. He hadn’t noticed me yet; he was firing single shots in the direction of Chao and Baker, who were behind me and to my right. I shot him in the head and he slumped to the ground. Another guy, wearing a Kevlar vest, was crouched on the sidewal
k ahead and to the left, firing toward my guys hunkered down behind the utility pole. I shot him in the thigh and he fell to the pavement, screaming.
Figuring I had pushed my luck about as far as it would go, I broke into a sprint directly toward the gap between the Volkswagen and the sawhorse. There was another burned-out car on the left side of the road fifty feet or so behind the rough line that the Tortugas were firing from; if I could make it to the other side of that wreckage, it would be all over. While Chao, Baker, and the others kept the gangbangers busy, I could take potshots at them from behind. Again, this was a terrible idea from a tactical perspective. I was needlessly endangering my life for a quick, dramatic finish. But I had to admit, it was kind of fun.
I ran past the Tortugas and kept going. I didn’t bother to zigzag this time, guessing that my best chance was to get behind the car before the Tortugas realized what I was doing. I was almost there when I felt two quick raps in my back, just below the shoulder blades. I winced but kept going. I figured the system would let me know if I was dead. I hoped there wasn’t some kind of death simulation mode programmed into the vests to keep people from doing the kind of thing I was doing—like maybe all the gas chambers would explode at once, knocking all the air out of my lungs.
So far, though, nothing like that had happened. I made it to the other side of the car and spun around. To my glee, I saw that two of the Tortugas had attempted to follow me. Bad idea. They were caught in the open, and their flak jackets didn’t help them. I got one in the neck and the other in the femoral artery. I reloaded and took stock of the situation. Chao and Baker had taken out two more guys to my right, and the other three members of my squad were now advancing down the street. The Tortugas were in full-panic mode. Those that weren’t dead or injured were trying to make it to the opening of an alley to the west, where they could escape to another street.
“Let ’em go,” I said. “Our objective was to clear this street. They’re somebody else’s problem now.” As soon as I finished talking, I bent over to puke. The vertigo had finally gotten the better of me. “Sorry, Sam,” I said, looking at the puddle of vomit on the sidewalk in front of me, which I knew was actually a puddle of vomit on the floor of the simulation room.
“No worries, Mr. Hewitt. It happens all the time.”
“So is that it?” I asked. “We cleared the street. Do I get a set of steak knives or something?”
Sam didn’t respond, so I assumed I had missed something. All the Tortugas were dead or fleeing except for the guy I’d shot in the thigh, who was still lying on the sidewalk, screaming.
“Seriously, Sam,” I said. “Are you really going to make me rendezvous with—Hey, Chao, stand down.” Sergeant Chao had approached the screamer with his weapon raised. He now stood about three paces away, barrel still aimed at the guy’s head. “Sergeant Chao,” I said, “lower your weapon!”
“He’s a Tortuga, sir,” Chao replied. “Standing orders to eliminate.”
TWELVE
I stepped between Chao and the man on the pavement, who was still screaming. “It’s a violation of the rules of engagement, Chao. Stand down.”
Chao didn’t waver.
“God damn it, Chao, stand down! Sam, what is this? Are these guys programmed to execute prisoners?” The other members of the squad stood by, watching the confrontation unfold.
“I think we’re done, Mr. Hewitt,” Sam replied. “The scenario is over, so if you can just take off the helmet—”
“Don’t shut it down!” I snapped. “Barnes, don’t let him touch anything.”
“I’m on it,” Keane said. “Proceed.”
“Sergeant Chao,” I said. “Who ordered you to execute prisoners?”
“Sir,” said Chao, “we have standing orders from Command to eliminate all gang members in the DZ. Please step aside and let me do my job.”
“I’m ordering you to answer my goddamn question, Chao. Who told you to execute prisoners?”
“Sir, step aside or I will relieve you of your command.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “You’ll relieve me of my command? You’re a bucket of electrons, you pathetic fuckstick. You’re not even a real person. I take this helmet off, you disappear.”
“Mr. Hewitt,” said Sam, “I don’t recommend trying to explain—”
“Shut him the fuck up, Barnes,” I said.
The other members of the squad were watching me anxiously.
“Sir,” said Chao, “you’re acting erratically. I’m hereby relieving you of your command on the grounds that you are mentally unfit for duty. Please hand Captain Swartz your weapon.”
“Wow,” I said. “This is amazing. You’re all completely convinced that you’re real. Look, I’m not letting you shoot this man, okay? It’s not happening. So stand down.” I was aware on some level just how insane this was: I was standing up to one figment of my imagination to prevent him from murdering another figment of my imagination. None of these people were real, so it made absolutely no difference if one of them got killed. But real or not, it pissed me off that these guys had been programmed to violate the rules of engagement. Actual Green River soldiers had gone through this very training and had probably been faced with this very scenario: kill the gangbanger or be relieved of your command. Fuck that. This was a matter of principle.
“Sergeant Chao,” I said. “Rules of engagement countermand your orders. I’m not going to tell you again. This man is not to be killed.”
“Hewitt,” said Keane. “You realize these are simulations, not people? They can’t learn. The next time somebody runs this simulation, they’ll reappear exactly as they were, with no memory of this.”
“I know,” I snapped. “It just pisses me off.”
“Sir,” said Gutierrez, “who are you talking to?”
“My fairy godmother,” I said. “Sam, shut it off.”
“I told Sam to get a cup of coffee,” Keane replied. “I kind of want to see where this is going.”
“Seriously, Barnes,” I said. “Getting shot in this thing hurts. I can already feel the bruises forming. By the time I get this helmet off—”
“Drop your weapon, sir,” said Gutierrez. “You’re not right in the head.”
Now what? Drop my rifle and surrender? Try to get the vest off before they shot me? I wasn’t kidding about the bruises; the designers of this vest had been serious about making you not want to get shot. Of course, that was only if I got hit in the chest. For a moment I considered shooting myself in the head to see if that would get me out of the simulation.
That’s when Swartz shot the screaming man. Two quick shots, right in the forehead. His body went limp.
I raised my rifle and swept a burst at my squad. They were so surprised that none of them even got a shot off before diving to the pavement. I turned and ran, putting the burned-out car between me and the squad. “Any time you want to shut it down, Barnes,” I yelled. Automatic weapon fire rang out, and I heard glass shattering behind me. I turned down an alley, hoping it wasn’t a dead end.
Straight ahead, about fifty feet down, was a brick wall, but the alley seemed to branch off in a T to the north and the south. I sprinted to the T. When I was almost there, I heard Keane’s voice in my ear: “Go right here, Hewitt.”
Banking on Keane being more curious than sadistic, I went right. More gunfire from the alley, and bits of masonry exploding to my right as bullets hammered the wall. Up ahead was daylight. I shoved the nausea down and kept running.
“Go left at the street, Hewitt,” said Keane.
I got to the sidewalk and turned sharply to the left. I was breathing hard and drenched with sweat. I knew on some level that I was standing in a room with my boots strapped to robotic arms, but it sure as hell felt like I was running for my life through the DZ. I wanted to ask Keane where he was sending me, but I was too out of breath to talk. I could only hope he had my best interests at heart—and I was not at all confident I wasn’t better off at the mercy of the psychopathic robot squad
.
“Cross the street here and go into the shoe store,” said Keane.
“You’ve got … to be … kidding me,” I gasped.
“Trust me, Hewitt,” Keane said. “You’ll dig this.”
Seeing the sign for the shoe store just ahead and across the street, I darted across the street, threw the door open, and ran inside. The glass shattered behind me and three more ball-peen hammers pounded me along my left shoulder blade. A horrified sales clerk stood at the register, holding a pair of men’s sandals.
“Box those up,” I gasped. “I’ll pick them up later.”
“Go to the back of the store,” said Keane.
I ran to the back of the store, throwing open the door to the stockroom.
“Hey!” the clerk yelled after me. “You can’t go back there!”
“Look for a pair of Louis Vuitton pumps,” said Keane.
“Fuck you, Barnes,” I gasped.
“I’m serious, Hewitt. This is important. Louis Vuitton pumps. Size six, black.”
“Unfucking … believable,” I muttered. This had to be the most absurd ending to an urban firefight in history: squad leader shot to death by his own men while searching for a pair of goddamned Louis Vuitton pumps. I dropped my gun and gave a mighty push to a steel shelving unit filled with shoeboxes. It crashed against the wall, wedging itself between the door I’d just come through and another shelving unit. That would buy me a few seconds, at least. Hopefully the shoes I needed weren’t at the bottom of that pile.
I located a shelving unit full of women’s shoes right about the time my psycho robot squad started banging on the door. I followed the numbers on the boxes until I got to the size sixes, then started tearing into Louis Vuitton boxes. The black pumps were in the third one. “If you tell me to put these on,” I said, “this relationship is over.”
“Look in the toe of the left shoe,” said Keane.
The Last Iota Page 12
