“So, you’re the one who keeps sending me messages,” Marquis Lewellen leveled at the lumberjack-man who towered over his desk. The angle Marquis had to incline to look the man in the face did not bode well for his back problems, so he ordered the young agent to sit. Fortunately, in the manner of government offices, the desk chair stood a few inches above the shorter chairs for guests, and the fact brought Marquis’s grey head to a near level with the visitor’s unnaturally yellow one. Not so convenient for daddy-long-legs, whose knees seemed to rise to where his arms lay on the armrest, but much more comfortable for Marquis.
“I am,” the young man agreed, not needing to lean too far forward with his outstretched arm to shake Marquis’s hand. “My name is Aurelius Martins. Analyst with the NCB, as I guess you know since you’re the associate director of my division.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Marquis offered casually, though he knew exactly who Rel was. “I have over four hundred analysts, not to mention a veritable horde of agents and special agents I monitor. It’s why there are about fifty special associate executives who monitor all of you people and make sure you are doing your jobs.”
“But you asked for this appointment,” Rel prompted, his nerves lending an edge to his anticipation. “I received notification that you wanted to talk about my report.”
Unwilling to seem concerned, Marquis feigned disinterest. “A deputy special assistant placed a report into a stack of reports and made an appointment with its author. You are my ninth interview today.”
Rel tried to rein in his disappointment. After three weeks of shopping his report, he finally had an interview, and it was just a routine follow up, probably destined to die in a pile of similarly insane or uninteresting theories from overly-enthusiastic analysts who thought their insight was the brightest and most remarkable.
Sighing, Rel slumped a little in the seat that already required him to crunch uncomfortably into a ball. He felt like a grown man in a chair for a kindergartener. Pretty much felt like a kindergartener being appeased by a condescending teacher, too.
“So, tell me about this report.” Marquis hadn’t actually seen anyone that day, but Director Bilton had made it clear that this analyst needed to be discouraged from pursuing the trail he had started down. “Who are these people you are trying to connect?”
“I’m not connecting people. I’m connecting positions and incidents.”
“Continue…”
“There are a few here in the states. There’s an electrical engineer here in NAmdam, the head of the cityworks. After a thirty-year career, impeccable, he lets a deadline pass for inspection of the transmission line, and that transmission line fails, leaving four hundred thousand homes in the dark for twelve hours.”
“Twelve hours is hardly life-altering.”
“But very unusual since the implementation of Bridge-regulated utilities.”
“Maybe he quit paying as much attention since the Bridge took over. Certainly, his job has gotten easier, I dare say.”
Rel huffed at the dismissal. “Okay, then there is Xin Liu. Director of Water Resources in China. Stepped down after the cover up of a massive spill that sickened over a million people near Chengdu. Killed close to 100,000.”
“Tragic, but hardly indicative of a pattern.”
“There are all these random but essential people, making unusual errors or coverups. Cracks in the infrastructure, some tiny and others large. The metro system shutdown in Chicago, the resignation of Chief Privacy Officer of Sino-Russe, the failure of the emergency service communications system in Lagos Metro. All significant. All Bridge dependent.”
“You can hardly link incidents solely by their Bridge dependency. You might as well blame growing older on breathing air. Unless you can show how these things are actually being affected by their Bridge-dependency, that portion of the information is irrelevant.”
“Obviously,” Rel persisted, “but they are all infrastructure related. Whether big or small. If you’ll just let me show you my chart…”
“It’s in the nature of infrastructure to suffer cracks. We repair them and buttress them and move on. I’m afraid there is not enough here to establish a pattern needing our attention.”
“I just –” He didn’t want to say it. Rel knew how it would come across, but his instincts were good. Even if no one else saw it, he could recognize a pattern. “I just have a feeling.”
With that, smug condescension glazed firmly over the Associate Director’s eyes, and Rel knew he had signed his death warrant.
Back to the field, he lamented.
“I will keep that in mind,” the AD placated. “I see you’re approaching your fourth anniversary with the NCB. Congratulations. I wish you great success.” Just not in this.
When the associate director stood to his feet, he only had to look a few inches above him to offer his farewell. He had looked seven feet tall, Marquis snickered internally. His discs didn’t hate him quite as much when he met the agent’s eyes from a standing position.
“Thanks for your time,” Rel tried not to mumble. Even if they stuck him in the field, he held every intention of tapping into the NCB hardwire as soon as possible. There was something there to find.
+++++++++++++
“I’m not doing it, mom,” Greta challenged, forcing herself to focus on the battle on the screen, despite the distraction of her mom’s criticism. “The Partie is coming up, and I have sponsors from five different countries. Not to mention an invitation to the Trifecta.”
“In Deutsch, bitte,” her mom corrected, continuing in their native German. “We live in the real world. Not some fantasy realm. Our country left those myths behind five hundred years ago. Why do you want to bring them back?”
“No one is trying to bring them back.” Since Greta wouldn’t budge on the Trip, she conceded on the German, falling into the language. “These games are the new sports. I know that when you were young, people traveled to arenas and sat in stadiums, but now people watch gamers game. It took half a century, but sports are out – games are in. And they pay well. I make good money at this. And I have gotten an invitation that is only available for people like me. The best of the best. I can make 40,000 marks if I win this tournament. That’s more than your annual salary in a three-day event.” Just as she cleared a ridge, Greta noted the Trifecta mark on a building in the corner of her screen. Her heart raced with anticipation.
“If you win,” her mom complained. “In the meantime, I have to hire two people to take your place at the bakery, and that costs me 800 marks per day. So your three days turns into 2,400 marks plus a lot of stress. Your grandfather made it clear that he did not support your playing games, and he will not supplement my lost time when you are. He thinks I should not indulge you.”
“I’m one of 100,000 players who even qualify for the event, and the invitation for the Trifecta only went out to 30,000. I’m level eighteen. There are about three hundred of us. It’s like going for a job interview where I’m one of the top 300 choices out of 100,000 applicants.”
“This is the last time,” Frida Weimar insisted. “If you don’t win this, you hang up your controller or your computer or your mouse or whatever it is. Do you understand?”
Frida waited for the answer, ready for a fight, but the fight didn’t come.
“Greta?” she prompted. “Greta, do you understand? Hello? Greta?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Greta didn’t reply, and when Frida looked down at her handheld, the link had ended.
+++++++++++++++
As her Pros ran after the nearest tank, Hazel hid behind her mage, ExDominus, using him as a shield to keep her integrity as high as possible until her mega could recharge. She had one shot to take down the prefecture.
“I need some mana, Dom,” she instructed, angling behind his protective robes as the enemy tank barraged him with physical damage.
“How much?” he queried. “If I share, how long until the killshot? I’m not cloaked. If I perish too quickly, this guy will destroy you. You should’ve targeted Keitel instead of Goebbels.”
“How did we lose our tank so early? What happened to Manticore?”
“Manny withdrew from play. He’s out indefinitely. The new guy just doesn’t have it yet.”
Juking left, Hazel barely avoided the outstretched claw of the tank, a claw laced with poison that would have drained her energy long before her mega recharged. Instead, the blow struck Dom, draining most of the rest of his life.
“Best laid plans,” he offered, dosing her with as much mana as he could render. “You’re on your own.”
As soon as Dom combusted into ethereal light, the giant red and blue tank rushed Hazel’s elfin avatar. Her enchanted leather armor would survive a couple of blows. As she rerouted her defense to her chestplate, she stared at the charge bar for her mega. It ticked higher and higher as her health drained lower and lower. If she made this hit and destroyed the prefecture, she would advance to level fifteen, just enough to enter the Partie. She had two days to spare before the qualifying deadline, but she needed time to build her team back up, especially if Manticore had bailed. Why would he do that without telling her?
The tank raised his claw for what would be the death blow. In return, Hazel raised her finger to depress the button on the controller. There was a slight chance that if she hit it now, her power would have charged enough to unleash her mega.
With a rapid motion, she depressed the button. The screen glowed with a glaring white explosion, and the tank, with all his Proletariat, collapsed to the ground. Hazel jumped to her feet with a whoop of excitement. Even without the three months she had missed from the surgery - in less than a tenth of her normal time - she had done it: she was going to the Partie.
++++++++++++
“She’s not particularly tall,” Harry admitted as he dragged Rel through the door of the café.
Fortunately, the food smelled amazing – some kind of open-flame meat, seasoned and constantly refreshed over the fire. Rel approached the little food bar in the center of the space, glancing at the fresh vegetables and varieties of cheese and bread.
“Will I like her?” Rel whined, a tad self-pitying. His day had sucked, what with the sound rejection of upper management and a day of literally pounding pavement. Probably because he had grown lazy, but he did not get the adrenaline rush from the constant motion anymore.
Shaking his head at his friend, Harry pursed his lips. “You’re in bad shape, aren’t you? What happened today?”
“It was a joke,” Rel complained. “I said the words ‘I have a feeling.’ I have a feeling, Harry! How’s that for analysis?”
“It’s called instinct.”
“Humans don’t have instinct. They have brain power.”
“They have micro-analyses that derive from data taken in by their senses but only marginally processed, categorized automatically based on prior experience and knowledge -”
“Oh my gosh. Please stop,” Rel begged.
“Are you going to stop?” Harry prodded. “Is the pity party over?”
Huffing a breath, Rel shook his head. “Fine. I’m done. Where is she?”
Harry passed beyond a small arch and into a smaller, private-looking room. Seated at a red-cloth-covered table, two women turned to smile at the approaching friends. Both ladies stood to their feet and held out their hands.
When Harry leaned in to the taller woman for a short kiss, Rel decided his date must be the shorter woman. She was nice-looking - lean muscles and a kind smile - and despite their height difference, Rel wouldn’t reject the opportunity out of hand.
“Rel Martins,” he offered, shaking her hand. Despite his earlier moodiness, he managed to perk up for the introduction.
“Veronique Garrison,” she replied. She wore her jet-black hair in tight curls piled on top of her head, a colorful headband framing her forehead. With her pleasant and upbeat expression, Rel’s sullenness evaporated.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Veronique,” he grinned, and he happily noted her approval. I don’t think I could handle any more rejection today, he pulled in a breath.
“How do you know Harry?” Veronique prompted as they all took their seats.
Harry and his date began an instant hum of conversation, obviously comfortable with each other and oblivious to everything else around them.
“Harry,” Rel explained, “was my college roommate.”
“Are you in IT as well?”
Rel laughed. “Hardly. I’m an analyst at NCB. Well, was an analyst. Not sure what I am now.” Despite her spirit, his melancholy tried to creep back in.
“Oh, right. What did you do to piss off the higher-ups?” she laughed. “It took me about six months to be shifted to street duty.”
“You’re at the Bureau?”
“Seventh year running.”
“And you were transferred?”
“For a year,” she acknowledged. “I mean, it’s not like it’s a demotion, because the job of an agent is freaking hard, but when it’s not your passion…”
“Exactly! And when you’re a better analyst than agent, it seems counterproductive to live in the field. There are really good agents who could do a better job than I can.”
“Are you Wired?” Veronique paused. “I’m sorry. That’s kind of a personal question, but it’s professional for us, you know? I didn’t mean -”
“It’s fine. I’m Wired.” The only people who really minded being asked were Wire-frees.
“We should connect – business link, I mean. We’ll decide the personal stuff later.”
Rel laughed out loud. “No, that sounds great. I’d love to have someone to run things past. I mean, not all my crazy ideas -”
“I don’t mind listening to them, and I’m not afraid to literally cut off the feed if you overstep.”
Tapping into his info, he logged into the Stream and prepped for a signal. “I’m online if you want to exchange now.”
Veronique blinked a couple of times. “Got you. Aurelius, huh?”
“Aurelius.”
“I was wondering where Rel came from.”
Rel shrugged. “Well, after having too many mystically-inclined friends try to call me ‘Aura,’ I decided I needed to come up with my own nickname.”
“It works,” she agreed with a laugh, leaning back as the cart rolled up to the table to deliver their food.
For the rest of the night, conversation consisted of comments on the quality of the dinner, and Rel and Harry soon stepped out to the line of Queue cars to head back to their respective apartments.
“So, are you glad you came?” Harry inquired.
“I won’t say it’s love at first sight, though she is really nice to look at, but I think I might finally have made a friend in the Bureau.”
Harry shook his head. “Who knew that Mr. Popular would spend the first four years out of college pissing off all his colleagues and creating bad blood.”
“Well,” Rel smirked, “all I cared about in school was whether or not people liked me, so I got really good at being liked. There are other things I care about now.”
“What you’re saying is that you’ve become a nerd…”
Rel said nothing, just grinned and stepped toward the car. “We’ll have to do this again.”
“When I’m not going out with Kirsten.”
“Oh, was that her name?” Rel chuckled. “You two sucked into each other so fast, she forgot to introduce herself.”
When Rel turned back to wave, Harry looked very smug.
+++++++++++
“Have you talked to Manny lately?” Hazel prompted, stepping into the woods to catch a breath.
“He’s MIA,” DeathDog insisted. “One day he’s all ‘the Partie, the Partie,’ and the next he quit talking to anyone.”
Hazel pursed her lips, keeping up the barrage of shots against the Pros so she could gain stats while she chatted. “Have you heard about Trifecta?” she wondered, taking a stab in the dark.
“How do you know about that?” Dog begged. “It’s invitation only. Not saying you’re a Rexist; I just didn’t think it was open to Wire-free.”
“Maybe I got an invitation.”
Dog said nothing for several seconds, suddenly finding a nearby mage to be a very intriguing target. “I didn’t think there were any Wire-free invites. I’m sorry – not trying to be a jerk.”
Working to maintain her focus, Hazel forced herself into a lane to make some progress. No wonder she hadn’t received anything!
“Ten thousand out of the thirty have already been sent, and we’re cloaking up bigtime. We can’t use them until nineteen, but we figured we would make it there at the Partie.”
Oh, that was not happening. A sudden onslaught of new powers showing up just in time for the ultimate battle? Hazel needed to figure out how to access those things, and her lack of wires in her brain would not impede her.
Apparently, Dog had noticed her silence. “If it makes you feel any better,” he offered, “PrincePrincely has opted out. Haven’t heard from him in days, and my ranger has disappeared off the face of the earth. In fact, if you know of any rangers looking for a team…”
“I’ll keep my eyes open. Sucks so close to the Partie.”
“At least I’m already in,” Dog supplied, and Hazel had to agree. At least she was into the Partie.
Now she just had to get into the Trifecta.
She hadn’t coded in over two years, not since Peter had nabbed her and forced her to sit down with him. Before that, she had dabbled in code, poked through into the Bridge to watch the flow of figures, written a few exploits for Trip – that had gotten her banned for an entire season after she killed an entire team using a ranged attack that she had turned global. Fortunately, Peter had given her the language, and she had figured a lot of the rest of it out.
Though she didn’t expect she had the knowledge to hack the Trifecta without some serious attention, Hazel could easily backtrace the source of the message. If she could find who sent it, maybe she could figure out how to get invited – without a Wire. Or maybe she could crash the group - even better. Whatever she needed to do to get access to the weapons, she wanted to do. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone had relegated her to the noncompetitors just because she was Wire-free. It won’t be the last, she smiled.
She should at least have a fair fight, though, an equal chance to acquire weapons and power. Opening a prompt, she started to trace the source of the message. She would have it soon enough.