Interlude 1

Virginia, U.S.A.

Mid Twenty-first Century A.D. (Gregorian):

Colonel Herb “Spooky” Mason checked the connection ID when his latest ‘burner’ rang its silly tone. He couldn’t stand the sound, but if he spent time fiddling with the settings on every disposable phone he bought, he’d never get anything else done. The ID wasn’t familiar, but that wasn’t unusual. When you go dark, every contact becomes a one-time thing. Too easy to track you down otherwise.

And given that his girlfriend had been kidnapped, on top of Mason’s current woes, he fully intended to be the one doing the tracking.

He put the device to his ear. “Yeah.”

“It’s me.” He recognized Sergeant Major (Retired) Jeffrey Ellis’s voice. “I got your boy here, sunny-side up.”

John was alive? How had a man missing a full third of his body, including an eye and an ear managed to stay ahead of their hunters? A man like that stands out like a sore thumb.

Mason went for casual. “Well damn, I figured you were dead. Good work. Guess the rest of us should just let you take care of everything from now on.”

“Hey ... sir.” John’s voice was clear.

“Where you guys at?” Mason asked, glancing at the time.

Depending on their location, they could be pinpointed in minutes. They had to keep this short.

“Those coordinates I gave you.” Ellis told him.

Mason’s mind flew to the map he’d quadruple-checked after getting Ellis’s message informing him of where Ellis was headed.

“I looked them up. Why’d you go there?”

“The girl had them.” John explained. “There’s a certain stone arch you might recognize.”

A stone arch? As in ... no way. That shouldn’t be possible. Yeah, he’d seen the pictures from Mars, but still. A destroyed ruin was a far cry from something still standing. Maybe even still working?

He couldn’t contain himself. “You gotta be shitting me!”

“Not even a little bit.” John assured him.

Mason’s normally metronomic, fifty-bpm heartbeat sped up.

“And you could... ?”

“I did.” John reported. “Even have new h―a”

There was a pause. Ellis no doubt cautioning John that the line wasn’t the least bit secure.

Good thinking, Parade.

“Sorry, we have a bit of clean-up here, unfortunately.” John said instead.

The arch was under surveillance? That was bad news.

“How many?” Mason asked.

“Just two, but that’s enough.” Ellis answered.

“I’m going back. I can take him with me. It’s a one-at-a-time deal, but we can’t be sure these bozos were alone.” John added.

Take him with John? To First World?

Mason was in shock. “Well I’ll be god-damned! What I wouldn’t give!”

“If you bring some backup, I’m sure John could come get you.” Ellis’s tone held a question.

John confirmed it. “Come loaded for bear, but when I can, I’ll give you a ride.”

Mason’s utterly pessimistic side immediately identified a laundry list of reasons why that might be an atrocious idea.

He needed to be cautious. “I’ll see. If there’s too many, I might have to wave off. This number good?”

“One of the crows.” Ellis replied. “I’m going to wipe and destroy it. Eventually they’ll get your number from records though.”

No surprise there.

“No problem. I consider it burned anyway. I’ll put a new one in the usual place.”

“Good.” Ellis said. “We’ll be in touch when we can.”

Thinking quickly, eyes still on the time, Mason gave himself a timetable.

“Do that.” He instructed. “If you don’t see me within the next two months, assume your area’s too hot. This is even bigger than we feared.”

“Stay safe, sir.” John piped up.

They’d never been on a mission together, but John had always been friendly with Mason. Even when some of the others were noticeably cooler towards him.

“You too. Watch your backs.”

Mason disconnected his call and stared thoughtfully at the wall of his current safe house. When the group bedeviling them found out they’d lost two watchers, a heavier presence would be dispatched. No way could he handle that on his own. Though his teammates hadn’t said anything, Mason knew that if the two watchers had been killed they’d at least been armed, and likely had decent skills.

Something on par with the U.S. Army Rangers, or Marine Force Recon, probably. Dedicated, motivated hard-chargers, with enough training to be a real threat. Tricks wouldn’t work. Mason needed allies. He’d been reluctant to contact anyone not already involved, even if only peripherally. Now, they had two former unit members in harm’s way, threatened by people with unknown motives. An underground ‘net-call’ was in order. Mason himself was unlikely to attract many takers, but if he made sure the word included a former unit Command Sergeant Major, and a man who’d given his body without complaint, that might sway a few.

Mason’s eyes strayed to the closed bedroom door. The men operating against them were talented enough in surveillance and detection that Mason’s plan to use Melvin as a bird-dog had failed. The two of them had escaped capture by the skin of their teeth, and Mason only pulled Melvin out to deny their enemies access to him. He’d been contemplating what to do with the man. Unfortunately, putting a bullet in the linguist’s head was probably the best thing, for both of them.

But now, there might be another use for him. He got up and knocked on the door.

“Melvin, we need to talk.”

Five weeks later:

The Edgewater Inn restaurant and bar overlooked a marina in southern Juneau. Plastic tablecloths covered a row of four-tops pushed up against a line of windows broken only by support beams. Local brewery names flashed red, blue, yellow and green in neon on the wall behind the bar where a pair of women who’d been attractive in their youth, but were now middle-aged poured glasses for the men who gathered.

Mason and Melvin had arrived a few minutes early and set the stage for their cover story. Groups of males only traveled this far north to hunt large game, or to deep sea fish normally. Currently no animals were in season, daylight decreased noticeably each day and winter wouldn’t be too far behind. Fishing too would be hard, and the boat Mason piloted up from the northwest U.S. wasn’t laid out for it anyway. But an occasional trip to climb the glaciers wasn’t uncommon. Playing the rich but less capable friend was a challenge Melvin agreed to undertake, while Mason let himself fade into the background as a body guard.

Retired First Sergeant Doug Palmeri, aka Patches was the first to show. Others were probably around, Mason assumed but they’d elected in a conversation carried out with nothing but surreptitious glances to send in an advance party. Someone they respected, who had nothing to fear from the infamous Spooky Mason. Palmeri had been John’s Troop First Sergeant, under Major Samuel Akin. Akin, who was now a full Colonel, and in his second year commanding the whole unit. If anyone had top-cover against a man with Mason’s reputation, it was Patches. Palmeri took a seat one over from Mason and signaled for a glass of beer by pointing at one of the taps.

“That one’s pretty good.” Mason said as an opener.

He had no taste for it personally, but the obnoxious pair playing darts in the far corner had declared it for all to hear, so Mason figured it was a safe statement.

“So I hear.” Palmeri nodded at the dart players.

Mason caught Melvin’s eye and tilted a head towards the newcomer.

The linguist broke character a little to chug another swallow, and Mason could feel the man steel himself before he turned and spread his arms.

“Hey there!” Melvin declared. “You made it!”

“Of course I did!” Palmeri declared back. “Looks like I’m the only one so far.”

“The others’ll be along in a bit, I’m sure.” Melvin said with forced cheer.

The three moved away from the bar, drinks in hand to snag a corner table. Neither of the former operators really wanted to be by a whole wall of glass with darkness already setting in, but they did need a little privacy.

Amid fake guffaws and animated ‘stories’ Mason gave Palmeri a quick rundown. Enough facts for the man to make a decision.

“I don’t know how many you were hoping for.” Palmeri said in a low tone. “But I counted three more between the lobby and the lot outside. Your word that Parade and Pancake are in real trouble?”

Mason nodded. “Last contact they said they’d had to kill two. I expect there’ll be more by now, given the situation.”

“We’ll hear you out then.” Palmeri announced.

He turned to the bar and held up a mostly-empty glass. A finger circled to order another round.

Shortly after, three others walked in. The men were already back-slapping and boisterously greeting each other. They too ordered drinks, and pushed a second table over to combine it with Mason and Melvin’s. The linguist got progressively quieter as the others made a spectacle. Several rounds of beer were consumed alongside entirely made-up stories that had the entire group in stitches.

First Sergeant Eric Grimes, aka Blue was the only man present still technically in the military. John’s old teammate’s presence told the rest that the unit commander gave semi-official blessing for their meet. He was senior enough now that the command group would give a fair hearing to whatever he relayed. Colonel Akin knew the entire unit would mutiny if he’d left a former Command Sergeant Major flapping in the breeze.

Mark Chappell had retired only two years prior. The former demolitionist had turned his skills to less destructive ends in his second life. He’d moved back to Texas and now ran a successful construction business. Though he no longer had to, Fuse kept himself in top shape. Heavy lifting and much less distance marching had put several new pounds of muscle mass onto his shoulders and back.

Ben Hull was the last member of their group. He’d spent nearly a decade in the Special Forces community as a medic before passing Selection. The unit paid for him to get even more medical training afterward (and the certifications to go with it) so when he retired at the ripe age of thirty-eight, he walked right into the civilian field as a Physician’s Assistant. The Level One Trauma Center Emergency Department where Numb worked now was pleased as punch to have his skills. Urban violence in big cities was on the rise again, and Denver was no different.

Mason had rescued Hull at the same time as Melvin, almost by accident. Numb had volunteered to watch the off-side entrance for Mason, and must have come upon the other two when they approached.

Judging that they’d established sufficient cover, Palmeri gave a signal and the group staggered down the hall to the suite Melvin had rented using the credit card Mason supplied. Once inside with the door shut, all trace of humor vanished. The men spread out, idle glances indicating they’d noticed the stack of locked Pelican cases in the corner.

“That an official cache?” Blue asked.

“It is.” Spooky Mason was the only one still standing. “If we decide to use it, I’ll resupply.”

Blue shrugged. “Caches’re there to be used. Give me the log tag and I’ll have someone from Support Squadron refill it. No worries.”

“My thanks.” Spooky inclined his head.

Blue waved it off, so Spooky forged ahead.

“What I’m about to tell you all is code-word classified.” He began. “You do not have the official okay to be read in, but when you hear what I have to say, I think you’ll agree you have the requisite need to know.”

None of the men flinched. They’d been read into (and back ‘out of’) so many Top Secret-Sensitive Compartmented Information (TS-SCI) programs, both officially sanctioned and the less savory kind over the years that this was old hat.

Plus, none of these were Spooky’s personal friends or teammates. The Colonel’s old Troop had been some of the most hardcore killers in the whole unit. Every last one of them a whisker above an Unfit rating from the unit psychologist for sociopathy. Spooky ran that team with an iron fist, the only way to do so successfully, in his opinion. The group he now addressed were all highly cognizant of that fact. Their decision to help him, or not would rest entirely on what he said, not on the fact that it was him pitching it.

Melvin popped open a portable computer on the coffee table. Spooky gave him a small external storage device to plug in. As pictures appeared on the screen, Spooky described their context. He covered the artifacts from Mars, and their connection to the now-famous mission. Veronyka’s picture followed a series showing the implants she’d developed, as Spooky talked about what they did.

“I’ve seen her before.” Patches remarked, when Spooky paused to swallow some water.

“Yeah.” Numb seconded.

“In your fantasies, maybe.” Blue quipped.

“Pretty sure that was yo’ mamma.” Numb fired back.

The chuckles that generated were delusory.

“You have, probably.” Spooky confirmed. “She’s the doc who helped John after his injury.”

Patches snapped his fingers. “That’s right! So, John already had one of these ‘plug your brain in’ implants in his head?”

“No way.” Numb argued. “That stuff from Mars didn’t come back until long after Pancake got his implanted.”

“You’re correct.” Spooky assured them. “But his existing one did come in handy when the others we recruited couldn’t handle it.”

“Handle what, exactly? What happens when you hook that up?” Fuse looked revolted by the idea.

Spooky gestured at Melvin.

“The professor here was one of the last before we signed John up. Melvin, could you explain it?”

To Melvin, the eyes that settled on him looked just as cold and unfeeling as those of the Fey who’d slit his throat in First World. He gulped and stuttered out an explanation.

“Uh, so when you get plugged in, you’re transported into what we thought was some kind of simulated environment. Totally Tolkienian: elves and orcs and dwarves, with swords and magic. Like an ultra-real RPG Sim. Most of us—w”

“Hold on.” Patches interrupted. “You got this thing off Mars, a whole other planet, and when you hooked up to it all you got was a stupid game? With stuff only modern man would recognize? Are you fucking with us?”

Spook shook his head. “I am not. I swear to you, everything we’re saying is both true and was practically unbelievable, even to us on the project. We didn’t know what to think, when the subjects who went in reported feeling like they’d really died, and the place where you prepped to go told each one that going back incurred a penalty.”

“What do you mean: ‘place where you prepped to go in’? And what kind of penalty?” Blue asked.

Melvin spoke up. “When you first hook up, you’re in this all-black area. Like a loading screen, before the Sim really starts. I know, they haven’t been around for a while, but you remember them from when we were kids.”

The men all nodded. Playing video games on deployment was a time-honored tradition.

“Well, while you’re in there, a voice talks to you.” Melvin continued. “Yeah, in English. It’s the only part any of us could understand, actually. Every time you die, it gives you a choice for how you want to come back, and tells you there’s a penalty to either some part of your body, or your senses for doing so. Let me tell you, whatever you choose is real. Real here! My job doesn’t need me to be the deftest guy around so I picked a decrease in my dexterity, and now I can barely shuffle a deck of cards. Whatever First World is, it’s no Sim.”