Authors: Christian Cantrell
“A certain swashbuckling surgeon.” The man seemed amused by himself. “Now do you know who I am?”
“No, but at least I know why you’re calling.”
“Good enough,” the man said. “Shall we dispense with pleasantries and introductions and get right to the matter of price?”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m prepared to offer two million NGD.”
Alexei took a few wandering steps away from the wall as he filled his lungs with smoke.
“Hello? You still there? You didn’t just pass out on me, did you?”
“Two-point-five,” Alexei said.
“I didn’t say I was prepared to offer you
two-point-five
. I said I was prepared to offer you
two
.”
“I heard you, but I think we both know the value of what we’re talking about here.”
“I think we both also know that you’d be lucky to get
half
that on your own.”
“Maybe. But that still leaves you with nothing, doesn’t it?”
The man sighed. “Two-point-two,” he said. “And we’ll cover your expenses.”
“Done,” Alexei said. “When and where?”
“Can you be in Chicago tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good. There will be a reservation for you at the Shangri-La under the name Mr. Kingston.”
“How do I contact you once I’m there?”
“You don’t,” the man said. “We contact you. Travel safe.”
The call box faded from the screen. Alexei checked the time, then slid his handset back into his pocket.
“Emma, I need to book a trip.”
The map zoomed out, panned to the other side of the world, and zoomed in on LA. “Will you be traveling to Chicago, Illinois?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to fly into O’Hare International Airport, or Midway International Airport?”
“O’Hare.”
“When would you like to leave, or what time would you like to arrive?”
“I’d like to leave on the earliest possible flight tomorrow morning.”
“How many passengers?”
“Two.”
“Would you like to fly common, business, first, executive, senior executive, executive officer, presidential, or private?”
“Presidential.”
“Would you like me to reserve a car?”
“Yes. Something fast, European, and very expensive.”
“Shall I verify a reservation at the Shangri-La for a Mr. Kingston?”
“No. Don’t worry about that. Use my business account for everything and make sure I get receipts.”
“Thank you. Your trip has been booked. Would you like to hear your itinerary, or shall I forward it?”
Alexei took a final drag from his cigarette before crushing it out in the ashtray on his desk. “Forward it.”
He took the back stairs down two levels to the basement. Like most of the areas of the house, the lower level was biometrically secured, and Alexei waited for the camera to complete its scan. When the LED in the wall transitioned from red to green, he pulled the heavy door toward him
and stepped out onto the catwalk. He put his hands on the rail in front of him and looked out over the playroom.
There were at least twenty-five children below him, most in groups of two or three. Their teachers were small, shirtless Thai men whose bodies were all compact glistening ripples. Most wore pads on their forearms and midriffs which they used to absorb the sharp, slapping blows from the children’s feet, knees, fists, and elbows. The center of the room was a raised platform on which two small groups trained, and the rest of the room contained arrangements of mats, heavy bags, cubbies of pads and gloves, full-body dummies with impact sensors built into their noses, throats, solar plexus, and groins, and tennis balls suspended so high from the ceiling that the children had to launch themselves into the air to strike them.
Alexei located Ki’s group in a corner. She was training with the twins—two young Cambodian boys—and they were taking turns striking the throat of a dummy, then receiving instruction from their teacher after he checked the corresponding readings on his handset. Ki wore loose shorts that were cut high in the thighs for maximum mobility and a tight black tank top. Her hands and wrists were wrapped, and her hair was pulled back in a long ponytail.
They stopped training when they heard Alexei on the metal steps. They watched him descend, and the instructor gave a sharp bow as his employer approached.
“What do you think?” Alexei asked the fighter. The man was short and thin, but as fast a man as Alexei had ever met. “Are they ready?”
“Yes, sir,” the instructor reported. “They are small, but they are strong, quick, and they are fierce.”
“Good.” He looked down at Ki. “I just got the call. We leave in the morning.”
Ki looked up at Alexei and tried not to react. She gave him a single stern nod, and he could see that she was making fists beneath her hand wraps. Alexei got down on his knees and when he opened his arms, she broke from her stance and fell into him.
“It’s all going to be OK,” Alexei told the girl. “Nobody will touch you. You will be very well cared for.”
Ki’s chin was on Alexei’s shoulder and he could hear her sniff. “Where am I going?”
“I don’t know,” Alexei said. “There’s no way to know where you’re going, who you’re going with, or how long you’ll be gone. But that’s why I need you, Ki. You’re the only one who can do this. You’re the only one who can get close enough.”
He felt her nod. He rubbed her back, then pulled her gently away.
“No more crying,” he told her. “From now on, you must turn your fear into strength. Do you understand?”
There were tears on the girl’s cheeks but defiance in her eyes. “I
will
come back,” she told Alexei. “I
will
see you again.”
“I know you will,” Alexei said.
He stood up and looked down at the twins. They wore long pants that came down over the tops of their feet and no shirts over their skinny chests. Their hair was long and heavy with sweat.
“What about you two?” Alexei said. “Are you ready?”
The twins looked at each other, then back at Alexei. One of the boys let his mouthguard drop into his wrapped palm. “Where are we going?”
“I have a very special mission for you two,” Alexei told them. “How would you like to go live on a boat?”
DON’T BLINK
Now that California State Route 1 is auto-drive enabled, Alexei can work while he rides. The position of his Ducati Ibrido Carbon is calculated down to the centimeter by combining signals from at least eight of the sixty-four HD-GPS satellites owned and operated by Pearl Knight Holdings. His location, speed, heading, orientation (relative to the road), mass, wind drag coefficient, and vehicle specifications are all transmitted via persistent gigabit wireless connection to overhead cellular drones that relay it to control towers which forward it via optical fiber to PKH servers. Solid columns of parallel processing cores infused with tubes of liquid nitrogen synthesize the data and distill it down into single frames of a situational model which are both encrypted and compressed before being transmitted back to Alexei’s motorcycle via the inverse of the route by which their inputs arrived only a handful of microseconds prior. The bike’s onboard computer decrypts and decompresses the packets, reassembles them, then integrates the results with readings from local laser and microwave sensors before concurrently updating the augmentation overlay of Alexei’s visor and making minute adjustments to the bike’s speed and inclination as it streaks south at ninety-one miles per hour along the curve-lined cliffs high above the heaving white waves of the Pacific.
All Alexei has to do is relax and let the bike maneuver beneath him. The system will allow him to participate within a reasonable threshold should he choose to do so, increasing or decreasing control as he shifts his
weight, or twists the throttle, or exerts varying levels of pressure on the heated and shrouded grips. When done correctly, this dynamic becomes an intense symbiotic collaboration between man and machine which can sear the sympathetic nervous systems of even the most hardened and cynical adrenaline junkies.
But Alexei has more on his mind right now than just carving up cliffs. As he leans back, the front suspension increases, the handlebars extend, and the foot pegs move forward to accommodate a more upright posture in which he feels he is less likely to be distracted. The faster he can work through this problem, the sooner he can lean forward again and get back to summoning some serious endorphins by sending the smooth, serpentine bioasphalt of Route 1 careening away beneath his solid carbon parabolic wheels as wildly and indiscriminately as the laws of conventional Newtonian physics will possibly allow.
“Emma,” he says into the microphone embedded above the front vent of his helmet. “I want to do a little brainstorming.”
The response comes through his ear pads and is accompanied by an underlying acoustic mirror image of the ambient noise around him. The miracle of active phase cancellation makes their conversation as effortless as pillow talk. “I understand, Alexei. How can I help you?”
“First of all, I’m going to need access to the IDI.”
“There are sixteen entities selling access to the Federal Identification and Demography Index today. Would you like me to enumerate them?”
“No. How many of them have I used before?”
“Seven.”
“Use whichever is cheapest out of the ones I’ve used before.”
“AAI—or Anonymous Access, Incorporated—is offering fully obfuscated and encrypted access to the Federal Identification and Demography Index for—and I quote—
the low low price of only four hundred and ninety-nine NGD per query
.”
“Lock it in. Use a different offshore account for each query, selected at random.”
“Pseudo-randomness, or quantum randomness?”
“Quantum. The good stuff. And try to keep your queries to a minimum.”
“Of course. Message from AAI gateway:
Welcome, Alexei. Your money is always good here
.”
“Cute, but so much for anonymity. Any idea how they know my name?”
“Anonymous Access, Incorporated guarantees protection against man-in-the-middle attacks, and that your access will appear anonymous to any and all intermediate third parties; however the access of any service through AAI constitutes expressed consent to AAI’s terms of service which explicitly grant AAI the right to store personally identifiable information solely for the purposes of improving the customer experience.”
“Unless I pay extra, right?”
“For an additional ninety-nine NGD per query, AAI will remove all transactional history associated with your account after one hour of inactivity or upon the explicit termination of your session.”
“Do it. And from now on, I want you to pay more attention to the privacy policies I agree to.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Now let’s talk about gaming.”
“Would you like to talk about sports, gambling, board games, video games, or the colloquial use of the term ‘gaming’ meaning ‘to rig or influence the outcome of’?”
“Video games. Specifically online gaming.”
“Online video games can be divided into three general categories: multiplayer online games, or MOGs, in which players compete or cooperate in a transient arena; massively multiplayer online games, or M-MOGs, where players compete or cooperate in a persistent arena; and online real-life crossover games, or ORLiX, where actions in the physical world affect online gameplay and character development.”
“The first two.”
“Both multiplayer online games and massively multiplayer online games can be further subdivided into first-person shooters, role playing games, real-time strategy games, turn-based strategy games, simulations including sports and vehicle operation, casual or social games including—”
“I’m only interested in first-person shooters, role playing games, and real-time strategy games.”
“Would you like me to list relevant titles?”
“Not necessary. I want to know the top twenty players of the top five titles over the last, say, five years.”
“Query complete. Would you like me to list their aliases?”
Alexei smiles beneath his visor. “I’ll probably regret this, but go ahead.”
“In ascending alphabetical order: 5N1P3R, 88Ninjas, A Peach, AssAssIn, Chemical Bacon, Dildo Dance Party, Don’t Blink, Dubious Cow, Foreign Devil, JesusDiedLOL, Manboobs, Mesh, Pig Benis, QueenCodeMonkey, Sweatyboner, The Muffin Man, Unholy Tide, UrMother, Weenie Tugboat, and Your First Pube.”
“Christ. Where do they come up with these names?”
“Many names are chosen for their ability to elicit humor or derision when one player kills—or
frags
, to use the common vernacular—another player, and are considered a passive form of ‘smack talk.’ In order to facilitate vendettas and grudges, most games inform players who they were just killed by using the phrase ‘You were just killed by’ and then substituting in the name of the victorious player. The result is a description of a scenario which could be considered comical due to the fact that it is grammatically correct, yet irrational and usually extremely unlikely. For example: ‘You were just killed by A Peach,’ or ‘You were just killed by UrMother,’ or ‘You were just killed by Your First Pube.’ Other names are chosen based on—”
“Thank you, Emma. That’s more than sufficient.”
“Did I make a mistake?”
“No. Never mind. Let’s call that group ‘candidates.’”
“Understood. I’ve created a group called ‘candidates’ containing twenty records.”
“Good. Now I want you to find each candidate’s most frequently used IP address and add it to his or her record.”
“Query and join complete.”
“Now query the Identification and Demography Index by IP address, and add the resulting data sets to each candidate’s record.”
“IDI records located for eighteen out of twenty candidates. Query and join complete. Eight thousand nine hundred eighty-two dollars transferred offshore to Anonymous Access, Incorporated.”
“Sometimes I think I’m in the wrong business.”
“Would you like to discuss new career opportunities?”
“No, thank you, Emma. Let’s try to stay on topic here. Tell me what fields are now contained in each record.”