by Bright,R. F.
Pastor Scott stumbled out of her way, looking like a man who just got off at the wrong bus stop.
“Well, well, well, looky here. When I search PA maps for Lily, I see we’re at 40° 25' 33" latitude and 78° 37' 12" longitude. But even better, I see that the old Pennsylvania State Trooper barracks is still down in Bedford, and the number’s right here. The local number!” She savored a self-congratulatory snigger while glaring at the two hapless old men paralyzed by her derision.
“You’re not supposed to call them directly,” said Pastor Scott. “There’s just one number. One number. You’re supposed to call the National office in, in, wherever it is. D.C.?”
Gina did not look up. “D.C.’s a ghost town.”
Pastor Scott bristled and grabbed the phone away from her. “Be my guest,” she sang coolly.
Fred stayed busy keeping his mouth shut.
Pastor Scott ran through the same phone tree he’d just completed, and, with great pride, gave the coordinates to someone who sounded sort of like the person who had just hung up on him, and was put on hold. “That’s how it’s done,” he said. “The right way! I have to follow procedure, just like everyone el—” He was interrupted by a voice and his head began to bob. “OK. OK. Really? Well, OK.” He pulled the phone away from his ear too late to avoid the loud click! His missing goodbye hung in the air like rotting gas.
“Ah. What’d they say?” asked Gina. “Hmmm?”
“They’ll call me back.”
“When?”
His mouth filled with sawdust. “Thirty days.”
Gina’s patience ruptured into a howl. “The right way my ass!” She shoved him off to the side, took the phone and dialed the Pennsylvania State Trooper barracks in Bedford, twenty-eight miles down the hill.
Fred always claimed neutrality with these two, but it was a diplomatic minefield.
“Hello!?” said Gina, while shooting dirty looks at her husband without really looking at him.
“This is Gina at The Church up in Lily . . . Hello?”
“Oh, I know Lily,” said a woman with the same locally clipped consonants. “We went through Lily on our way to the mountains . . . jeeeeez — how many years ago?”
“That’s us,” said Gina. “We found a dead body. An upright citizen.”
“How dead is he?”
“Dead as the one-dollar bill,” said Gina, and they both had a quick chuckle. “Can you send someone?”
“We have a new guy, Trooper Ian something or other, Ian Mac something, I think. Military type. Good looker. What is his name? Ian Something? Could be there in a few hours. That work for you?”
“Sure does. Thanks, dear. You stop and say hello next time you come through, OK? We’re right past the bridge, on Route Fifty-Three. You hear?”
“I’ll do that, Gina. You have any trouble, you call me. I’m Cassandra. He’ll be there ’round five o’clock. Stay warm.”
“You too, Sweetie.”
Gina hung up and began to stir a few envelopes and papers on the desk, moving on to the next thing without comment. This was a familiar act, one that required Pastor Scott to — ask. “Well?”
“Well what?”
Fred slid his hat back on. This was moving in a very unpleasant direction.
The Pastor’s scraggly white beard and all three chins seemed to have gotten struck by lightning. “What!? Is somebody coming?”
“Yep,” she said, but not to anyone in particular.
“When?”
“’Five o’clock,” she snapped, rising from the desk and sauntering up to her husband of forty-four years. She puffed out her lower lip, and headed for the door.
Pastor Scott turned to Fred. “Five o’clock? Come back then and we’ll see where this goes.”
Fred nodded and made for the side door.
Pastor Scott nodded, too, as if okaying the plan. He slid into his chair and stared at the darkened computer screen. It seemed eerily quiet and the face looking back at him was a sagging mask of the younger man he imagined himself to be. He could see in this reflection that his once stiff white collar was now limp and yellow, and he quickly stepped back to take a full view of himself. His frock coat, once black with austere authority, was now a silvery gray and shiny as sharkskin.
“Oh boy . . . five o’clock.”
At five o’clock, all eighty-one of Lily’s citizens, including their twenty-eight adopted veterans, stood in the village square as something whizzed through the low-hanging clouds. A contagious grin broke out. This could mean only one thing; the mysterious National Police Force’s Trooper Ian Mac something was not only coming, he was coming in a Peregrine.
Whoooooosh!
The Peregrine shot out of the clouds thirty feet over the Little Conemaugh, tilting and yawing, then banked across the road and flew over the Lilian delegation. The fearsome craft came to a hover far enough from the crowd that they barely felt the turbulence as it drifted closer, very slowly. Its movements were sharp yet liquid. The sense of menace and grace — delectable. It could have been designed by Bugati or Pinnifarena, if they’d had all the money in the world and a mandate to build a death-cruiser deluxe.
The matte grey carbon fiber body was long and low, with smooth contours and transitions. A clear, Lexan clamshell wind-dome protected the cockpit. The Lilians stood gazing as it drifted closer, so quiet, so powerful. It slowed to a hover a few feet off the ground, then four wheels folded out and telescoped down. The ship dropped the last inch, immense tires cushioning its fall. Lock-bolts gushed open and the dome lifted off, hinging forward — shielding its occupant in this open-forward position.
The pilot swung his legs out and jumped from the ship in one smooth move. He was around six foot five, medium build but dense and wiry with that impossible-to-define quality men fear most in other men. He wore the famed navy blue flight-suit of the U.S. Navy’s Peregrine Fleet, close-fitting and woven from a mix of Kevlar and a genetically modified type of dragline silk favored by mountain climbers for its ability to preserve heat while wicking away moisture and saving it in an onboard system of water veins. Handy in the desert. Stitched above every vital organ was a patch of nano-tube mesh capable of absorbing small-arms fire and blows from a fist, club or knife. It had several pockets, straps and epaulettes that could be seen and probably other features that couldn’t.
The pilot kept an eye on the crowd as he wrestled on an extremely old-fashioned, double-breasted wool topcoat, in the pale grey-blue and unembellished style of the old Pennsylvania State Police. He shivered and pulled its huge collar up over his ears, the lapels flopping across his chest. Only his root-beer brown eyes and a shock of auburn hair could be seen of him. The Peregrine fell silent, but the menace remained.
He looked uneasy as he approached. The town was divided into two obvious groups. One was mostly women and a few old men, likely natives. The other was all men, with the look of veterans.
The veterans watched the flint-hard yet broken man in unspoken recognition. Broken as any of the soft-hearted men standing here, but with something different about him. He still had his dignity.
Pastor Scott stepped into the street with his hand out. “Welcome to Lily. I’m Pastor Scott Stephens.”
The pilot smiled, to everyone’s relief. “Trooper MacIan,” he said pleasantly.
“Fred, here . . .” Fred emerged, Max at his heels. “They found a dead man up on the mountain. An upright citizen, by the looks of him.”
“This is my son, Max,” said Fred.
Max shook MacIan’s hand clumsily, a guilty smile wavering across his face. He was glad he was not wearing his new red coat, but instead his father’s tattered navy pea-coat, which caught MacIan’s eye. This unnerved Max right down to the holes in his shoes.
“Let’s have a look,” said MacIan, heading toward the Peregrine.
The three civilians stood paralyzed — did he mean for them to come along? Max grabbed his father’s elbow and steered him toward the Peregrine. Pastor Scott watched them moving
away, glued to the spot.
“For Christ’s sake,” Gina’s harsh voice bellowed from the spectators. “What’re you waiting for, you old fart?”
Pastor Scott shuffled after them as best as his overburdened legs allowed, tossing a befuddled look over his shoulder.
No one in Lily had ever seen a bigger grin.
5
Thomka and Murthy always met with Arch Bishop Virginia McWilliams Hendrix and her reclusive husband, Petey, immediately after Sunday services. Their mansion stood inside what was once the vast UN General Assembly Hall. Many called it the real estate deal of the millennium. It had the floor space of a soccer field and a magnificent view across the East River of old Brooklyn. Beautiful sunrises.
Thomka and Murthy loved being here.
The four-story, post-info-modern mansion occupied most of the great hall, and was clad in cor-ten steel — a gift from the Walled City of Pittsburgh. The austere design and oxidized steel melded perfectly with the empire gothic marble and exotic wood trim of the original 1950s décor. The east wall had been removed and replaced by a glass enclosure that gave the impression that a crystal meteor had struck the hall and engulfed the entire UN Sculpture Garden. The mansion was surrounded by a maze of office cubicles filled with computerized attendants transferring donations from the Flock to The Church. Most of it would be instantly changed into Chinese Yuan, the only currency Petey could buy gold with. Petey believed in gold. He was an old-school investment banker who’d learned his lesson.
Security was the indispensable architectural element here, so the buffer zone of cubicles was a functioning labyrinth. Only those of Petey’s inner circle knew the way through.
A matronly receptionist sat outside the front door in the unfashionable plain brown uniform worn by The Church’s administrative employees. She nodded a mild hello and waved Thomka and Murthy past the guards, who were permitted no familiarities.
They passed through a foyer that doubled as a scanner, and emerged in the voluminous receiving room. It was not uncommon for this room to host hundreds of guests at receptions and galas. Thomka and Murthy strolled across the gleaming marble floor, beneath a real brontosaurus skeleton suspended from the ceiling, toward a charming little bar in the far corner. There, on a white leather couch, sat the Arch Bishop, or Virginia, as they would now address her. She had traded her overstated vestments for an overstated dressing gown. “Something to drink, boys?” she asked, raising her half-empty snifter.
“Not before the sun’s over the yardarm,” said Thomka, mocking himself. He owned a yacht but had never done more than sit in the captain’s seat.
“Abstinence is its own punishment,” she warned.
“In that case,” said Murthy, “make mine a triple.” He kissed her on both cheeks and slid into a matching white leather chair with an all-encompassing view of what was once the world’s greatest collection of public art, the UN Sculpture Garden. “I don’t know why you ever bought that boat, Al,” he said. “Oh, now I remember . . . you’re paranoid.”
Despite her many conceits, Virginia was a terrific hostess. “Petey’s tending his tomatoes.”
“How’s that going?” asked Murthy.
“He’s crazy about that greenhouse thing he’s building down on the river. On those barges. Old coal barges. Spends all his time out there ordering crews around. He loves it. All of a sudden, he’s a micro-climatologist and permaculture expert. Just a hobby, he says. I’m not allowed to see it until it’s finished. It’s a surprise.”
Thomka moved to the bar. “Maybe I will have one.” He seemed more skittish than usual.
“Here he comes,” said Murthy, waving to a thin man of average height in a misshapen black cowboy hat heading toward them.
Virginia adjusted herself, and cautioned, “He’s got a lot on his mind. You know that computer-network-game thing you told him about, Al?”
Murthy’s nostrils flared.
Thomka tossed a mortified glance at her.
Murthy glowered.
Petey entered with a handful of tomatoes. “What’d I tell you, Virginia, ripe tomatoes weeks before spring. Doesn’t matter how much money you have — can’t get a good tomato unless you grow your own.”
He put the tomatoes on the bar and tapped himself a beer from one of its many colorful pulls. “Well, Al, I had security look into that game thing,” he said, taking a foamy swig of a hoppy ale. “It doesn’t look like much of anything. Just a bunch of weird . . . activities. The kind of things people with no money do. They call them social games, but I don’t get it. Pinheads, geeks, iStooges. Techno fringe. Just what you’d expect. You know who I mean.”
Thomka countered sarcastically, “Yeah, the people who control our digital infrastructure. Such as it is. We’re at their mercy.”
Murthy leapt to his feet. “You talking about that Tuke thing?”
“I only mentioned . . .”
“I told you I’d take care of that! I got a guy . . .”
“Please,” said Petey. “It’s a little early for this. Doesn’t matter anyway. The whole thing is just a very large game platform. The Tuke Nerdvana.”
“They didn’t give Tuke the Nobel Prize because they liked his graphics.”
“We infiltrated one of their games,” said Petey. “Our undercover guy played a full round, if that’s what you call it. Seemed a little light for a game. Arrested its organizer.” He added somewhat amused. “You know they call us . . . reptiles? She’s been questioned and released.”
“How generous,” Virginia said adoringly, lifting her glass.
“Generosity is an expression of power,” he replied, joining her in toasting himself.
Thomka wished he hadn’t heard that. Petey’s misanthropic attitude was at the heart of his growing doubts.
“The Massive is just a collection of not-too-sporty games, or missions, or something. Hundreds of them. Insignificant. But I don’t know how they’re connected. I didn’t think there were that many computers still in private hands.”
Thomka winced, and tryed to hide it by saying awkwardly, “How do we know it’s insignificant? We have no idea what this sort of thing is intended to encourage. My eggheads . . .”
“The sky is falling. The sky is falling,” shouted Murthy. “You’re such an asshole. I’m all over this.”
Virginia chuckled as Murthy tossed her a big wink and belted down his drink. “What’s so strange about these games, darling?”
“Something’s missing,” said Petey. “The games were all so dull. Not much action. No competition either. No drama. But we picked one that was starting, sent in one of our guys. A woman actually. And she played it through. Right here in the Times Square district.”
Petey lifted a sheet of paper from the bar and held it up for all to see.
Cruel 2 B Kind
A Game of Benevolent Assassination.
Everyone gasped, mockingly. Assassination?
Petey read the instructions:
“‘At the beginning of the game, you are assigned three secret weapons.’”
“Weapons?”
“Yes, and here’s the weird part. ‘To onlookers, these weapons will seem like random acts of kindness. But to the other players, these benevolent gestures are deadly attacks.’”
“What are these secret weapons?” Thomka asked.
Murthy remained dismissive. “Random acts of kindness, Al. For you, that really is a secret.”
“The weapons are all some kind of greeting, or question, or even a song. Those are the secret weapons. Saying something nice.” He went back to the instructions: ‘Some players will be slain by a serenade. Others will be killed by a compliment. You and your partners might be taken down by an innocent group cheer. You will be given no information about your targets. No names, no photos, nothing but the guarantee that they will remain within the outdoor game boundaries during the designated playing time. Anyone you encounter could be your target. The only way to find out is to attack them with your secret weapons.’”
“What are those secret weapons again, dear?” asked Virginia.
Petey handed her the instructions. “They send you this the night before the game. It shows the boundaries and gives you your secret weapons.”
Virginia read aloud, “Number one: Praise your target’s shoes! Oh, I love that one. Number two: Welcome your targets to the city with a jingle. That’s cute. And three: Mistake your targets for celebrities.” A grin wrinkled her chin. “I really like the one about the shoes. That’d be my secret weapon.”
Murthy lifted his foot, pulled back his pant leg, and modeled his wispy Italian loafers.
Petey thought for a moment, then gave a cautious summary. “You just walk up to people and say, ‘I like your shoes.’ Perfect strangers. But if they’re playing too, they’re dead and have to join your team. This assimilation of the dead players leads inevitably to two big teams and a climactic showdown. Maybe there is some drama.”
“Brilliant,” mumbled Thomka.
“Boringgg!’ slurred Murthy.
Petey finished the instructions. “‘Watch out! The hunter is also the hunted. Other players have secret weapons, too, and they're coming to get you. Anything out of the ordinary you do to assassinate YOUR targets may reveal your own secret identity to the other players who want YOU dead.
“‘As targets are successfully assassinated, the dead players join forces with their killers to continue stalking the surviving players. The teams grow bigger and bigger until two final mobs of benevolent assassins descend upon each other for a spectacular, climactic kill.’
“‘Will innocents be caught in the cross-fire? Oh, yes. But when your secret weapon is a random act of kindness, it’s only cruel to be kind to other players.’”
Thomka made a final plea. “Is there any doubt? Is this what we want? Benevolent Assassins? Any kind of assassins roaming our streets? Right here in Manhattan? Secret identities? Secret weapons? Innocents in the cross-fire!? Mobs descending for a climactic kill?”
