CHAPTER ONE

Early’s Got an Agenda

It all started with a message. A message just sitting there in Mitch Mantock’s inbox. Taunting him, pulling him in like a big shiny gift-wrapped box slid under the tree on Christmas-fucking-morning. A message Mitch was expecting, but not today.

What the hell? It’s never been early before. Why would he—

A piercing GAME OVER horn sounded through his headphones. He scurried back to his mission screen, frantically checking each data point, scouring the readout to figure out what had gone wrong. The stats displayed on his Karma Systems control panel were dismal. No progress, no medals, no leveling up. One thing was for sure—the practice mission Mitch had drifted off from had been short and to the point. Every member of the team had been turned into virtual lunchmeat, fast, no thanks to him.

As the tour guide for that afternoon’s third—Christ, was it the fourth?—group he’d led through the virtual battlefields of Skirmish, the outcome was just another kick in the nuts. He knew the group of newbs didn’t stand a chance, but still, they were paying good money—Karma Systems credits he’d already spent. It was his job to teach them, to mentor them, to show them the ins and outs of the game that could make anyone on Earth famous, if they just had what it took.

Famous like Mitch used to be. But that was a long time ago.

He’d spent that afternoon the same way as yesterday and the weeks and months before: letting his tour groups run on autopilot while throwing out generic bits of wisdom over the comm channel, just enough to keep his students coming back the next week. The stretches between firefights left plenty of time for his mind to wander, to plan his next big thing. But lately, even his daydreams were coming up short, just uninspired flashbacks to a now cooled spotlight—interrupted by reminders of the next group of punks to guide through the same old missions, again and again.

He flicked his inbox back up, the message header staring right back at him. As he drifted off, sifting through what could have caused Mac to hit send two weeks early, the Skirmish status chime signaled the arrival of the final mission summary. As it scrolled across his primary screen, the lime-green text mocked him more with each new line. Sterile. Final.

TEAM: BLUE FIRE

SKIRMISH MISSION: CRESCENT RISING

FIVE (5) MEMBERS ENTERED

FIVE (5) MEMBERS DECEASED

MISSION FAILED

WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY AGAIN? YES/NO

Mitch brought up a view of the game arena, now suspended in time, cold and lifeless. This afternoon’s tour group—a team that called themselves Blue Fire for reasons Mitch had never bothered to ask—stood waiting in the static. Five bloodied, tired, seriously pissed off looking Skirmish players stared back at him. Five virtual rifles still in their hands, five skull and crossbones indicators hanging in the virtual space over their helmets. Five players who’d been counting on him.

Seriously, though, why would he send the message early this year? Doesn’t make any sense.

When something arrives late, it’s no big deal. People get busy. Things come up. Life pushes you to the back of the line, which most of the time is right where you belong. Late things are a vital reminder that you aren’t as important as you thought you might be.

But early? Early’s different. There’s an urgency with early.

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Early’s got an agenda.

Mitch brought his lips to the microphone, carefully pressing the bright green button on his dashboard. He forced a smile, hoping the sentiment would carry along with his voice. “Great job, everyone,” he said. “Really good work down there today.”

The control room speaker crackled back at him, a kid’s voice tinged with a healthy heap of hostility. “What do you mean, great job? Weren’t you watching? We just got our asses handed to us.”

Crescent Rising was one of the easier missions in Skirmish, placing teams deep in a shell-shocked desert village. Dirt roads led to bombed out buildings, a handful of enemies waiting in a nearby courtyard. The mission was designed like a set of virtual training wheels, to allow players to start learning the game world while scoring some cheap, early wins. To build confidence, to grow an understanding of more advanced game mechanics. But there wasn’t any of that going on today.

Mitch scrambled to rewind the mission footage, playing it back at two-times speed. He covered the microphone to mask his groans as he reviewed the train wreck of a mission. Bodies flying against walls, landing doubled-over like rag dolls, withering into digital nothingness. The snare-drum beat of machine gun fire filled the air, sprinkled with screams and panic from a frantic team getting its collective ass whooped. Grenades skipping across the dirt under a blanket of thick, choking smoke. The enemy soldiers closed in slowly, methodically, unmercifully. Those left living crammed themselves into corners and huddled behind bodies, like cockroaches scurrying from the light. Like rats. A better team could have won this battle, but this wasn’t a better team—and today, that was on Mitch.

He poured through the replay, struggling to find encouraging words. With all of today’s runs, not counting a few private cash sessions he’d snuck in here and there, he was running out of new ways to tell players the same thing over again without sounding like a broken record. Coaching Skirmish players on the same details, the same maps, the same dos and don’ts and don’t even-fucking-think-about-its each time, well, it’d wear on anybody.

“You’re supposed to be our coach,” another member of the team, this one calling himself Blue One, shouted up through his speaker. “Maybe try that out for once?”

“I’m giving you the best coaching of all,” Mitch argued, sliding his microphone back into place. “My gift to you is freedom—the freedom to fail. A lot of coaches don’t have the faith in their teams that I have in you. You guys can thank me later.”

“I’ll thank you now if you can stop me from getting my head blown off,” Blue One said. “This is getting old, man.”

Kid’s got a point.

Mitch couldn’t remember the exact day, or even year, when he’d decided to start taking tours through Skirmish. It wasn’t the worst gig in the world, but at the same time, it was no virtual picnic. With the game as popular as it was, it wasn’t hard to find people wanting a leg up, and who were willing to pay for it. These kids would never be superstars—Mitch knew that within minutes, seconds, really, of seeing each in action. But Skirmish was more than just wins, he always told his students—it was about learning and teamwork and being good sports. It was a community where you could find a new tribe, a new adventure, and maybe even yourself, if you were lucky.

Did he believe any of that bullshit? Not really. But honesty was bad for business.

“I’m sure you guys did fine,” Mitch said, scouring the stats table. “I mean at least you got ... one kill? That’s all you got? One goddamned kill?”

“I knew it,” Blue Four said. “He wasn’t watching. Bet he was sleeping again.”

“Guys,” Mitch said, buying time while he traced back through the footage from another angle. “I could tell you all about what you did wrong, but I feel like you’re smart enough to know that already. Right?”

“The only thing I know,” Blue One said, “is that I can get killed in this game without your help. For free.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Mitch muttered.

“We’ve got ten minutes left on the session,” Blue Three called out. “Can we get on with another round? Please?”

“All right, all right,” Mitch said, bringing up a new Karma Systems game menu. “Let’s try something new. Because you’re my favorite team, I’ve got something special on the menu today. I don’t let just any team take on ... “ Mitch paused for dramatic effect and brought up a screen showcasing the next mission, activating a hologram in the middle of the group. “ … The Chinatown Docks!”

A loud, collective groan rolled through the speaker. “Not the Docks,” Blue One grumbled. “That’s supposed to be the worst mission in the whole game.”

“Nobody survives the Docks,” Blue Four whined. “Everybody knows that.”

“That’s because nobody practices the Docks,” Mitch said. “And you’re not nobody. You’re Blue Fire, am I right?”

“Are you actually going to help us through this one?” Blue One asked, looking up at the camera. “Instead of jerking off up there?”

“I swear,” Mitch nodded back. “I am your coach. I am here. I am with you. One hundred percent.” As the reluctant team looked on, Mitch prepped the mission, loading maps, equipment inventories, and enemy position data. As the Karma Systems load screen rendered the environment, he closed his inbox with an eyebrow still raised. Mac’s message—early or not—would have to wait.

TEAM: BLUE FIRE

SKIRMISH MISSION: CHINATOWN DOCKS

FIVE (5) MEMBERS ENTERED

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