Chapter 3

Boston, Massachusetts – September 2061

Chris Simpson looked at the envelope sitting in the mailbox, amid the small pile of flyers and advertisements for various on-campus events. The envelope was computer typed and addressed properly:

Chris Simpson

PO Box 1431

M.I.T.

Cambridge, MA 02139-4307

With a small smile, Chris always changed the internalization of the address to ‘Cambridge – Our Fair City – Mah’ – just like Click and Clack did on their radio show, back 50 years ago. Too bad that was off the air now, but at least Car Talk lived on in the audio files of the SupraNet, although one had to look back in the old files – the real old files. Chris didn’t care; she liked the old stuff.

The envelope was of heavy buff stock, square, not rectangular – like an invitation or greeting card. ‘SR7120’ was on the back flap – not printed as one might expect, but in raised letters. Curious, Chris ripped the expensive envelope open and looked at the contents. Printed on buff heavy card stock it read:

September 23, 2061

Dear [Recipient],

As a finalist in the Drone Soldier™ International Competition IV, Region 3, you are invited to attend a reception to be held in the salon of the Boston Marriott at 1900 hours on Saturday, November 20, 2061.

Topics to be discussed are participation in the Drone Soldier™ International Competition IV, National Championship and planned further development of Drone Soldier – Red Flag™.

Refreshments will be served.

Come at 1500 hours if you want to play the newest version of Drone Soldier – Red Flag™. We’ll have several PCs set up and ready to go.

We are looking forward to a great experience!

SR7120 Enterprises

RSVP

Chris’ reaction was typical for her:

‘What the fuck is that all about?’ Chris thought.

The nearby trash basket was half full with various colored sheets advertising events on campus. Chris tossed the invitation and envelope on top of them and went back to the dorm.

Seventeen days later, Chris’ mobile device beeped. That event alone was unusual enough. Chris never got a comm call. A 15 year-old in the freshman year at M.I.T. just did not have a social life. And phone calls from home? You can forget that. The single-wide trailer behind the truck-stop on I-20 west of Fort Worth did not boast comm service. And it would be a chilly day in Hades before Chris’ mother would use the comm inside the convenience store / gas station / restaurant.

Now, a normal moderately financially sound person wouldn’t think of using an external comm device. Everybody who was anybody had a chip that was implanted and handled comm traffic quickly, easily and silently -- they called it a head comm. Chris was a poor student attending a school full of well funded students. She had a hand-held external device about the size of a pack of playing cards.

“[beep] [beep] [beepity-beep]” said the device.

Chris answered. It’s best if you answer. It’ll just keep on ringing, if you don’t. Chris put down the copy of Advanced Database Topics in Alfo3. Alfo3 was the third generation successor to the old C++ language. Chris’ had an eidetic memory – and it worked for her on seen things, heard things and smelled things. It was letter perfect. All that was required was that the page be scanned, and it could be recalled. And after all, it could be read at any time prior to the exam.

“Hello?”

[female voice] “May I speak with Chris Simpson, please?”

“Uh ... yeah ... who’s calling?”

“This is Carolyn. From SR SeventyOne Twenty.”

“Do I know you?

“May I speak with Chris, please? It’s personal.”

“Sorry. This sounds like a scam. Don’t call again. Lose this number.”

“WAIT! Don’t hang up!”

There was a silence on the line. She was waiting to see if the connection was broken. It wasn’t – Chris was still listening.

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here ... Whaddya want?”

“This is a personal matter. I’d like to speak with Chris.”

“Must be real personal, Carolyn. You don’t even know if Chris is male or female, huh?”

There was another pause in the conversation.

“Is this Chris?” she asked, timorously.

“Matter of fact, it is,” Chris said in her now-almost-annoyed contralto. “What the fuck is this all about? Can’t be personal, ‘cause I don’t know you.”

“Well, uhm. I didn’t want to spread your personal ... um... situation with just anybody who answered the phone ... I’m sorry for the mix-up. I just assumed that...”

“Right. That Chris was a guy. I get that all the time from some fuck boi or other ... My ‘personal ... um ... situation’? What’s this all about?”

“I’ll tell you. But first I need to verify your identification.”

“You wanna see my driver’s license?” Now she was getting into game mode, where she was a hard-assed Killer Rabbit. Much harder-assed than she’d been to ‘Carolyn’ thus far. And besides, she didn’t even have a driver’s license.

“Uhm ... No. What is your Social Security Number?”

“Sorry. Don’t give that out to strangers.”

“Does it end in 827?”

“Nope. Good bye now.”

“WAIT! That was a test. Does it end with 360?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“What’s your ... uhm. You won’t answer that ... How can we do this, Chris? It’s really important.”

She eyed the text book sitting on the desk with a sigh. Her gaze slid over to the screen-capture of the photo of her team mate, Roscoe. He was a good looking bastard: late 20s, light hair, cocky grin.

“You say you’re calling from SR Seven One Two Zero, right? Suppose you ask me the ID question on the credit card page of Drone Solder. If you get the right question, I’ll give you the right answer.”

“Okay... [pause]... ‘What city did you honeymoon in?’”

“The answer is ‘Blue Balls, Pennsylvania, a suburb of HorseShit.’ By the way, I’m not married.”

“I didn’t think so. The data sheet you completed when you signed on to the Contest says you were only 14 at the time. You’d be 15 now.”

“So did you call me to chat or is there a purpose to all this? I have some studying to do.”

“Oh ... yes. I was just ... nevermind. We hadn’t received any reply to the invitation to the Region 3 Finalist Reception yet. You did receive it, right?”

“Oh that? I M.T.d it. Figured it for a scam and wasn’t going to go.”

“It’s not a scam, I can assure you ... What does ‘M.T.d it’ mean?”

“You don’t know M.T. huh? Sam Clemens – you know that was Mark Twain, right? A way-back author, you know? Wrote books? Tom Sawyer? M.T., right? Anyway. He got so much mail that he’d just pile it all on the corner of his desk. When the pile got so big, some of it would fall to the floor. He’d answer what fell, and throw out the rest ... Your invite didn’t fall to the floor. Like I said: I wasn’t planning on attending.”

“It’s very important that you attend if you can. Are you planning on continuing in the Competition?”

“Yeah, sure. Me, Pradesh, and Roscoe are still going to press on. The ‘Killer Bunny Stormtroopers’ will roll on.”

“Well, your teammates will be attending other, simular receptions. In their cases, Pradesh in New Delhi and Roscoe will be attending in Cambridge, England. But you’re coming to Region 3 in Boston. Right?”

“I wasn’t going to ... Okay ... Why should I go?” And did she really say ‘simular’? The thought rattled around in Chris’ brain.

“Well, I don’t know exactly. I don’t know what’s going to be discussed. Don’t you want to go?”

“And reveal that ‘Chris’ isn’t a silverback alpha male, but a ‘poor weak female’? The guys will never take me seriously as an equal. You ever hear the chat in that fuckin’ game? “That bitch could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.” “She was so hot for me, I fucked her ass for hours.” Bull shit like that ... I learned in my very first game to filter my voice through a piece of software that would make me sound like a guy, and dish out the ‘equal wrongs.’ ‘Dragon Soldier’ is a testosterone-filled world full of teenage wanna-be sodomists. Male teenager boi’s, who don’t know how to deal with women. Let alone girls. So, I’ll just remain anonymous and androgynous. Thank you, so much. I have to get back to my text books now. Bye.”