by Kirk Dougal
“It's my fault,” the doctor said.
The fog continued to drift away from Rick's thoughts and realization took its place. “You turned down the signal intensity again.”
Jensen let his gaze drop to his shoes. “Yes, I did. I'm still worried about the long term affects on your brain patterns, plus the possibility of pushing back the symptoms of DIOD.” He glanced up. “But if you have trouble connecting to the game properly and exiting…”
“You're going to have to turn it back up again, Doc,” Rick said. “I've got to be able to do my job.”
The door to the hallway swung open again and in walked two men, the first dressed in the medium-priced dark suit of government service and the second in a rumpled sports jacket and equally messy pants. His craggy face, however, was split by a grin.
“Good to have you back, Slugger,” Detective Jim Bouldin said. He had been Rick's partner for several years in homicide before they were transferred to this new game immersion unit of the FBI, and now he served as the liaison with local police departments. “Feeling okay?”
“I'll be fine.” Rick blinked in surprise. Jim appeared to have aged years since the last time he had been outside the game.
“Good. Betty was planning on baking a pie. I'll bring over a piece for you. Doc?”
Jensen nodded. “Just give us a couple of days for his stomach to adjust to food again.”
The other man cleared his throat. “In the meantime,” said FBI Special-Agent-in-Charge Gabe Tower, “we have agents on the way to the coordinates you sent us. We need to debrief so we can get any pertinent information to them before they arrive.” He glanced at Jensen. “I'll keep it as short as possible.”
Dr. Jensen waved the nurses toward the door, and Gonzalez followed them. “I'll send some broth and water up for you to get your body kick started again, Rick. When Agent Tower is done, we'll get you cleaned, and by then, you'll probably be ready for some stronger help.”
Rick tried to smile but felt the effort twist into a grimace at the thought of the mind-numbing meds that fought off his symptoms of DIOD. “Thanks.”
“That's right,” Tower said as he pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down. “You've got to look your best for your court date tomorrow.”
Chapter 3
Rick squirmed in his wheelchair before glancing at Tower on the bench beside him. The FBI agent's white shirt was crisp and clean against his dark skin, the gray stripes in the tie matching the flecks of lighter colored hair at his temples. The suit was also a step up from the normal government pay issue, the harsh fluorescent lights of the courtroom shining off the black silk.
Sitting beside him, Rick felt like someone's little brother playing at dress up.
Even buttoned, the collar hung loose around his neck and the tie did nothing to bring it together. The suit was worse. The shoulders draped over until they rested at the top of what he once would have called biceps but now were little more than small pieces of rope beneath sagging skin. Jensen's regimen of pulling him out of the game into the real world every few weeks could only slow, not stop, the deterioration of his muscles. The last time Rick had been on the outside, the doctor had suggested a six-month sabbatical so they could work on rebuilding his body. Luckily, Tower had not liked the idea and allowed him to return inside at the end of the scheduled week.
“Are you okay, Mr. Dowland?”
He glanced at Nurse Gminsky leaning over his shoulder and nodded. “I never liked suits very much.”
“You look fine,” Tower said. “In fact,” he leaned in closer and allowed his voice to drop to a whisper, “it doesn't hurt that you're not in top form. We don't want the judge feeling sympathetic toward our killer if you were here looking like a body builder.” His bracetech vibrated, and he pulled up a projected screen above his wrist so he could respond by typing against the holographic image.
Rick turned his attention to the rest of the courtroom. Only a few other people were inside and all of them were government workers of some type or another, either FBI or other branches of intelligence. He searched one more time, but then remembered the same law that allowed this federal court to be closed to the public also kept out anyone in support of the accused except for their legal representation, including family. They would receive a digital file later that was scrubbed of all agent faces, names, and mentions that might pinpoint their identities. Rick understood why the law had been written, but part of him still wished she would see a friendly face in the small crowd.
Whispered voices caught his attention, and he stared at the two men across the aisle from him, one working on his bracetech while the other talked.
“I'm telling you, I think I might trade in my account for yooks,” he said to his companion. “A few hundred dollars here and there would sure help around the apartment.”
The other man waved his hand and the hologram screen above his wrist disappeared. “I don't know,” he said. “Something feels a little off about this whole thing. Trading in game money for real money…it doesn't make sense. How do you even do it?”
“You just go to the exchange, trade in your game dollars, and then they pay you in real money. They turn around and sell it back to players inside the game after taking a cut.”
The second man shook his head again. “What's the exchange rate?”
“Ten thousand game dollars to one dollar in real life. That's why the gamers call them yooks. It has something to do with the guy who was on the ten thousand-yen note. I built up…”
Rick leaned over, trying to listen to the rest of their conversation. That was the reason why he almost missed her being led into the courtroom.
By the time the whispers dropped off, and he turned toward the front, Gwen Talbot was already halfway across the open area, shuffling in her leg restraints. The former FBI agent's pale skin stood out against the orange jumpsuit, the short sleeves revealing smooth white arms. But that was all he could see. Her once short, jet black hair had grown out into a long mass in the months since she had tried to kill him in the hospital room and hung forward over her face as she hunched forward. As the female corrections officer helped turn her into a seat at the defendant's table, he caught a glimpse of the tattoo on the back of her neck, the hair parting enough to reveal the black wings.
Rick shuddered at the thought of what that ink had meant to Gwen and how it related to him. He felt a tap, and he glanced down to see Tower's hand patting his arm, lending silent support.
“That was a message from the prosecutor,” he whispered. “You're not going to need to testify today. The judge decided to use your written victim statement instead. Do you want to go?”
Rick stared at the back of Gwen's head for several seconds.
“No,” he said. “I owe it to her to stay.”
The bailiff moved to the front of the courtroom.
“All rise,” he said, his voice echoing in the mostly empty room. “The U.S. District Court, the Southern District of New York is now in session, the Honorable Jennifer A. Holstom presiding.”
Shuffling feet and the rustle of clothing followed the announcement as everyone stood. Everyone except for Rick. He made it about halfway up before he collapsed back into the wheelchair, the resulting rattle causing the bailiff and the others to jerk their attention in his direction. Sweat poured down his face in reply.
Judge Holstom entered from a side door and sat behind the bench.
“You can be seated,” she said.
The rustle of movement followed again and everyone sat.
Everyone but Gwen.
Her attorney was pulling on her arm, trying to grab her attention, but she continued to stand. Gwen had turned, and with the people in between out of the way now, she stared over their heads at Rick.
Black eyes met his and closed the distance. He felt her touch again, felt her breath on his skin when they were together. He also remembered the venom in her voice and the icy calm when she had tried to kill him. All the emotions of their time together
flooded back, beating at his thoughts like fists pounding into his body.
“Hello, lover,” Gwen said. “You're not dead yet?”
Rick was certain the elbow Gwen threw into her attorney's face broke his nose. At the very least, he went down like a two-bit fighter on the undercard. She hopped forward, imitating kids in a potato sack race, her feet still held close by the restraints. Gwen cleared the wooden rail between the gallery and the front of the courtroom, one hand on the rail and swinging her legs over before lunging at Rick. She reached out, talon-like fingers grasping at his throat.
Rick did the only thing he could do in his condition. He threw himself backward, his wheelchair teetering on the edge of balancing on the back wheels before it went over, gathering speed as he fell. He slammed to the ground, his head bouncing hard on the tile floor. His legs were thrown to one side, and he rolled onto his stomach.
Shouts echoed in his ears. Shadows and light played across his vision while dark circled around the edges. Slowly, the black drew in and the noise stopped.
Chapter 4
“I want him to stay for more observation. A week is insufficient,” the voice said. “He might have a mild concussion, and I don't know how that will affect his interface with the game.”
Rick opened his eyes and focused on the men near the end of his bed. Bit by bit, Dr. Jensen and Agent Tower steadied in his sight, the conversation more heated than was evident by their lowered voices. It took him a few seconds to realize Jim was also in the room, standing quietly by the door.
“He can have his scheduled rest, Doc, but I need him for an important mission.” Calm and monotone, Tower's voice still held an edge Rick had not heard before.
“And what if this permanently damages him? Or worse, kills him?”
Rick did not like where the conversation was headed and decided to do what he always did when he was thrust into an awkward situation: he made a bad joke.
“You guys have the worst bedside manner ever,” he said, “waking me up when I'm trying to sleep.”
Jensen was by his side in two strides, leaning over to look into his eyes and feel his forehead.
“How do you feel, Rick? Headaches? Nausea?” He paused. “Do you need something for the DIOD?”
Rick realized his arms were tingling, the nerves just starting to crawl beneath the skin like a million tiny worms searching for a way to escape, and he wondered how long he had been unconscious. For the symptoms of DIOD, Debilitating Interface Overload Disease, and his withdrawal from the nerve stimulation of the games to be this far along, it must have taken him hours to wake up.
“Soon,” he said. “But I want to know what's going on first.” He glanced at Tower and, for the first time, noticed the FBI agent had his right arm in a soft sling. “What happened G-man? Trip over my wheelchair?”
Tower laughed. “I wish I could blame you,” he said. “I pushed your legs away from Talbot after you took your tumble, but Nurse Gminsky dragged you down the aisle so fast, I lost my balance and fell flat on my side. Then Talbot and the two Homeland Security agents across from us all landed on top of me. It took me back to ending up on the bottom of the pile in my days of high school football.” He gestured toward the sling. “But, apparently, I'm not as young as I used to be.”
“Is Gwen…” Rick stopped. He was not sure how he would feel if she had kept fighting until they had to stop her permanently.
“She's alive and locked up. After she was restrained, they hauled her back to a holding cell, and then we got you medical attention before bringing you back here. The judge took about a half-hour recess, and when she came out, she lowered the boom on her. Maximum security psych correctional facility with no possibility of parole for thirty-five years. Her little stunt probably cost her another decade or two of her life.” He smiled.
Rick's stomach lurched. Even though Gwen had now tried to kill him twice, he still felt responsible for her brother’s death and her becoming mentally unbalanced.
“So you've got a job for me?” Rick asked after a few seconds. “Did more murders pop up in The City?”
Tower glanced at Jensen and the doctor nodded, walking toward the door. He may be tasked with keeping Rick alive and functioning around the DIOD, but he still was not allowed to hear classified information of the missions.
“Doc,” Rick said, “don't go too far.” His hand twitched as he spoke, scraping the top of the white sheet.
Jensen nodded. “I'll have everything ready for you. Just ring and we'll be back in here in thirty seconds.” Jim held the door, and then closed it after the man left the room.
“No, not The City,” Tower said. He reached out for the file in Jim's hand and placed it on the table after moving to the side of Rick's bed.
Once again, Rick was stunned by how old and frail his former partner had become in the past few months. Jim's eyes still twinkled, however, as he reached down and pulled up an old wooden baseball bat that had been leaning against the end of the bed.
“The nurses keep stuffing this thing in the closet when you're inside the games,” he said. “I bet you wish you'd had it with you today in the courtroom, Slugger.” He lay it on top of the covers where Rick could reach the handle.
Memories of fighting off Gwen with only the bat the first time she had come after him ran through Rick's thoughts. The echo of the wood against her head still replayed in his dreams, even inside The City. “I'd probably have swung and struck out,” he said, forcing what he hoped was a smile.
Tower cleared his throat. “Not The City,” he said again. “For the past few months, as you've been inside working for the FBI, we've had a series of terrorist attacks around the world.”
“That's not unusual,” Rick said. “Those have been happening for decades.”
Jim gestured to the file Tower had placed on the bedside tray, and Rick opened it while his partner spoke. He cringed at the sight of destroyed buildings and the remains of bodies.
“Sure, I remember when I first joined the force we worked with the Homeland Security Department looking for members of Al Qaeda, ISIS, later Boh Zhyvy. But this is different, Slugger. Back then, we were hunting groups of three or four terrorists who were planning their own ops with no idea of what the other groups were doing. It's part of what made them so hard to find. They stayed off communication lines so we couldn't track them. But it also helped to limit the scope of what they could pull off.”
“But about six to eight months ago, all that changed,” Tower said. “The groups our terrorist division was monitoring went completely silent. Then the attacks began. London and Chicago. Montreal and Paris. Beijing and Hong Kong. All by the same groups claiming responsibility, all using the same methods, all planned to the minute to occur at the same time.”
“That sounds like military,” Rick said as he closed the folder, wishing he had never opened it. He spasmed and knew that only part of the reaction was from the DIOD.
“That's what we thought at first, too,” Tower said. “But that kind of precision, that kind of planning would have needed a command hierarchy, meetings, communication lines, and our terrorism division had nothing.”
Rick's right arm jerked out, smacking the bat handle and banging it into the bed's side rail, metallic ringing echoing off the walls. The worms were pythons now, slithering under his skin, clenching muscles and setting fire to his nerves.
“I'm getting the doc,” Jim said.
Rick shook his head, helped by a well-timed twitch. “Not yet.” He bit his lip and sucked in a breath before letting it go, the air hissing through his teeth. “I think I see where you're headed with this Tower.”
The FBI agent nodded. “We caught a break. One of our agents inside a different game started hearing rumors that dovetailed into the attacks. But when he investigated, he was killed and had to reset.”
“Not everyone can be the great RJ Dowland, The Beast,” Jim said and gave Rick a wink.
“But here's the kicker,” Tower continued. “When our agent was
taken out of the game, the killers pulled his IP tag.”
“They were trying to find him in the real world,” Rick said. The sour roiling in his stomach made him forget about the tremors for a second.
“That's what we believe as well.” Tower opened the folder and leafed to the very end, past all the photos that had stopped Rick. “The only clue we have to their identity is one word: Farwolaeth.” He glanced up. “It means 'death' in Welsh.”
Rick arched up off the bed, arms flailing, as the last bit of control he had over his body evaporated. He collapsed back, bouncing on the mattress only to spasm again, twisting into a contorted “s.” Tower's muffled voice fought into his hearing, incomprehensible words competed with Jim's shout for Dr. Jensen.
But none of it made sense to Rick over his own screams.
Chapter 5
Rick swung open the restroom door and eased his walker through the doorway. He shuffled three more steps before he realized two other people were sitting in his room.
“At this rate, you'll be breaking the land speed record in no time,” Detective Gonzalez said. “How're you feeling, Rick?”
The squeak of the walker against the linoleum was the only answer for a few seconds. Rick had been up and moving with its help since that morning as his strength returned, but it still took most of his concentration to keep his quivering muscles from giving out. He made it to the chair beside Gonzalez before he half-sat, half-collapsed onto its fake leather cushions.
“Doc's not real happy with me going back inside so soon,” Rick said. “He wants me to stay out for a couple of weeks and build up some more base muscle.” His pinkie twitched so he clasped his hands together. “But I'm ready to get back to work.”
“Good.” Gonzalez gestured toward the woman seated in the chair opposite Rick. “This is Agent Rebecca Conway. She's also a handler and will be helping with the briefing.”
“It's an honor to meet you, Detective Dowland,” Conway said as she rose enough to reach over and shake Rick's hand. “Your work for the homicide department and the FBI is impressive.”
