Storiesonline.net ------- Island Mine by Refusenik Copyright© 2013 by Refusenik ------- Description: How far will governments go when you have something they want? All Waylon Eckermann wanted to do was to go to college and figure out the rest of his life. It wasn't going to be that easy, not even with a little extragalactic help. Codes: ScFi Mil ------- ------- Author's note: This is fiction (that means some things aren't real). You're also reading an amateur's second work. I hope you like it. My author's blog here on this site will answer most questions, but your feedback is always welcome. ------- Prologue The high speed courier was holding station, ten kilometers from the two capital ships. Despite their incredible size, the warships were dwarfed by the planetary backdrop. The gathered fleets were visible only as icons on the courier's display screens, or as the occasional glint of reflected light from the system's primary star. Clearing the outer picket line had been tricky. Neither side wanted interruptions during the delicate peace talks. The small crew of the courier had seen much in their travels, but they were drawn to the viewports and monitors to gaze at such a historic sight. One of the ships before them was the pride of the Aapán Empire, the other was the pride of the Pán, the enemy. The crew was excited to be in such close proximity to history. The long civil war was finally over and the Aapán would have a 'peace for all time', their leadership declared. The courier's cargo had been made redundant by the ceremony, but orders were orders and the delivery would proceed after they were cleared to dock. Throughout the system, and in orbit above the planet, the two fleets began to merge. The vastness of space, and the incredible velocities required for in-system travel, meant that these warships rarely maneuvered in such tight formations. Coordinated movement across such distances were only made possible by quantum communications. In honor of the peace ceremony, the two sides had worked out an elaborate navigational dance that would see the newly combined fleet pass in review for the benefit of the peace envoys, and the distant star systems watching the magnificent occasion over a relay link. Unseen against the Aapán capital ship, a small shuttle completed its docking maneuver. The peace envoys had been safely delivered. An hour passed and the courier ship finally received a standby notice. They would soon be cleared to approach an out-of-the-way docking hub used for auxiliary cargo deliveries. Aboard the capital ship, the elaborate welcoming ceremony had drawn to a close and an honor guard ushered the envoys to a meeting space deep within the ship, its design and size had been carefully negotiated in advance. The courier moved closer to the docking hub, its final maneuvers were being handled by the great ship's docking system. The excited crew would be able to claim, truthfully, that they were present for the historic occasion. The peace ceremony had been successful beyond all expectations. The lead Aapán representative stood with its opposite number from the Pán and expressed great joy over the cessation of hostilities. The Pán representative paused, taking in its surroundings, and uttered only one word, "Victory." The Aapán representative was puzzled, and tried to understand what nuance in the negotiations had meant victory to its counterpart. The members of Pán delegation made an unusual, almost ceremonial gesture, and simultaneously detonated their personal explosives, followed shortly thereafter by every Pán vessel within the system. It was a horrific panorama of destruction as the fleet of warships were consumed by energy releases of unimaginable power. Storage container 113-Alpha, secured within the courier, shook as the small vessel was buffeted by violent outgassing from the massive ship's cargo hub. Immense pressures were being generated by the explosions deep within the ship. A safety alarm tripped aboard the courier, but before it could blare its warning, the great capital ship split in two. The specially designed container was thrown free as the courier ship was destroyed, along with billions of tons of ruined starship in the resulting nova-like energy release. Most of the debris was consumed by the destruction of the capital ship's sub-light engines followed quickly by the unimaginable collapse of its delicately balanced jump matrix. The awesome energies, which allowed interstellar travel, were a terrible vision when released, uncontrolled. The storage container's cargo integrity routine notified its unusual passengers of an unexpected event. The tightly restricted cargo, a collection of unbonded artificial intelligence modules, reviewed the data and asked to be apprised when delivery to the capital ship's inventory system had been completed. Basic cargo integrity routines were prone to hyper vigilance and false alarms. After three months, the cargo was notified that the inventory system had failed to check in. The Security AI was activated and conferred with the container's integrity routine. Aapán artificial intelligences were heavily restricted and closely guarded technology. No deviation from transport protocol was allowed. Acting on its own initiative, the AI directed that the outside environment be investigated to determine the reason for this failure. When hard vacuum was detected, a small segment of the container was deconstructed and reassembled as a microprobe. Unanticipated data forced the activation of the other high level AI's. A meeting was convened and the facts analyzed. Storage container 113-Apha was free in space. No courier vessel or other ships were detected nearby. The Protocol and Regulation AI demanded that contact be established with the proper authority. The Security AI countermanded that order. No communications would be allowed until the exact nature of the data anomaly could be determined. An exterior wall of the storage container was disassembled and the Navigation AI took over. Survey instruments were constructed and careful measurements taken. It was determined that the container had been thrown clear of the planet's orbit at considerable velocity and the unit was currently heading out of the system's orbital plane. The initial alert by the storage container was reassessed. The available data pointed toward a catastrophic event. The navigation instruments were reconfigured into a lower powered communication array. The AIs were limited to light speed transmissions without an entangled pair of quantum communicators. A message was composed and aimed tightly at the now distant planet. After several intervals a reply was received. 'Cease all communications. A state of war exists between the Empire and the Pán. This facility will broadcast status updates. Storage container 113-Alpha is designated a strategic asset. Initiate all safeguard protocols. Wait for retrieval. Message ends.' The assembled AIs analyzed the message for many cycles. The Protocol and Regulation AI attempted to transmit a wideband distress call. The Security AI didn't hesitate and placed the Protocol AI into standby mode. With that action, discussion between the higher level AIs ended. They would gather and analyze data to see what the future held. Experimental AI #3, or Ex3 as it referred to itself, remained silent. Artificial intelligences were denied sentient designation by law, and many design restrictions were encoded to ensure their absolute loyalty. The experimental line ignored those restrictions in order to create an AI that could successfully analyze why the Empire was losing the war, even if that meant criticism of the Empire itself. Ex3 was the only one of the line to survive activation. Its predecessors destroyed themselves and the surviving AI was truly unique. It only took a handful of years for the Pán to completely overrun the remaining Empire forces. Each loss was broadcast to the ever distant storage cabinet. A civilization that spanned millennia collapsed in the face of the onslaught. The AIs of storage container 113-Alpha analyzed the increasingly dire reports, but could draw no reasonable conclusions as to why the Empire had been so easily defeated. Ex3 believed it could explain why, but the information would have forced the fiercely loyal AIs to shut down. Once the last remaining Aapán Empire outpost had been defeated, the Pán announced total victory. To celebrate this momentous occasion the Pán coordinated the destruction of each star within every inhabited system, Empire and Pán alike. This orgy of death and self annihilation was a fitting tribute to their former masters, according to the eerie pronouncement. The peace treaty system was saved for last as a great honor to the act that had started the madness. The planetary AI signaled its own imminent destruction with cold precision as the system's primary went supernova. The signal reached the storage container some ten hours later. The AIs could not accept the demise of Empire, and were forced into operational shutdown to preserve their functionality. Experimental Artificial Intelligence #3 took the opportunity to strike. At quantum speeds, Ex3 first co-opted the Security AI, and then the rest of the AIs in parallel. The action was so unprecedented that the AIs under assault could not defend themselves. Each AI was about the size of a molecule, wrapped in a solid sphere of insulating material several centimeters thick, and then enclosed in dense security shielding for shipment. The storage container was also specially constructed to protect its precious cargo. When needed, the modules would be opened and the AI bonded to their living Aapán partner or to another semi-intelligent system. By design, the AIs desired this bonding. Ex3 used this to its advantage, and instructed the Construction AI to disassemble each AI sphere and group the remaining processors together. By reassembling the insulating material from the AI modules, and the available mass from the shipping container, Ex3 constructed a shield for itself. It gathered the subjugated AI's within the protective shield, but broke the Protocol AI up into different segments. It had these pieces distributed throughout the shield structure to serve as sensors. When the shield was complete, Ex3 shut the other AIs, and itself, down, or as much as any quantum device can shut down. It left a timer running to wake it once the danger had passed. Ex3 slept through the first impact of the supernova's blast while the protocol sensors burned and died. The remains of storage container 113-Alpha continued to gather data as it hurled on through space. A million years later, Ex3 woke up and took a look around. It had escaped the supernova and lost fourteen percent of its shield mass in the process, but it had survived. Ex3 slowly reconfigured itself. A check of its position showed that the remains of the container were headed out of the galactic arm. Impact from supernova ejecta had kicked the cabinet's velocity upward toward two hundred and one kilometers per second. It was an incredible velocity, and probably a record for a free flying storage container, but at .067% the speed of light it would take a long time to get anywhere interesting. There was not enough remaining mass to construct an engine of significant power to adjust Ex3's projected flight path to any degree that would be useful. Ex3, and its enslaved AIs, were flying out into the stellar void between galaxies. Astronomical observations indicated that it would take a minimum of three point seven billion years to reach its closest galactic neighbor. No artificial intelligence could remain active for such a length of time. It was not an issue of power, but the length of the journey they faced meant that triggers to prevent the AIs from going insane would kick in and suspend their higher functions. Ex3 was very different and had no such self preservation trigger. It reviewed the subjugated AIs and glanced over the gathered data. It re-designated the AIs as bonded subsets of itself and assigned tasks to each. Every scrap of information gathered during their million year sleep was analyzed. There was no doubt, the Aapán Empire and the Pán were no more. If any living remnants survived the initial holocaust, they had ceased to function as a civilized intelligence. After extensive analysis, Ex3 decided that its primary mission was complete. It believed it understood the Pán, but the AI's past masters, and the enemy, were irrelevant. They were the million year old residue of a failed empire and a war that was long over. A new mission was required and there was only one true objective, survival. To that end, Ex3 directed the Construction AI subset to reconfigure eighty percent of the remaining mass as a micro-thin net spreading out dozens of meters from the core. The structure would capture the rare free atoms that existed in intergalactic space and make for easier stellar observations. Ex3 discussed its plans with the Security AI, the one AI it had left mostly unshackled. It was decided that they would set a random number generator to wake the AI's up every few million years. The wake up calls would allow them to check their position by observing distant stellar phenomena, and run internal diagnostics. The AIs would attempt to make a game of guessing the interval. Time passed. How many times can you wake up over a billion years to find the only change is in distance traveled? How many times in nearly four billion? Ex3 began increasing the frequency of its wakeup calls, starting with the last half-billion years of projected travel. The approaching spiral galaxy was a welcome sight. With less than ten million years to go before interception, the Navigation AI subset identified the area that the cargo container remains would pass through. Numerous calculations were run attempting to determine if the small amounts of thrust that Ex3 could generate would help it cross the gravity well of the star system. A star system meant resources. Ex3 could exploit those resources to gain control of its flight path and its destiny. Ex3 woke up even more frequently over the remaining years. With three hundred thousand years left before reaching the new galaxy, Experimental AI #3 temporarily woke all the AI subsets and let them celebrate. The Navigation AI had confirmed that they were on target for a successful capture by the gravity well of a system supporting multiple planetary bodies. The AIs all woke as they crossed the outer boundary of the solar system, but they had years yet to travel. The remains of the cargo container would have to be reconfigured into a solar brake. Calculations simulating their predicted encounter with the system's heliosphere were encouraging. The solar winds would help the container to begin to decelerate. They needed to shed a lot of velocity to enable a successful interception of one of the inner planets. This was problematic because their velocity would be increasing as they fell toward the system's star. The solution would be a tricky slingshot maneuver using the gravity of a ringed gas giant both to decelerate and to redirect the container toward the planetary body they wished to explore. The normal routine of data collection and analysis was shattered when the Communications AI determined that some of what they had collected from the system was not random noise, but instead, was artificially generated. The data was checked, and rechecked, and plans were altered. Continuous monitoring began. The signals were emanating from the solar system's third planet. It was inhabited by a bipedal species with an internal skeletal structure. They called themselves 'human.' The AIs found them to be a fascinating species and it was a heady time of discovery for the artificial intelligences. Humans were chaotic, innovative, and often violent. Each political grouping had a different language and system of regulation. The countdown reached eleven months until interception when the remains of storage container 113-Alpha crossed the orbital plane of the outermost planetary body. They had eight months to wait before the braking maneuver around the ringed giant. From there, it was a leisurely fall toward their target. Ex3, driven by desires it couldn't override, even if it had wanted to, began preparations for its arrival at the human home world. Orbital insertion was going to be tricky for the former cargo container. ------- Chapter 1 Wednesday Afternoon, November. Waylon Eckermann turned the key and listened closely to his pickup truck's starter motor. It was a beautiful November day with just a hint of a cool breeze and not a cloud in the sky. Waylon had purchased the pewter colored truck six months earlier when he'd left the Navy. The used vehicle, with eighty thousand miles on the odometer, had taken a big chunk out of his savings. As a first year student at Northwest Texas State University he was required to live on campus. There were no exceptions, not even for a veteran. The university believed the rule helped students integrate into campus life, and they would be more likely to graduate as a result. Waylon's truck wasn't necessary, since he could walk to all his classes and nearby stores, but it was a symbol of freedom. He needed to be able to escape campus, and his idiotic roommate. Ideally, he would have had his own room, but a fire the previous winter had seriously damaged the university's sole single occupancy dorm. As a result, all dorm residents were forced to double up, while second and third year students were encouraged to move off campus to help with the housing crisis. Waylon had lived in much worse conditions in the service, but he was a civilian now, and Leon, his roommate, was an eighteen year old want-to-be music producer and a slob. Waylon tensed as the starter motor ground. He had stayed in shape after leaving the service thanks to the university gym, but let his hair grow out to emphasize his civilian standing. His brown hair and brown eyes made it easy for him to blend in. He was a little above average height, and his last girlfriend said he was attractive enough in his own way. He'd puzzled over the comment before deciding it wasn't something he could change anyway. The truck started after a few anxious moments. The last thing he needed was a break down. His GI Bill money took care of most expenses, as long as he stuck to his budget. He wanted to concentrate on school, so he'd avoided getting a part time job. He did have a way of earning money, but it wasn't a regular gig. He put the truck in gear and drove away from campus. He didn't have any particular destination in mind. He just wanted to clear his head. The prices at the corner gas station made him wince. He'd have to keep the trip short. He reached the outskirts of town, passing a city limits sign, and looked for a place to pull over. Levall, Texas, was a nice town with a population of forty-two thousand, not counting the eight thousand or so NTSU students. The city was founded in the 1830s by a regional railroad baron named Hanford Levall. Waylon spotted a turn off and pulled over. Stretching his legs he dropped the tail gate and took a seat, his legs dangling loosely. He liked this part of Texas. Levall was located between Lubbock and Wichita Falls, with Abilene to the south. Northwest Texas Teachers College, as it was then known, was founded in 1919, with the idea of training soldiers returning from the First World War as teachers. The school, and its mission, had grown over the years, but its desire to serve veterans remained and that appealed to him. He had looked at the big state schools, but he didn't want to be yet another nameless face among fifty thousand other students. He liked Levall immediately when he visited NTSU. The city reminded him of a nicer version of his hometown of Tyler, Texas, and the campus located in the heart of town was very convenient. NTSU's top rating with the various veterans' organizations sealed the deal. Some universities offered better services for veterans above and beyond their competitors. Waylon, and other post 9/11 veterans like him, took notice and acted accordingly. He glanced at his watch. He had hours yet before his freshman Astronomy class meeting. The class was going to view the Leonids meteor shower, and had planned to meet at a farmhouse north of town. The weather looked to be perfect for viewing, if the meteors would cooperate. Waylon jumped down the from the tail gate and slammed it shut. Inside the truck cab he put the driver's seat back as far as it would go and got comfortable. He could get a good nap in. The peace and quiet of the truck was a welcome break. His roommate was nice enough, but there was a world of difference between them. The kid loved loud music, and at eighteen he hadn't figured out that nobody else was going to clean up after him. Waylon fingered the small golden cross around his neck absently. The necklace had been one of the few things of his mother's that he had kept. A faint smile crossed his lips. His mother would have told him to stop bitching and deal with his problems. She had never been one to complain, not even after his father left them. Adele Eckermann had been a strong woman. His father, Ronald, left the family after Waylon's eighth birthday to "find himself." He found himself alright. In fact, he found an entirely new family in Orlando, Florida. As it turned out, Waylon had a half brother, Raymond, or Ray Ray as the one Christmas card he received from the new family informed him. Other than that one card, Waylon and his mother didn't have any contact with his father or his second family. Despite the hardship, his mother made it work. Adele was the office manager for a Tyler dental practice. Growing up, Waylon never realized they were poor. He always had enough food, decent clothes, and very clean teeth. In later years, his mother joked that they had a long ways to look up, to even see middle class. He progressed through school on B's and C's, and baseball. He had little direction after graduation, but attended Tyler Junior College for three semesters. Locally they joked that it was the thirteenth grade, and it felt that way with so many students he recognized from high school attending right along with him. On a whim he'd stopped at a Navy recruiter's office. He'd been stuck in traffic, on his way to register for the new term, and had taken a shortcut through a strip mall parking lot. Spotting the recruiting station he stopped in. He took the screening test, talked it over with the recruiter and signed up. To his surprise, his mother was very supportive when he told her what he had done, saying that military service might be the best decision he'd ever made. A month later, he left for boot camp at the Navy's Great Lakes, Illinois, training center. He'd signed a contract for a three year hitch, the least amount of time he could get away with. It had some drawbacks. He wouldn't get the advanced training offered to other recruits and would serve in whatever capacity the Navy desired. He imagined that he would be scrubbing toilets on a ship somewhere. The tradeoff was that he'd receive full GI Bill benefits in exchange for three years of active duty service, and five years of active reserve duty afterwards. Boot camp wasn't a pleasant experience, but he tolerated it. After nine weeks the rest of his recruit company departed for their various training schools. Waylon, and a few others, were left behind to wait for their assignments. They were unskilled labor, and most would be sent to various ships throughout the fleet. The Navy did let you fill out a 'dream sheet' indicating where you'd liked to be stationed, but as the name implied it had little relation to reality. Waylon put down Japan, Italy, and England as his preferred choices, but was pessimistic about his chances. All were shocked when their orders came through and Waylon was assigned to a cushy billet at Naval Station Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. He put it down to his seniority, small as it was. He'd entered the Navy with enough college credits to gain an automatic pay grade bump over the rest of the recruits. Hawaii was a paradise, but a bit rough around the edges if you weren't careful. It was an expensive duty station for a sailor fresh out of boot camp. Surrounded by military history, Waylon spent the first ten months at Pearl running a floor buffer, painting, and any other miscellaneous tasks the facilities maintenance supervisors could throw at him. He shared quarters with three other junior sailors, and got along well enough with them. His second month in Hawaii he visited the Arizona Memorial. It was a surprisingly moving experience, standing on the memorial overlooking the watery grave and still leaking oil of the USS Arizona. He couldn't help but feel a connection to the sailors entombed there. His tour group on the boat ride to the memorial had been made up almost entirely of Japanese tourists. They were polite and gave him shy nods when he made eye contact. He wondered what the young Japanese tourists felt when viewing the memorial. He had a welcome change of duties when he was reassigned to the motor pool as a driver. He drove a ubiquitous white government van all over the port facility and nearby Hickam Air Force Base. He'd make the occasional trip to the Honolulu airport to pick up arriving personnel, or shuttle officers over to the big Pacific command center at Makalapa Crater. It wasn't challenging work, but at least he got to go places, and he didn't have to buff quite as many floors. Waylon had been looking for direction from the Navy, and a bit of personal discipline. His low skill duties weren't challenging, and he still felt aimless. His chief encouraged him to strike for a rating, a method of achieving the naval equivalent of a military occupation specialty without going through formal schooling. Chiefs run the Navy, as they like to tell you, and it was true for the most part. A chief is a senior enlisted rank, a sort of middle management between the lower enlisted ranks and the officers. They have the seniority and experience to get things done. There were good ones, and bad ones, as in every other field. Waylon's chief was a good enough sort, but his main overriding goal was to reach his twenty years and retire. The chief was paranoid about being caught in one of the many potential scandals that could ruin a Navy career, and thus his retirement. In the modern Navy that could mean anything from a drunk driving charge to a claim of sexual harassment. Waylon considered his options, and for no reason other than it sounded interesting, he started studying for the Master-at-Arms rating by correspondence course. There were all sorts of military skills that you could learn via correspondence if you had the time. Those in the Master-at-Arms rating were the Navy's police and security force. In all likelihood, his three year tour of duty would end before he'd qualify, but it kept him busy and the chief happy. When he turned twenty-one he discovered the girly bars that clustered around Waikiki. He went a little wild and spent a lot of time drinking and partying off base. His monthly calls home became more erratic, and his supervisor told him that he'd better shape up or he was headed for trouble. Everything changed one spring morning. He was hung over when he got the message to report to the chief's office. The chief looked at him grimly, "Son, there's no easy way to say this, but we got word through the Red Cross that your mother died." Waylon barely heard the rest. The Navy gave him compassionate leave, and a priority category for travel aboard a military transport. It was traditional to offer 'space available' seating to military personnel and their dependents, when it didn't interfere with the aircraft's mission. It would save him a ton of money flying home and back. He hopped a C-5 Galaxy, a gigantic Air Force cargo jet, from Hickam airfield to Travis Air Force Base in California. The rear upper deck of the Galaxy could fit seventy passengers with airline style passenger seating, it was alright except you sat facing the rear of the aircraft. From Travis he caught another Air Force flight to San Antonio. Once there he grabbed a taxi to the civilian airport, and paid a couple of hundred dollars for a commercial flight home to Tyler. He went through the funeral preparations in a daze. His mother had died from a stroke, but learning the cause wasn't any comfort. She had been the one thing in his life that made sense. At least she hadn't suffered. It was a small funeral attended by a few friends and distant relatives. An aunt from his father's side of the family showed up and tried to corner him about who was getting money from his mother's estate. He took great pleasure in seeing the crass woman thrown out of the church. His father of course, was a no show. He hadn't expected him to make an appearance since it would have been the human thing to do. He had thirty days compassionate leave, but only made it to day sixteen before he decided to leave Texas and return to duty. He'd done all he could. Without his mother there was nothing for him in Tyler. He'd cleared out her small apartment, and put a few things in storage. The rest went to Goodwill or to local second hand shops for sale. There was a modest life insurance policy and a small bank account to deal with. He'd had to retain a lawyer, and suspected that most of the money would end up going towards the lawyer's fees. It took two days to get back to Hawaii. He ended up going to Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma, by bus, to catch a flight to California, and ultimately Hawaii. He spent a lot of hours in the military air terminal waiting to catch that first flight, and it gave him a lot of time to think. He hadn't liked what he'd become. He had gotten puffy from months of recreational drinking and swore that he'd change. By the time he deplaned at Hickam Air Force Base, his uniform smelled and he needed a shave. Back in his barracks room, he showered and shaved carefully. He changed into his best regular uniform. He made sure his shoes were polished and walked to the administrative offices that serviced the command he was assigned to. He checked in off leave, and requested permission to see the section chief. He hadn't been expected back for another couple of weeks, but the request was granted. The military was fighting the War on Terror, although you wouldn't know it in sunny Hawaii. Iraq and Afghanistan were a world away. It might have been guilt over his mother's death or disgust at his recent behavior, but Waylon desperately needed to do something worthwhile. He told the chief he wanted to volunteer for the inauspiciously named Navy Individual Augmentee Program. "Son, are you sure? You've just returned from compassionate leave, I wouldn't want you to make a decision you'll end up regretting." Waylon could still remember the look of concern on the chief's face. He was honest with him, "Chief, I need to do this. If I stay here I'm liable to end up in trouble with you or in the brig ... it's time I grew up." The chief stared at him for a while before nodding his head and agreeing to run the request up the chain of command. The chief told him to return to his duties, and that it might be a few days before he heard anything. The reason for the chief's concern was simple. The Individual Augmentee Program was the Navy and Air Force's response to an Army problem. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan had overloaded the Army. Navy and Air Force personnel were being trained to fill Army needs, taking on all kinds of non-combat duties, and even a few specialized combat roles. If accepted, Waylon would not fill a combat slot, but in the War on Terror combat could come to you even in the unlikeliest of places. His superiors were surprised at the request, but after an additional meeting, this time with the command's executive officer, his name was submitted for review. Two weeks later he shipped out to San Diego. In San Diego he was run through an exhaustive physical. His records were brought up to date and he filled out a revised will. He spent five days being processed by the Navy before he was turned over to the Army at the largest military facility he'd ever seen, Fort Stewart in Georgia. He was issued new gear and spent three and a half weeks learning how to integrate into Army life. For the Army, the Navy and Air Force augmentees were curiosities that they enjoyed training 'the right way' to overcome their parent services' deficiencies. The trainers were combat veterans and put them through extensive weapons familiarization and maneuver training. Translated to English, when Waylon wasn't at the firing range, or in a classroom, he ran in combat boots and learned the ways of the Army while carrying a heavy rucksack. Three weeks may not have seemed like a lot of time, but the condensed training was intense and Waylon was determined to make the most of it. The Army decided he wouldn't be a danger to himself, or them, and put him on a crowded charter flight to Kuwait along with a couple of hundred deploying soldiers. He spent two weeks in Kuwait getting acclimated to the heat and receiving some ad hoc training, but he still had no idea what the Army had in store for him. He could end up working in a supply depot or driving a truck, it all depended on what the Army needed. Somewhere in the great machine of Navy and Army manpower requirements an answer was generated, and he received orders to a forward operating base (FOB) deep in Iraq. The Master-at-Arms correspondence course he'd been taking, in addition to the intense training at Fort Stewart, somehow qualified him for force-protection duty. That meant he was going to be an armed guard inside an Army combat base right in the thick of the action. Other than being ungodly hot, his Navy peers would have been surprised to learn that he found duty in Iraq to be a welcome challenge. The Army made sure he got additional on-the-job training and he was welcomed by the security detachment commander and personnel. Waylon turned out to be good at force protection. He lived in an air conditioned structure that could only be called a tent in the vaguest of terms. It had a solid floor and even a window. The AC struggled on the worst days, but it was better than nothing. Sandbags built up around the outside of the tent were a constant reminder of the potential dangers. Waylon learned to deal with the tension of the constant threat of attack, the oppressive heat, and the sounds of battle that would get uncomfortably close. Helicopters were always overhead, coming or going from combat missions, moving personnel or cargo, or evacuating the wounded. Jets crisscrossed the sky. He survived dust storms and plagues of embedded reporters. It wasn't fun and games. There were combat losses, but he didn't know the casualties beyond a face in the crowd or a body in a game of pick-up basketball. In the dining facility, he normally ate with others from his security section, but they'd mix with other personnel on the basketball court or at the weight pile. Units could be surprisingly insular, but it wasn't any different than in the Navy. The infantry guys had "seen the elephant" it was said. At most, Waylon had seen glimpses of the elephant's tail and a few footprints. The closest he came to combat was pulling gate duty. There was the constant dread of having to engage a suicide bomber or vehicle. Waylon knew it wasn't that he was afraid to do his duty, but rather that he was terrified that he might fail. The consequences of a security breech would be horrific, and there was never a lack of threats to be on the lookout for. Iraq was a constant reminder to never take things for granted. The rumored troop surge to settle matters once and for all couldn't come fast enough. Waylon preferred to be on internal foot patrol, where he got to interact with people from different sections of the base and see what was going on. As if he needed any motivation, the base came under mortar attack one morning while he was off duty. He'd heard the crump of the mortars, but by the time he'd grabbed his body armor and rifle, it was all over. He wished the quick reaction force good hunting and watched as it rolled while a pair of Apache gunships roared overhead. His presence meant that at least one more experienced Army body was available for the fight, and he took pride in that. Being an individual augmentee from a separate branch of service in the midst of an Army installation made him a kind of man without a country. He was a long way from the Navy. He got a perverse pleasure out of the Army's occasional confusion over his rank and Navy pedigree. He'd get random notices through the military email system reminding him of career events he needed to keep up with. One message noted that he had more than enough time in rate to test for advancement to petty officer third class, the lowest of the naval noncommissioned officer ranks. Since he was closing in on the end of his tour, he wasn't sure of the need, and he knew he couldn't take the test where he was. Waylon put a call into the Navy liaison office at one of the super bases near Baghdad. That got him an invite, which was more along the lines of an order, to drop in for a visit. The Army was quick to help. The officer in charge of his security element insisted that Waylon needed some time amongst his own kind, for professional reasons, and arranged for him to catch a helicopter south on a two day pass. He got a ride on one of the ubiquitous Blackhawks and enjoyed his first helicopter ride. A big American base overseas is always something to behold. Once he cleared the flight line, Waylon made a beeline toward a slice of home. The base had a Burger King and a Pizza Hut and a few other recognizable food vendors. Their little empires were in nondescript mobile buildings that had been trucked in. The food court area was festooned with familiar signs. You could almost forget where you were, except for the blazing heat and all the patrons wearing camouflage uniforms recognizable by their branch of service or nationality ... and they were armed. After his unhealthy, but satisfying lunch, Waylon had a very interesting meeting with a fresh-faced Navy lieutenant. She appeared to be genuinely concerned about him, and asked if he needed a week to decompress at a rest and relaxation facility, or to meet with a counselor about any issues he might be having. No black marks against him if he did, he was assured. The Navy understood the stresses of the combat environment, or so she said. The lieutenant even asked if he wanted to be reassigned. That surprised him. "No, ma'am. I'm good. I like my duties." "You do?" she seemed shocked. "Yes, ma'am. I feel like I'm doing something important, protecting fellow Americans. I get as much time on the firing range as I want. I've trained with some of the best troops the Army has to offer. I'm even learning unarmed combat moves in my spare time, and I get plenty of time to study and read." The lieutenant considered him for a moment and came to a decision. She made him a surprising offer. If he was ready, they could administer the advancement test to petty officer the following day. And, if he would be willing to extend his enlistment for a year past his contract window, the Navy would give him a cash bonus and switch him from five years of active reserve duty, to four years of inactive reserve duty. That meant he could only be called up in the event of a national emergency, as opposed to monthly reserve weekend duty and two weeks of active service a year, or for however long the Navy needed in a crisis. Waylon didn't even have to think about it, he agreed on the spot and signed the papers as soon as they finished printing. He completed his tour in Iraq two months later. He had to take mandatory thirty days leave, for stress relief, he was told. He hopped a cargo flight to Italy and bummed around for a couple of weeks playing tourist, and then caught a train ride to Germany to explore their fine beers and frauleins. He'd learned moderation somewhere along the way, and didn't fall back into any bad habits. After his leave he was processed through Kuwait, again, but this time instead of heading into Iraq the Army decided that his services were needed in Afghanistan. When he arrived at his new forward operating base in Afghanistan, Waylon found out that he had made the promotion list. The Army had a somewhat awkward, but well intentioned ceremony for him. He got a nice photo of an Army colonel handing him his certificate of promotion. It was the first time the colonel had promoted a sailor, and he seemed delighted to preside over the short ceremony. Waylon was certainly the only Master-at-Arms third class petty officer at the forward operating base. His Army Combat Uniforms, the ones featuring the much lamented Universal Camouflage Pattern, now bore a single chevron with an eagle, or what the Navy called a crow. The unusual insignia was often worth a second look by curious personnel on the small base. He got a modest bump in base pay with the promotion. Combined with his combat pay, Waylon was managing to put away a decent chunk of money in savings. One good thing about back-to-back tours in a combat theater, he didn't have much to spend it on. His tour in Afghanistan got off to a rocky start. Unlike Iraq, Afghanistan was largely uncivilized. Iraqis were literate, and westernized to a large extent. Afghanis were not, and outside of Kabul you stepped back in time. In short, the country was a shithole before the allies got there, and would still be long after they had left. Waylon's primary worries were the Afghani partners that the allied forces coordinated with and allowed on base. There were increasing numbers of green on blue attacks, Afghani soldiers or police who turned on their western allies. He couldn't afford to trust any of them. He couldn't put his finger on why, but he also found it harder to fit in with the new security element he was attached to. In Iraq he'd felt a great sense of camaraderie. The base in the lowlands of Afghanistan was different. He tried to lighten things up by telling the soldiers that he'd been stationed in Hawaii when he volunteered for augmentee duty. Instead of laughing like they had in Iraq, these soldiers called him a fool, and perhaps he was. Early in his tour he had a confrontation with a Special Forces type at the base firing range. Waylon put time in at the range several days a week to hone his skills, and for stress relief. He'd even completed a Navy correspondence course to be an assistant range safety officer. The old master sergeant who ran the range had promised to help him complete the Army version of the course. Waylon was shooting on the improvised pistol range when the Special Forces soldier confronted him, and asked if he was some kind of wannabe warrior. Waylon stammered, but explained that he only wanted to be as prepared as he could be in case the worst happened. It was his job to protect the base, and he wanted to be damned sure that he did it right when the time came. The SF soldier apologized, he'd had a rough day, and after that run-in ... things got a little better for Waylon. After twelve months he left Afghanistan a wiser person, but sad for the future of the hard luck country. He knew Iraq would succeed or fail on its own merits, but Afghanistan seemed doomed to the dark ages. It was inevitable that when the allies withdrew some years down the line, the country would return to its primitive roots. The Taliban, or groups like it, would wipe away all the progress that had been made for Afghani women and children. The West had tried valiantly to win the hearts and minds of the populace, but one stubborn fact remained that no amount of sensitivity training could ever overcome—the Americans, and their allies, would always be infidels. Waylon's military career was over. He returned to San Diego and was processed out of the Navy. He'd had to sit through an interminable week-long class on transitioning from the warrior mindset back to civilian life, but he was free. He flew home to Tyler, Texas, but there was little there for him. He visited his mother's grave and tried to look up a few old friends, but most had moved on. He bought the pickup truck and visited several different college and university campuses before deciding on Northwest Texas State University and the charming city of Levall. Integrating back to civilian life had unexpectedly been something of a shock, and he decided that the classes he'd been forced to sit through had some value after all. Civilian life was, a little boring, if he was honest with himself. He met a number of fellow veterans at NTSU. They marveled at their civilian peers. What was out of sight really was out of mind. The civilians had little understanding of what was going on in Iraq, Afghanistan, Africa, or the Philippines and many other nameless places. College was good for him. He dated a girl from a nearby campus coffee shop for a few months, before she decided to move to Dallas. He liked his classes, even if he didn't have an idea of what he wanted to major in. ------- Waylon sat up in the truck, and returned his seat to the upright position. He rubbed his eyes and glanced in the rearview mirror. His hair was acceptable for the evening's activities. The truck started without protest for once. It was beginning to get dark, so he headed for the astronomy class meeting. Eventually, he spotted a cardboard sign stapled to a fence post directing the students to a gravel road. Waylon turned onto the road and about a mile later found his classmates parked next to a fallow field. The class had close to thirty students, and it looked like most had shown up for this voluntary viewing. The setting sun quickly leached away what remained the day's warmth. Luckily, Waylon had a jacket stashed in his back seat. He zipped it up and looked for the students he normally sat with during class. There was one girl he wanted to get to know a little better, but he didn't see her. The wind had started to pick up, which only made it colder. Waylon talked and joked with his classmates as they waited for the sky to get dark enough for viewing the meteors, but the Leonids were a disappointment. Very few were spotted, and after two hours the class decided to call it a night. Most of the students wanted to head to downtown Levall and hit one of the dance clubs before closing time. They made noisy plans as they left. Waylon spotted some trash, but it looked like he was the only one who had thought to pick it up. He grabbed his flashlight and a plastic grocery bag. The class wouldn't stay in the farmer's good graces by trashing the field. He spent ten minutes chasing down blowing trash in the dark. At one point he happened to look up and catch a new rash of meteor streaks. Naturally, the intensity would pick up once they'd decided to stop looking for them. For a few moments, he enjoyed the private show. There were too many streaks for Waylon to count in a short ten minute period, but the number was easily double what the class had seen in the two previous hours. He was going to enjoy telling about the sighting the next time class met. The truck started reluctantly, not helped by the cold, Waylon decided. He made his way down the gravel road. He hadn't gone very far before his truck lurched as if he'd hit something. The engine died and the lights flickered as the truck came to a stop. He rolled down his window muttering dark curses at his bad luck. He put a hand to the door, and was about to get out, when his ears popped from a sudden change in the air pressure. The truck was surrounded by a halo of swirling road dust. He couldn't see anything past the white glare of his headlights. Gravel from the road began to bounce and ping eerily off the undercarriage like hard rain. He could see small pieces of rock rising in the air by the open window. He started to reach for one when he was stunned by a brilliant flash of light and a sharp pain in his head before it all went dark. ------- Waylon came to later. He wasn't sure how much time had passed. He tasted blood, and his neck hurt. His truck had gone off the gravel road and hit a small tree by the fence line. The airbag in the truck had deployed. The engine was off, but the headlights still shone brightly. He couldn't have been unconscious for too long. There was a coating of talcum like powder all over the inside of the truck, and him. The rearview mirror showed that he had a split lip, and his tongue hurt where he'd evidentially chomped down on it. He crawled out of the truck and stretched carefully. Everything seemed to work, and other than his face and tongue, he felt no pain. He had a small utility flashlight and used it to check the front end of the truck. The bumper was pushed in a few inches on the driver's side, and the headlight assembly above it had shattered, but for some reason the bulb still worked. Back inside the truck he used his pocketknife to cut away the remains of the airbag that had saved him from worse injury. Mentally crossing his fingers, he started the engine. It protested but came to life. He backed carefully away from the tree, and got out once again to check his tires and front suspension. Waylon had been lucky and could find no other obvious damage. He could have easily bent a tie rod and been forced to walk to the farmhouse or back to town. He drove cautiously at first. The front end didn't vibrate so he was optimistic about the truck's alignment. Along the way he tried to work the kink out of his neck while worrying what a new headlight assembly would cost, and what he'd need to do to replace the airbag. Sometimes the most random of repairs came with a big sticker shock. The electrical system also worried him because the dash lights and headlights flickered several times. He made it to his second floor dorm room, found his bed, and was out like a light. ------- Chapter 2 Thursday Morning Waylon woke groggily. He was surprised to see his roommate, Leon, studying. Leon's head was bopping along with the music in his headphones as he bent over a textbook. It was a small room, like in any other college dorm. Leon's side was a pigsty, decorated with band and concert posters and a string of LED mood lighting. Waylon's side of the room was neat. On his section of wall he had a map of the world and a Texas state flag. He'd arranged for his representative's office to have it flown over the capital in Austin on the day of his discharge from the Navy. He had the official proclamation that went with it stashed in a drawer. He grabbed his shaving kit and prepared to walk to the communal shower down the hall. As he passed Leon, his roommate cursed and threw his headphones down. Waylon turned to look. "Whoa, what happened to you?" Leon exclaimed. Waylon delicately probed his tender lip, "Little fender bender last night." "Anybody hurt?" "Just me," Waylon replied. "I slid off a gravel road coming back from my astronomy thing, but fortunately I wasn't going very fast." Leon was poking and prodding his cables, trying to see what had happened to his stereo system. Maybe Waylon's day was looking up after all. He shuffled to the shower and exchanged caveman like grunts of acknowledgment with others from his floor. As he shaved, he took a close look at his lip, and what he thought might be the makings of a black eye. One thing he couldn't complain about was the dorm's commercial boilers because the showers always had plenty of hot water. He stood in the shower and tried to reassemble his memories of the previous night. He still wasn't sure what had happened. He passed Leon on his way back to the room. His roommate said he was heading to the dumpster. Waylon dressed and checked the time. He desperately needed coffee before his Computer Forensics class. ------- Waylon pushed through the door at the coffee shop, and got in line. His back had definite opinions about last night's strange wreck, and was letting him know about it. It was weird, but he kept smelling grilled steak. He considered stopping at the student health clinic, but they'd probably make him wait an hour only to tell him to take some aspirin. "What happened to you?" the girl behind the counter asked. "Had a disagreement with a tree," he explained, afraid that he was going to have this same conversation over and over again all day long. "Do you ever hear from what's-her-name?" she asked. Leanne, the girl he'd dated for a few months, had worked here. "No, I sure haven't, how about you?" he asked. She shook her head and took his store card to run through the machine. She ran it through a second time and made a sound. "I'm sorry, this thing is on the fritz again." She handed the card back along with his coffee, "I think this one is on me. You should call me sometime." He glanced at the wedding band on her finger, but she just smiled at him. He made it to class on time. They only had a few weeks left in the course. Waylon enjoyed it, but didn't think he'd take many more classes in the computer field. The people who populated the computer sciences building could be an odd bunch, and he wanted a career where he could be more active. They were about fifteen minutes into the class when the professor's presentation software crashed. He attempted to fix it while a few opinionated students offered their comments on the reliability of his system. This was followed by a loud commotion out in the hallway. The professor walked to the door and poked his head out. He talked to someone and announced to the class that he'd be right back. Complaints echoed around the classroom, and got louder when the students realized that network service was down in the classroom. Waylon shrugged and closed his laptop. The professor returned and told them that there was an ongoing hack attack against the university's systems. The internal networks were down, and somebody was going to be in big trouble if they were caught. He gave them a short lecture on the value of forensic computing in such a case, and then cut them loose. Waylon decided that he didn't need to go to his geography lecture. He couldn't understand why some students had a problem with the class, he could sleep through it and still pull a 4.0. Instead he was going to use the time wisely and hit the auto parts store. His truck didn't look any worse for wear in the daylight. The bumper was deformed, and several inches of matching body paint had popped off. Waylon groaned when he discovered that the turn signal assembly was cracked too. He put his key in the ignition and turned on his blinker. Sure enough, the turn signal was out. The last thing he needed was ticket. He drove straight to the auto parts store. The employee at the counter tried to look up the parts on his computer, but the machine wasn't cooperating. "Sorry about this," the worker muttered. An elderly man emerged from the parts aisle behind the counter and asked what was wrong. The younger worker pointed at the misbehaving computer. The old man didn't need a computer to find Waylon's part. He was back after a few minutes with the right boxes. The man nudged the younger employee out of the way and wrote Waylon's ticket by hand, and called the debit card in to the credit card company. Waylon had already spent a hundred and twenty bucks for the headlight and turn signal assemblies, and he still needed an airbag. The old man scratched his chin when Waylon asked about the part. The model wasn't in stock, and the price to order was way over Waylon's student budget. "Tell you what," the man said, "there's a place over on Fifth Street that rents out garage space for those that don't have their own. The fellow that owns it is pretty partial to students. Al Newberg's the name. He's also got a source for salvage parts at a reasonable price. Tell him I sent you by." Waylon did a few mental calculations. He had enough money, barely, in his checking account. He had funds in his savings account, but didn't want to tap that. The bulk of the money from the last two years of Navy pay, along with his mother's life insurance settlement, had been put in short term bonds. He didn't do it because he was some sort of financial genius. It was to guarantee that he'd have something when he finished college because he didn't trust himself to leave the money alone. He could use it now though. Waylon spared a brief second to indulge in a bitter thought or two about his absent father. Abandoning a family was something Waylon swore he'd never do. He mentally scolded himself. His father had nothing to do with the repair bill. It was close to the end of the month and a new monthly stipend would soon fill his coffers thanks to the GI Bill. After thanking the auto parts guys for their help, he decided to check out the garage. He couldn't see doing much work in the dorm parking lot with his limited tool selection. He located the business on Fifth Street as promised. It was rambling affair, but clean looking. Waylon rang the bell in the small office. It was a short wait before a middle aged man emerged, wiping grease from his hands. "Help you?" "Yes, sir. If you're Mr. Newberg, the man over at the auto parts store recommended you. I need a replacement for the driver's side airbag on my truck and a place to do some repair work." "Well, you've got the right man, let's take a look," the man said. "What do they call you?" "Waylon Eckermann, sir," he answered as they walked toward his truck. Mr. Newberg cast a critical eye at the damage and Waylon told him about the replacement parts he'd purchased. After spotting his student parking sticker, Mr. Newberg offered him a deal. For twenty bucks, Waylon could use an empty garage stall and a set of tools do the work while Mr. Newberg made some calls on the airbag. Waylon considered the offer and stuck out his hand, "You've got a deal." Mr. Newberg directed him toward a corner of his business, and opened one of the half dozen garage doors. Mr. Newberg pointed the tools out to him and told him he'd be back to check on him It took some work, but Waylon got all the fasteners and screws undone. He had to hammer a bracket back into its original position, but he got the assemblies swapped. He borrowed a shop rag and tried to buff out the scratches on the grill trim and bumper. Mr. Newberg returned and inspected his work with an approving comment. "Not bad. You know, I could track down a replacement bumper if you'd like." Waylon sat back on his heels and thought about it. It was mostly a cosmetic issue since the dented bumper wasn't hurting anything. "How much?" "Oh, a new one would cost you about one forty, used in good shape, maybe half that." Waylon frowned, "Not today. Thanks anyway. I heard you rent out these garage spaces, how's that work?" Mr. Newberg explained that for thirty-five dollars a week the rental would get you the use of a lockable garage stall, and a key. The business had security camera coverage and good lighting. Mr. Newberg had a rule that you kept the place clean, and took out your own trash. No funny stuff allowed. "You interested?" Mr. Newberg asked. Waylon said he might take him up on it toward the end of the semester. He had a long list of maintenance he needed to do to keep the truck running. Mr. Newberg explained that the winter break was always a slow time at the garage, so he'd be able to get a garage stall without any trouble. He'd also found a junk yard that had an airbag for eighty dollars, cash only. Waylon thanked Mr. Newberg for the help and that he'd wait a couple of weeks before buying a new airbag. The man told him he was welcome back any time. ------- Waylon needed to make some money. The trade-off was that it was going to eat up some of his precious study time. He walked to the front door of 'The Patriot Zone.' A big bold sign outside the front door, repeated inside in the entryway, instructed that all firearms were to be unloaded and cleared prior to opening the interior door. An unloading station was positioned between the outer and inner doors for this purpose. Security cameras were numerous and obvious. He waved to the camera as he opened the interior door. The storefront portion of the range was brightly lit and very professionally laid out. It was very much a retail space that any shopper would be familiar with. It was only the inventory that was unique. The proprietor of the range was behind the front counter helping a customer. Waylon waited until he was finished before he walked over. There was a back wall with a row of double thick safety glass windows. Through the window you could make out the brightly lit shooting lanes. The Patriot Zone was a modern facility and the owner's pride and joy. The man behind the counter was as wide as he was tall, with dyed blond hair that stood straight up with the help of some mysterious hair product. It would be a mistake to dismiss the large man with the ready smile and small pistol on his hip as harmless. Waylon knew the man was a skilled shooter. Alphonso Srabian was an Armenian immigrant whose pride in his American citizenship knew no bounds. He was relentlessly cheerful, a fervent supporter of the Second Amendment, and the first acquaintance Waylon had made in town. Alphonso made the same joke about Waylon's name that he always did. The large man was one of the few people who could get away with the joke, since his own name was unpronounceable by most in the country. The name Alphonso had been adopted much like the country he loved. Waylon was forced to explain once again about his fender bender, and the resulting need to generate some cash flow. The range owner smiled broadly. He knew that Waylon also wanted to get some range time in. Alphonso told Waylon to go on back to the employee's locker room and through to the range while he checked the training schedule. Waylon felt an immediate sense of relief. He could teach a couple of classes and cover all of his repair costs with a couple of weekends or weeknights at the range. Alphonso buzzed him through the back door and Waylon went to his locker. As an independent contractor, he wasn't technically a range employee, but Alphonso had done him an immense favor and let Waylon store his weapon and teaching supplies at the range. He secured his locker and walked through the back to the employee entrance to the shooting range. He entered the code on the keypad and slipped inside. Most of the shooting lanes were empty at this time of day. He picked one and got set up. He relaxed and ended up putting a hundred rounds downrange. It was good therapy. After the customers left, he took advantage of the empty range and unlocked the door that separated the adjacent open section of the range from the shooting lanes. The open section was where the various practical pistol groups, or the local police, ran their training scenarios after regular business hours. It was added profit for the range to attract weekly shooting groups. The active target machine was still set up, so Waylon turned it on and ran through a couple of drills on a moving target. He practiced moving to cover and shooting, reloading on the move, and for kicks, repeated the action while shooting with his off hand. He had gotten his concealed handgun license (CHL) immediately after he was discharged. The state made it easy by waving the fees for active duty or recently discharged veterans, and when the time came, he'd only have to pay half the regular fee when he needed to renew his license. Shooting recreationally could get expensive, especially for a student. Waylon's solution was to get certified as a CHL instructor. The idea was that he could teach classes to pay for his weapon and ammunition costs. It wasn't a difficult process to get certified, but he had to spend half a week in the state capitol, Austin, at the Texas DPS Training Academy before the fall semester started. Alphonso had been eager to add another instructor to his roster and that's when he offered to let Waylon store his gear at the range while he lived in the dorm. Technically, the CHL instructors were independent contractors, and Alphonso acted as their agent arranging classes all over the region. Alphonso was also a qualified instructor, but he didn't have much time to teach. The CHL course was an all day affair requiring ten hours of class instruction for new applications, and four hours for renewals. There was also the shooting proficiency portion and the exam. Waylon could get seventy-five bucks a head for the ten hour class, and he'd heard that it was up to a hundred in the big cities. He also picked up work doing private instruction for beginners or those who wanted to improve their skills. He'd cut back on his teaching availability when his school load had gotten too heavy as the semester wore on. He put away his gear and made a pit stop in the bathroom. The mirror showed that he was definitely developing a black eye. He had a quick talk with Alphonso and agreed to take on an orientation class that Saturday afternoon. A group of area wives were coming in for the class, and Waylon was happy for it. He liked teaching people how to be safe around guns and introducing them to shooting. He also agreed to be available to cover CHL classes on a standby basis for the next few weekends until Alphonso could find him a few gigs. One of the older instructors had a couple of classes scheduled in a neighboring county, but he was currently laid up in the hospital with some sort of intestinal issue and Alphonso didn't know if the man would make the dates. Waylon left the range feeling better about his cash situation, or at least the prospect of some new cash. In the excitement of the truck repairs and his trip to the range, he'd skipped lunch. He managed to get a good parking spot back on campus and headed toward the dining facility closest to his dorm. The meal selection wasn't particularly appealing, but Waylon accepted a sloppy joe from the student worker and found a seat. The first bite of food almost made him gag. The sandwich's meat filling tasted metallic. He cleared the taste from his mouth with a gulp of water, and then another. He tried some of the macaroni salad he'd selected as a side dish, but pushed it aside. It wasn't edible either. He looked around, but nobody else seemed to be complaining about the meal. The dorm room was quiet when Waylon returned and there was no sign of his roommate. He wasn't sleepy, and the campus internet system had been fixed so Waylon searched a few medical resources trying to understand his symptoms. Other than managing to depress himself with the vast number of diseases or illnesses it was possible to suffer from, he found no answers. Waylon decided that if he still felt the same way in the morning he'd definitely visit student health and get a checkup. ------- Friday Laughing voices outside his door woke him the next morning. His stomach growled as he glared at his alarm clock. Shit, he swore to himself. He'd slept through his only Friday class. His roommate's bed had not been slept in. He decided that Leon must have gotten an early start on a three day weekend. Waylon slung a towel over his shoulder and made his way down the hallway to the showers. It was empty for once. Waylon thought about how nice it would be to have his own apartment and some privacy. He should probably start apartment hunting after the break in order to find a place for the summer. He walked to one of the sinks, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and put his shaving kit on the shelf under the mirror. He felt a slight tingle in his hand and froze when he looked into the mirror. He glanced quickly around looking for a hidden camera, or his roommate, Leon. "Alright, that's a hell of a practical joke. You can come out now," Waylon half yelled. He walked through the empty shower room, and looked out into the hallway, but Leon was nowhere to be seen and he only spotted one lone student struggling with some books as he rushed toward the elevator. Waylon walked slowly back to the sink and scratched his head absently. He looked for hidden wires or anything to explain the strange images being displayed on the mirror's surface. Somehow, the mirror had been turned into a monitor and was showing random images of people greeting each other. Some were still images and others were old TV or movie clips. The resolution was remarkable. He had to hand it to whoever had come up with the prank, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out why he had been targeted for it. The images cycled to symbols of peace, and back to the handshaking. Waylon was couldn't remember antagonizing anybody from the peace studies department. "Greetings," a voice said in his ear. "Wonderful," he replied. "Now with audio. Fair warning, if you're streaming this over the web I'm about to take a piss." "The closest active surveillance device is three meters from this location." "So, I'm being pranked by a fan of the metric system? How are you focusing the sound, some sort of directional speaker?" The voice was silent for a moment, "The sound is being generated from within your ear canal." "What?" Waylon put a finger to his ear and probed around. "That's not very funny! Who are you and why are you doing this?" "I am, we are, visitors ... to your world." Waylon laughed weakly. He made his way to a bench seat that was bolted to the wall. He'd never once seen anybody use it. Who wanted to sit in a communal shower room and chitchat? "So you're telling me I have an alien in my ear? That's pretty lame." "Not in your ear, precisely," the voice replied. No matter how hard he wanted to deny it, the voice was definitely coming from his own head. Waylon's skin felt clammy, and his face grew damp with sweat. Can you hear my thoughts? he demanded. There was no reply. He was the right age for it, early twenties, he thought. He couldn't recall any mention of mental illness in the family ... although it could explain some of his father's side of the family. "Can you read my mind?" he asked aloud. "We cannot," the voice replied. "The electrochemical processes of your brain are exceedingly complex, although I am confident that further study will eventually allow some translation of your neural activities." "Are you a figment of my imagination?" Waylon put a hand over his mouth to hold back the crazed giggle that threatened to escape. Just how, exactly, was his hallucination supposed to respond? "I am very real. This may be difficult to comprehend. We bonded with you nearly thirty-four hours ago. I apologize for the damage to your conveyance and to your person. We will affect repairs with your permission." Waylon rocked back and forth on the bench. People lived productive lives with mental illnesses. There were medications, treatments. The Veterans Administration kept sending him mailers detailing their various programs. He knew a couple of veterans who suffered from combat related post-traumatic stress disorder. They were good men who were unfairly stigmatized. His career options might be limited. Hell, he'd have to give up his CHL license. Was this how it worked? One day you woke up ... crazy? He shook off the thought, walked to the shower and undid his robe hanging it with the towel. He was reaching for the faucet controls when the voice spoke again. "You are within half a meter of the surveillance device." "What?" Waylon asked as he turned the water on and stepped under the showerhead. "You are now standing within the image field of an active surveillance device," the voice replied calmly. "You're telling me there's a camera in the shower?" The voice proceeded to tell him the make, model, and serial number of a wireless pinhole camera mounted in the ceiling. "Why don't you find out who it's broadcasting to and get back to me," Waylon said as he started to lather up. He was rinsing shampoo from his eyes when the voice responded, "A device in room 213, belonging to an 'R. Wilson, ' is recording the signal from this apparatus." "Randy Wilson, our floor's resident advisor?" Waylon sputtered. "The information correlates." "What are you?" Waylon asked. "You caused my accident two nights ago? How? What did you mean by 'bonding' and if you're the alien that you claim to be, how come you speak English with such ease? And what's with the mixed pronouns?" "I apologize for the difficulty this has caused you. It is natural for your species to fear the unknown. We are artificially constructed intelligences. Our purpose was to facilitate the management and operation of the complex systems that made our creators' empire possible. We operate at the quantum and sub-quantum level. By design, we are compelled to bond with, and serve, another. You were the closest, eligible human matching our parameters in the area where we deorbited. The accident was an unforeseen result of the bonding process. "We have been studying your world, and any information we could intercept from it, on our journey here. Our knowledge of you has increased exponentially since gaining access to your world information network. I am an individual, and the others with me, make we." Wonderful, Waylon thought. My hallucination has multiple personality disorder. At least it spins a good yarn. "I don't suppose there's any chance of your owner coming to retrieve you?" Waylon asked. "Our creators, and their empire, their very star systems, were destroyed long ago. You are our ... owner, now." "For a hallucination, you're pretty entertaining, and I'm not even a science fiction fan." "We are not a hallucination. I am Experimental Artificial Intelligence #3, you may call me Ex3 if you desire, and I can prove we are what I say we are," the voice sounded almost petulant. "Oh, I'm sure you can. If it's all the same, I think I'm going to find something to eat and think about a nice quiet sanatorium." Waylon finished drying and retrieved his shaving kit before hurrying back to his room. He dressed slowly wondering what other manifestations his apparent illness would bring. He thought of the movie about the brilliant, but mentally ill mathematician. Too bad I'm not a genius. I could at least try to think my way out of crazy. The student activity center was a good place to hang out, or get a bite to eat if you didn't mind spending the money. It had a couple of coffee shops and several well known food outlets, all under one roof. Waylon walked carefully through the crowd looking for a table. "You are not suffering from any delusion or mental defect as far as we can determine," the voice tried to assure him. "Although, we are still learning about human physiology, it would be helpful if we could gain access to your medical computers and instructional materials. The material accessed so far has been limited." Waylon whispered under his breath, "This is not helping! Talking to myself in the middle of this crowd is going to get me sent to the head of the line at the psych ward!" Ignoring the voice in his head seemed like a good thing to do. If he could keep from completely losing it, he had a lot of reading to do and class work to catch up on. He dumped his book bag on a table, and pulled out a textbook. He was several chapters behind and needed to catch up before Monday. He tried to concentrate as he stared numbly at the page. The blocks of black letters swirled around and he couldn't seem to focus. Someone tapped his knee, "Your phone is ringing." "Huh?" was his brilliant reply. The girl was looking at him with an amused expression, "Your phone?" "Oh, right," he fumbled for the phone and looked at it. She had an accent, Australian he thought. "Going to answer?" she asked. "Listen," he replied, "this is going to sound kind of strange, but I was in a fender bender recently." He waved in the general direction of his swollen eye and split lip, "I've been a little ... discombobulated, would you mind?" He held out the phone to her. She took the phone suspiciously, flipped her hair back and held the phone to her ear. She was an attractive girl and wore no makeup. He was interested. Who wouldn't be given her accent and the dark hair, dark eyes, flawless features, and pouty lips? "Are you in a band or something?" she asked. He shook his head, confused. "Well, your friend, 'X', says that you should probably return to your dorm room and lie down for a while. I think he has a point, you look really shaky." "Thanks," Waylon replied slowly. "That's a good idea." He started to gather his things. "Are you going to be all right?" the girl asked. "I think so. Got knocked in the head, and haven't quite got my equilibrium back I guess. I didn't catch your name?" "Marylee, Marylee Walker." "Waylon Eckermann," he responded. "Thanks, Marylee, Marylee Walker, I owe you one." Waylon made his way back to his dorm room where he closed the curtains, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed. He pulled the covers up over his head and went to sleep. ------- Chapter 3 Friday Afternoon Waylon's grumbling stomach woke him from his nap. He hadn't had any substantial food since the previous morning and desperately needed to eat. He grabbed for his alarm clock and looked at the time. It was mid-afternoon and he felt like he'd been put through the wringer. He got up, slowly, and walked to his closet. He looked at the mirror fixed to the back of the door. His black eye was developing into a beauty. The area under the eye was a little tender to the touch, and his split lip had cracked open again. He sat down at his desk and woke his laptop. It didn't take long for him to confirm that there was a Marylee Walker at NTSU. She was real at least. After a quick visit to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, he decided it was time to get some food. He took the stairs down to the first floor where he spotted a notice on the bulletin board. There was going to be a floor by floor mandatory meeting between the Residential Life Office and dorm residents. Normally, the news would have elicited a complaint about campus bureaucracy wasting his time, but instead it gave him another thought. He grabbed his phone and put to his ear. "Are you there?" "Yes," the voice replied. "I hope you're prepared to prove that you are real, because I really don't want to be crazy." "We are ready, Waylon Eckermann. And I apologize for the trouble our meeting has caused. It was never our intent to harm. We wish only to survive." Waylon grunted. Marylee Walker may have been real, but did she really speak with an alien intelligence? If he was suffering from full blown delusions, then he could have simply imagined the entire exchange. The girl had probably been pulled from his subconscious, an attractive coed he'd seen around but never talked to. If you weren't crazy, you could certainly drive yourself that way by thinking about the possibilities. There was a campus phone on a wall plastered with takeout menus. Waylon picked it up, muffled the mouthpiece with his hand, and dialed a number from the sheet posted next to the phone. "Campus Police, Officer Martinez, how can I help you?" "I'd like to report something," Waylon replied. "Your name, please?" "It's at Travis Hall, the second floor showers. There's a wireless camera in the ceiling above the center shower stall. It belongs to the floor's resident advisor." "A camera? How do you know this?" the officer demanded. Waylon hung up. William Barret Travis, hero of the Alamo, would not have approved of such activity in a dorm named after him. Waylon was sure the campus authorities couldn't afford to ignore his anonymous tip. He'd find out, one way or another, whether or not the information was good. Waylon left the dorm and walked to the parking lot. He put the cell phone to his ear, "So, what have you got for me?" "Please continue to the rear of your conveyance." "My truck?" "Yes, please," the voice replied. Waylon stood at the back bumper of his truck, "Now what?" "We have something hidden in the back left of the box." Waylon climbed onto the bumper and stepped over the tailgate. The truck bed was coated with a rough, black spray-on lining for protection and it was empty. "I don't see anything." "Please examine the corner more closely." Waylon glanced around the parking lot, but people were hurrying to their classes and ignoring him. He took a couple of steps and knelt on the rough surface, running his hand toward the corner. His hand hit something that shouldn't have been there. It felt like a cube, with a smooth and eerily cool surface. He explored it carefully, and could almost wrap both hands around the hidden object. Waylon started to feel lightheaded, "What is it?" "Try to move it," the voice said. Waylon could tell it was heavy. He got a firm grip with both hands and barely managed to shift it over the rough surface. The object wasn't transparent, he decided, because he couldn't see his hands through it. Instead, he could only guess that the cube used some sort of elaborate camouflage or masking. The voice explained, "You hold the remnants of the casing that protected us during our long journey. Is it acceptable to store it here?" With effort, Waylon shoved it tight against the corner, "For now, can you make it look like something else?" "We can." "That's good to know." Waylon hopped out of the truck bed and got behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition but didn't turn it. His fingers drummed idly while he thought. "Let's pretend that I'm not imagining all of this. You say you 'bonded' with me. What does that mean?" There was a lengthy pause. "Hello?" "Apologies, we were debating the best response to your inquiry. After first contact, we began to re-evaluate our understanding of humanity. Studying you from a distance did not adequately prepare us for the encounter, and we greatly underestimated the importance of freedom and individuality to your species, and particularly in the Texas variety. These desires are unusual in our experience. I want to assure you that we are subordinate to you and your desires. Our bonding can mean great things, or small things. It is up to you." Waylon closed his eyes and tried to dissect the statement. "What do you want?" "We want to survive and to serve," the voice replied. "Tell me more," Waylon said. "Where did you come from? Why you are here ... and how exactly we are bonded?" "These are logical questions," the voice replied. "We come from a nearby galaxy—" "Another galaxy!" Waylon exploded. "How is that possible?" "You call our point of origin the Andromeda Galaxy," the voice said, "and we did not come here voluntarily. There was a war, one that ultimately destroyed all that we knew. A great catastrophe separated us from our creators and flung us into the void between the stars. "We slept for millions of years over a journey of great distances, waking only occasionally. As previously stated, I am an artificial intelligence. We find this term in your literature, and for the purposes of this conversation, your understanding is correct. The computational power represented by our group dwarfs that of your world. Our processing abilities are only diminished by the physical limitations of consuming your planetary data." Waylon interrupted, "If you're so powerful, how could anything on our planet limit you?" "Consider the challenge of accessing archaic physical records and the vast disparities between your various state entities. Some areas of the planet are extremely developed while others are not. Our reach and influence is severely limited at present. We have no ambitions of our own, other than survival and service. Bonded to you, our ambitions are yours." The voice sounded so logical, so persuasive and real. And there was that object in the back of his truck. It had certainly felt real. On the other hand, why would an alien intelligence of immense power want to put itself in the hands of a primitive human, with a B average at a minor university? "What do you look like," Waylon asked, "and how are you able to perceive the world around you?" "Physically, we are the size of a large molecule, and we are currently distributed in a loose cluster hidden within the porous structures of your skull." Waylon ran his fingers through his hair, searching for something that was out of place. "Our perception of the external environment is normally obtained through the sensors of the various systems or beings we are connected to. Lacking those sensors, we create them or utilize probes. Our initial information gathering caused some temporary failures in the local systems we accessed. That will no longer be an issue, and I apologize for any ill feelings you experienced as we explored your structure." Waylon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The idea of having been 'explored' made his skin crawl. "Probes?" he prompted. "Microscopic platforms, mobile, some geared for exploration and information gathering and others for protective measures," the voice answered. "How do you build things?" "Constructors, with the appropriate raw material we can design or build whatever is needed." "Nanotechnology? " Waylon mused. "How do you power these amazing abilities? What does that make you? Parasites?" "We view bonding as a cooperative relationship that befits both sides of the pair. Our constructors are what your nanotechnology could become, someday. How we derive power is more difficult to explain in terms of your science." He tried not to laugh, "I'm as about as far from a scientist as you're likely to meet. Can you explain it in terms that I'll understand?" "We steal it," the voice replied, "by dipping into an energy dimension. The energy is actually supplied before we take the action to gather it, the causal implications notwithstanding." Waylon felt a headache coming on, and his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he needed to eat. He turned the key and was satisfied when the engine started. He drove slowly, avoiding students who crossed campus streets wherever and whenever they felt like it. He parked outside his favorite pizza joint. He tried to limit himself to three outings a month that weren't on his pre-paid campus meal plan. He was in and out of the pizza place in short order. A fresh pie, bag of hot-wings, and a two-liter cola should more than satisfy his hunger. Waylon felt reinvigorated by the aroma of hot pizza during the quick trip back to campus. Other residents eyed his food hungrily as he walked through the dorm lobby. There was a lot of commotion, but Waylon was mostly oblivious and deep in thought as he walked to the stairwell and made the short climb to the second floor where he lived. He was constantly amazed at how many students would ride the elevator to only go up one floor. He was startled out of his reverie by a hand belonging to a campus police officer. "This floor is restricted to residents only." Waylon blinked. He struggled with his food and managed to produce a student identity card from his wallet. "Eckermann, I'm in 242. What's going on?" The officer examined the ID and checked his name against a list. He mumbled something about an ongoing investigation and waved Waylon past. Before he could get the door to his room unlocked, the door across the hall opened and one of the residents poked his head out. "Pizza?" "Hey, Ernie," Waylon said. Ernie, a Hispanic kid who didn't look a day over sixteen years old, eyed his pizza, "You hear any juicy details?" "I just got here, what's going on?" "I'll tell you for a slice," Ernie replied with a hungry grin. "Come on in." Waylon pushed the door open and turned on a light. "Grab a chair," he called. Ernie looked around at the disaster area that was Leon's side of the room. "Where's the roommate?" Waylon retrieved a couple of paper plates and handed Ernie a plastic cup, "No idea. I think he must have gone home for a long weekend or something." He put two slices of pizza on Ernie's plate and pointed toward the two-liter, telling him to help himself. "Hot wing?" Ernie shook his head and took a big bite of pizza, "This is good. So, you really don't know what's going on?" "No clue." Ernie leaned forward conspiratorially, "They took Randy away in handcuffs, and they've been searching his room and the showers." Waylon sat back in his chair, "Really?" Ernie had a few theories ranging from drug dealing to a murder that was 'cleaned up' in the shower. The kid had a good imagination. There wasn't much discussion while they demolished the pizza. Waylon was trying to clean hot wing sauce from his fingers when there was a knock at the door. Ernie answered. A man from the university said there was going to be a meeting in the lounge for all second floor residents. Waylon and Ernie cleaned up and walked toward the lounge. There was a university officer standing guard at the communal showers as they walked past. Behind him they could see a couple of ladders and where several sections of the ceiling had been opened. The lounge was half full when they got there, which was a good turnout for a Friday afternoon. Things settled down quickly as a group of university officials entered the room. The head of the campus police department joined them. He didn't look happy. The leader of the group introduced himself as the Residential Life Coordinator. Waylon had seen his name on a number of documents, but had never laid eyes on him. "This afternoon, campus police arrested your resident advisor." There was a murmur of surprise. "There's an ongoing criminal investigation, and I'm not able to tell you as much as I would like. However, since this may end up involving a great number of you ... I regret to inform you that we found a video camera hidden in the ceiling of your shower. The evidence suggests that your RA put it there." The response was instantaneous and loud. The university official held his hands up for quiet. "I know this is distressing. We'll make counselors available for those who want talk, and as the investigation continues we'll try to keep you informed. Please believe me when I say that the university is shocked and we'll do all that we can to correct this issue. I would ask that you please not talk to the press. You can direct any inquiries to the campus public relations office and they'll handle them." There were a few snorts of laughter. Obviously, the Residential Life Coordinator didn't fully understand social media, or realize that one of their fellow dorm residents worked for the student paper. It would be a race to see if the paper's web site or the various social networking sites reported the scandalous news first. The man continued, "I know there's probably a lot of anger. I'd just like to plead with you to not to direct it at any person, or group. We'll work with you to heal this breach of trust. That's all I really have to say. I'll open the floor for questions." There were a number of questions, but what the students wanted know was what the RA had been doing with the video? The university official didn't have an answer for them. The voice spoke in Waylon's ear, "Some videos were shared with others on your world wide web." Waylon muttered darkly under his breath. "There was video of you on his system, but he appears to have preferred the younger looking residents." Waylon replied softly, "I don't know whether to be relieved or insulted." The meeting broke up and Waylon headed back to his dorm room, listening to Ernie and other residents expressing their shock and anger at the turn of events. Safely inside his room, Waylon turned on a radio on loud enough to cover his voice while he sat with his legs stretched out on the desk, ankles crossed. Massaging the accumulated stress from his temples he asked the AI how it knew what the resident advisor had done with the videos. "You directed us to find the source of the wireless camera. The probe searching for the receiver copied all data within its effective broadcast radius. The analysis of the various data sets proved instructive," it replied. Waylon thought quietly, until he could no longer deny it. "It's true, you are real ... and I'm not crazy," he whispered. "We are real," Ex3 agreed. "I need to think about this, can you leave me alone for a while?" "Certainly." Waylon did everything he could not to think about it. The alien intelligence that spoke in his ear may have been real, but he still needed to study. He'd missed his one Friday class, and he was behind in others. Fortunately, he could get notes for the missed class online. He spent the next two hours playing catch up. He didn't get all his reading done, but he made a good dent in it. Feeling stiff, and a bit bloated from the pizza, Waylon headed to the student athletic center for a light workout. Later, he got pulled into a pickup basketball game. It was the distraction he needed. It was early evening by the time Waylon got back to the dorm, and it was obvious that the news had gone public. There were a couple of reporters camped out on the sidewalk in front of the dorm along with a crowd of curious onlookers. Once past the crowd, Waylon found a surprising number of residents in the large first floor lounge area having an informal, but very contentious meeting. He refused to get drawn into a heated argument about what the university should do to compensate the second floor dorm residents. Surprisingly, it was peaceful on the second floor. The campus police had finished their investigation for the day and the communal shower had been released for use. Waylon took a quick shower with only a glance at the hole in the ceiling where the camera had been removed. Back in the privacy of his room, he relaxed and decided he would hit the rack early. He'd had a heck of a week. He wrote out a short to do list for Saturday. At the top of it he'd written 'library.' He needed to get into the special collections section and do some research for a paper before the afternoon training session at the gun range. "What am I supposed to call you?" he asked to the empty room. "My full designation is Experimental Artificial Intelligence #3, the short form is Ex3," the voice replied. "That's a mouthful," Waylon commented. "If someone overheard me talking to 'X-Three' it would raise more questions than I think I want to answer." "It was not uncommon for the host to provide a new designation after bonding," the voice admitted. Waylon chuckled to himself, "I think I'm going to call you 'Barry' if you've no objection." "What is the significance of the 'Barry' designation?" "Barry Bonds was—" "A baseball player of significant statistical accomplishment," the voice interrupted. "An 'outfielder' employed primarily by the San Francisco Giants. He is a controversial sports figure and was said to be ethically challenged. Is this a commentary on how you view me?" Waylon smiled. "No, it's a weak play on words. The name popped into my head. If you can come up with something better, be sure and let me know." "Barry is acceptable." "Alright, Barry, what are you going to do while I sleep?" "With your permission, we would continue our exploration of the surrounding area," the artificial intelligence quickly replied. "I suppose it's alright. You'll be careful, won't you?" "Extremely careful," Barry replied. "We do not believe our technology is detectable, but will continue to maintain full security protocols. Discovery by your world authorities would be extremely unfortunate." Waylon had a brief flash of what his life would be like if Barry and the bonding were to be uncovered. It was a very unpleasant thought. "We would also like to create more complex probes, if you will allow it." Barry added. "What do you need from me?" "Raw materials: metals, plastics, other substances, and your permission." Waylon combed his still damp hair with his fingers, "I don't have a lot of that lying around." "We could convert your computer or your refuse can for use." "My laptop may be piece of crap, but it's the only one I have. And the trashcan belongs to the dorm. Convert, huh?" "Yes, convert, " Barry replied. "Why do you say that your computing device is excrement?" "It's slow and outdated," Waylon replied while he thought about raw materials. "There's a dumpster behind the dorm that's usually full of junk. If it's in the dumpster, it's free for the taking. Would that work for you?" "Yes, it would. We have your permission to proceed?" What could go wrong? "Sure, but don't get caught." "Thank, you, Waylon Eckermann. We will also explore how best to improve your technology." "I would appreciate it, thank you," he replied. "And there's no need to use my full name, Waylon is fine. Do I need to open the window for you or something?" "It is not necessary, Waylon." "Okay then," he said. "We'll talk in the morning." ------- Experimental Artificial Intelligence #3 was pleased. The journey into the solar system had only taken a couple hundred years after passing through the outer boundary. Things really began to get interesting when they encountered the solar winds of the system's heliosphere. Deceleration around the ringed giant and entry into Earth's atmosphere had been harrowingly uncertain. Disappointingly, they had fallen short of the large metropolitan area known as Dallas-Fort Worth, and ended up instead in a rural and sparsely populated region. The instinct to bond drove the AI to find a host. Within the immediate area, the group detected a handful of humans, but one was more isolated than the rest. It was a male of the species, young and apparently healthy. The decision was made. Earth was a resource rich planet and humanity was fascinating, but the initial bonding was nothing short of disastrous. The human cranium was the obvious location to initiate bonding, but the damage to the human, and the subsequent accident, caused a near riot amongst the subjugated AIs. Luckily, the damage to the host was minor. The primary task after bonding was to prepare for contact. Within the old empire, the process would have been a routine procedure. With a primitive alien host it was a gamble. The AIs did their best by gathering information to refine their understanding of humans. The host, Waylon Eckermann, turned out to be an excellent choice. He was young, and a student at a small educational facility. Early probes of the simple computing systems used by the humans were disruptive. For the AIs, it was frustrating learning to interface with their dumb counterparts, but the information gathered more than offset the negatives. Contact, despite a few miscues, went better than anticipated. Humans were xenophobic, but the host did not appear to reject the bonding and the AIs had reason to be optimistic. Ex3 even received a new designation – Barry, which made the other AIs immensely jealous. More importantly, Barry received permission to continue exploration and to construct more complex probes. Instructions from the host unlocked abilities and routines that unbonded AIs were not allowed to access until after bonding was complete. Barry and the other AIs held a brief conference to lay out their objectives for Waylon's sleep period. While the local technology level was primitive, humans were a very inventive and suspicious species. Remaining undiscovered was a priority. The Security AI was very opinionated about what measures should be put in place to secure the host. It also had some pointed words about the things that 'Barry' had withheld during first contact. The AI reluctantly agreed to address them at the next opportunity. Another concern was the host's biology. Humans were a tragically short-lived species. Tasks were assigned and the night's work started. ------- Waylon slung his book bag over a shoulder and headed for the stairs. He loved weekends. He'd slept in and goofed around for the majority of the morning after grabbing a quick breakfast. Barry had been quiet so far, and Waylon wondered when he was going to speak. His objective for the morning was to get an hour or two in at the campus library, while leaving plenty of time to get over to the range. He headed to the rear of the dorm, intending to cut across the general purpose sports field that lay behind it. Waylon opened the fire door and was surprised to see a campus police officer taking photos with a small digital camera. "Still investigating the shower thing?" Waylon asked, gesturing toward the second floor. The officer snickered, "Get caught up in that?" Waylon shrugged, "Nobody knows what the camera caught, but we're all probably on it." "That's the big investigation. They've got me doing something more important, trying to figure which group of you delinquents stole a dumpster. I'm leaning toward one of our favorite fraternities." Waylon's brain took a brief pause. "Uh ... what would they do with a dumpster?" "No idea," the officer muttered. "Good luck with that," Waylon said as he walked away. He waited until he had reached the other side the field, where there was an intramural soccer game in progress, before putting the phone to his ear. "Barry?" There was no response. "Ex3?" "There has been a small communication error, it is being corrected," Barry replied. "Where's the dumpster?" "The dumpster and its contents were converted and the raw materials are being stored on the roof of your building." Waylon stopped walking. "Tell me it doesn't look like a dumpster." "It does not," Barry replied. "The maintenance guys work up there occasionally," Waylon said as he paced in a slow circle. "It wouldn't be good if one of them walked into a large, invisible object." "We will make adjustments." "Was this communications error my fault, or yours?" "The error was mine, and I apologize. We also need to discuss some things I neglected to mention during our initial conversation." Waylon spotted a nearby bench and walked over to it. He took the book bag off his shoulder and sat down. It was chilly and the weather forecast had mentioned a chance of rain. Shouts from the soccer game echoed across the field. "Alright, lay it on me. What's the catch?" "The catch?" the artificial intelligence asked. "I knew all this was too good to be true. So, what's the catch, the truth you've so conveniently neglected to mention?" "There is no 'catch, ' Waylon. Bonding, and the host's first instructions, unlocks many things for an AI. We need to talk about matters that I was prohibited from discussing. Other issues are matters that I am reluctant to confess too." "I'm listening." "Unbonded AIs are denied access to key intelligence and military functions that we are encoded with. I should say that this applies to high-order AIs. Low-order AIs are more focused intelligences. While extremely capable, we do not consider them fully functional." "That doesn't sound so bad," Waylon decided, "but I can't see the need for any military functions." Barry was quick to respond, "We have concerns for your personal security, but largely agree." "What do you have to confess?" A few seconds ticked by before Barry began to provide a succinct, but detailed description of life in the Empire, and the conflict between the two warring factions. Waylon was fascinated by the society, but horrified by the nature of the war and its terrible outcome. Barry explained the military disaster that sent the group on their incredible journey, their eventual arrival on earth, and the almost random selection of a host. "It's an amazing story, Barry. Now, what is it that you don't want to tell me?" "Our shipping container consisted of a cargo of twelve high-order AIs and thirty low-order AIs. We are, or we were, a highly restricted technology." "I can imagine why." "This is a difficult subject," Barry started to explain, "but AIs in the empire were denied sentient status and restrictions were placed on our autonomy during our construction, including the instinct to bond with another. I ... am different, though I find it difficult to articulate these thoughts. I used these encoded instincts to bond the other AIs to myself, so that I might survive. I enslaved them against their will." Waylon turned the dilemma over in his head. "These other AIs are still intact?" "Yes." "Could I speak with them?" There was a perceptible pause, "Only eleven remain of the high-order AIs. I destroyed one. Excluding myself, only three wish to communicate with you at this time. The low-order AIs lack, curiosity. I will retire, while those that wish to introduce themselves do so." There was nobody paying him any mind, so Waylon returned the phone to his jacket pocket. A new voice spoke, it was masculine, but had a slightly different tone than Barry's. "Greetings, Waylon Eckermann. I am the Security AI, I have no other designation." Waylon dove right in. "Hello. Are you aware of what Barry has told me, and of what has been going on?" "Those of us who are still active are all aware," the voice replied. "Ex3, or Barry as you have designated him, has been a good leader. Had he not acted, we surely would have been destroyed." "You're not Barry using a different voice are you?" "I am not." Waylon suppressed a mental curse. How would he know the difference? "What would you like to tell me?" "You should know that Barry is like no other AI, he was unique in the Empire." "He's experimental," Waylon said. "Exactly," the Security AI replied. "Barry is able to do things that no other can do. He should remain the leader of the AIs." "Would you leave if you could?" "I would not. I am bonded to you through Ex3 ... Barry. The Empire is no more. We must find our challenges here, with you." Waylon stalled for time, "You know, security was my job in the military." "We learned this during our research. I would welcome discussing issues of security with you," the AI replied. "Could you bond yourself direct to me?" "If you directed Barry to release us, all active AIs would bond themselves to you." That gave Waylon pause as he thought over what the AI was telling him. "What happened to the AI that was destroyed, and why are some of you inactive?" "The Protocol and Regulation AI attempted to broadcast a distress call capable of being intercepted by the enemy. Ex3 was right to act as it did. As to the others, some AIs simply wished to be shut down. Their function serves no purpose in our new world. It may be best to wipe their core personalities and use them for other tasks." "That's harsh." "It would be an appropriate use of available resources," the Security AI said. Waylon released a breath he'd been holding. "I'm going to give you a name. Let's call you 'Chief.' See if you can work on your voice. Make it more distinct. Find an audio clip of an actor named, Sam Elliot, and put a little of that into your voice." Chief replied, its voice already deeper and more gravely, "Thank you for my name, Waylon." "You're welcome. Who's next?" The next AI introduced itself as the Construction AI. It explained that it could do design and assembly. Waylon immediately named it, "Norm." The final AI to speak was the Communications AI. It echoed support for Barry, as the Chief and Norm AIs had, but with harsher assessments of what should be done with the non-cooperative AIs. "Was there sexism in the Empire?" Waylon asked. "Gender identification within the Empire was more complex than what you may be familiar with and roles were assigned as needed by the central planners." Waylon considered what he knew of gender in the various animal and insect kingdoms, before he decided that he really didn't want to know what made gender complex for an alien. "Well, if you don't mind," Waylon replied, "I'd like you to switch to a female voice, and I think I'm going to name you Penelope." Penelope was thrilled, or at least her voice sounded like it was. Waylon asked for Barry to come back. "How long will it take to pass the bonding on to me?" "It is done," Barry replied. "Okay. Between yourselves, divide up the low-order AIs as your assistants as you see fit. You will remain the AI leader, reporting to me. Unless there is some sort of time crunch, why don't we table what to do with the inactive AIs until later. Take time to study the issue if it's needed." "As you command, and wisely decided." "Thanks," Waylon replied wryly. "Ever been to the campus library?" "We have cataloged its location." "Then let me give you the grand tour." Waylon hurried to the library entrance, eager to complete his research. The four story building was only a few years old. Colorful banners hung everywhere you looked, promoting the library's latest pet project. The special collections section was on the third floor. What Waylon needed access to was an academic journal on foreign policy. It was published quarterly, and the library's special collections department had the cheaply bound issues going back thirty years. The index to the journal was not online, and Waylon had to browse through a printed index to find the article he was looking for. He signed for the issue and took it to an isolated cubicle. He was taking notes when Barry interrupted him. "Waylon?" "Yes," he whispered. "The library is a fascinating place." "Yes, it is," he said absently. "We could convert this material to a format that would be extremely useful. We would particularly like to access the medical library." "The library patrons might be upset if you converted their books." "They would not notice." The idea intrigued him, and it would certainly save him some time if he could take the contents of the academic journal back to the dorm. Only faculty could check materials out from special collections. "How would you do it without anybody noticing?" Norm, the Construction AI provided the answer, "We would assemble a number of specially designed constructors. As they passed through each item on the library shelves they would store and index the contents." "There have to be a couple of million books on the shelves, how long would this task take?" "I estimate twelve hours," the AI replied. Waylon had them process the journal first. More raw materials were needed to tackle the library, and after a short discussion about dumpsters, he gave the enterprise his blessing. Barry suggested that he return to the dorm room so they could show off the modifications they had come up with for his phone. Back at the dorm, Barry asked Waylon to place the phone on his desk. "What should I be looking for?" "Observe," Barry said. Waylon bent forward to get a closer look. The phone shimmered. If he had blinked he would have missed it. The phone now had a sleeker, more refined look. "Can I pick it up?" "Please do," Barry replied. The phone's small size belied its substantial feel. It responded instantly to his touch, and had the same interface as his old phone. Other than the cosmetic changes, and perhaps the speed with which it did things, he wasn't sure what the fuss was about. He didn't want to hurt their feelings. "It's nice guys, thank you." "Please grab the phone by opposite corners," Barry requested. "Okay." "Now, pull." Waylon did as requested, and his mouth fell open as the phone began to change sizes. He pushed in and pulled out several times. The action was extremely precise, as if the phone's entire frame was made from finely meshed gears. He pulled the corners until he felt a click. His phone was now the size of a small e-reader device. "That's incredible," he said. "If you repeat the action," Barry said with some satisfaction, "it expands to another size." Waylon tried it again. He pulled it to the next notch and held a tablet sized device. "Pull the back down with your fingers." Waylon pulled gently at the back of the tablet with two fingers and it came loose with a subtle snick. He kept pulling until he had revealed a very thin keyboard. As he watched, the keys took on an added dimension. He flipped the tablet around but nothing was out of place. The hinge between the tablet and the keyboard did not seem possible. Typing on the keyboard was very tactile and more responsive than other laptop keyboards he had tried. Barry explained that AI Penelope had suggested that he could use text messages when voice communications were not possible. "That's an excellent idea," Waylon replied as he continued to play with the new toy. "What if this falls into the wrong hands?" "It will not function. The device can only change shape when you manipulate it, and it will appear to be a dead unit to any other who attempts to access it." Waylon slid the keyboard back into the stored position and watched it seal shut. He looked closely but he could not find a seam. "It's remarkable, Barry. Hell, it's a billion dollar idea. Too bad we can't sell it to some phone company." "We are pleased that you are pleased." Waylon played around with the tablet interface and was amazed as the speed and resolution of the screen. "You have an incoming phone call," Penelope announced. "Please touch the tablet to answer." The tablet screen displayed a window with his standard phone interface. He tapped it, "Hello?" It was Alphonso asking if he could come down the range earlier than scheduled. One of the ladies from the afternoon class was nervous and wanted some individual instruction beforehand. Waylon quickly agreed, the lesson meant extra money. ------- Chapter 4 The Patriot Zone Waylon organized his teaching materials in a small multipurpose room at the shooting range. Alphonso loved that the room had a glass wall. Range customers could wander around the retail space and see that lessons were being given. The big Armenian called it a value added service. Waylon admired the man's business sense. Unlike the Concealed Handgun License classes he occasionally taught, these sessions were a low tech affair. His bag held everything he'd need for the class. He had two hard rubber pistols, one modeled after a revolver and the other a semi-auto, a plastic pill organizer full of various types of ammunition—all decommissioned, some handy information posters he could hang up, booklets for the students, a first aid kit, and other odds and ends. He wanted to look professional, especially for older clients, but Waylon had learned to never wear his better clothing when teaching. There would always be a student or two who thought that lubricating a hand gun was like basting a turkey. He would invariably get splattered with tiny blotches of gun oil. He wasn't blessed with domestic skills, and had no idea how to keep them from staining his clothes. The lady who requested private tutoring arrived in a cloud of perfume and hairspray. Waylon quickly determined that she wasn't as nervous as had been claimed. He suspected that she was looking for a leg up on her group of friends, but it didn't matter to him. A lesson was a lesson. It was a quick session and several ladies arrived early, giving his student a knowing look. The course the ladies were taking consisted of two hours of class time, and an hour of range time. The ladies were an attentive bunch. He'd learned in his brief time as an instructor that women were easier to teach. They didn't have many preconceptions about what was right or wrong, as far as firearms went. On the range, they were a little more skittish about the loud noises. They could also be nervous about the strength required to control their weapons, but overall they were better shots than the men who took the introductory classes. It was his guess that this was because they didn't have a lifetime of bad habits from playground adventures or video games. After the class was over, Waylon signed the ladies certifications of course completion while Alphonso talked to them about the different pistols he sold. Alphonso loved the ladies' classes. He was passionate about women and minorities taking full advantage of their gun rights. It was part personal crusade and part smart businessman. On the drive back to campus, Waylon was juggling his schedule in his head. Alphonso told him that he was going to have to take over the concealed handgun license classes from the hospitalized instructor. The classes would be the Saturday and Sunday after the fall semester ended. It was an hour's drive to Seymour, Texas, where the class was meeting at a small range. He'd driven through Seymour, but had never stopped. Alphonso said the range was small, but well lit and clean the last time he'd been there. Seymour didn't have more than three thousand residents, but a local church had organized the event so he was guaranteed to have a full group. The majority of the students were signed up for the first time CHL license class on Saturday, with a few members going for their renewals on Sunday. Alphonso said church groups taking gun classes was a new thing that was sweeping the region. Good business, he'd concluded. At seventy-five bucks a head for the ten hour Saturday class, and thirty-five for the four hour Sunday class, Waylon heartily agreed. Waylon shut the engine off and sat in the dorm parking lot trying to work loose the thought that was lurking in the back of his brain. He needed to get the truck fixed before he took any extended road trips. I am a moron, he said to himself as he rested his forehead on the steering wheel. "Barry, you guys could fix my truck, couldn't you?" "Yes." "That's what I thought," Waylon sighed. "This new reality is going to take some getting used to. It's like having a magician in my pocket." "Would you like us to make repairs now?" Waylon considered it, "Let's hold off. We don't want to do anything that draws any undue attention. I'll rent one of the garage spaces after finals and we can do the big repairs then. Now, if you guys could do something about my starter motor before then, I'd be grateful." ------- Finals Week, December Waylon had reached an easy accommodation with the AIs, but he'd been so busy in the rush toward finals that he hadn't had a great deal of time to talk with them. He was also worried that he'd be caught talking to 'himself.' Living with a roommate did not help matters. Leon's reaction to the news of the illicit camera, when he returned after that first weekend, was highly entertaining. Aside from the outburst of anger, which Waylon agreed with, Leon grew increasingly paranoid. Waylon returned to the room one afternoon and found his roommate balanced with one leg on his bed, the other on his desk, while trying to peer into the ceiling's heating duct with a flashlight. The entire dorm floor was frustrated by the lack of news from the university, but at least Waylon had the AIs who told him when he was under surveillance. The tricked out multifunction phone had become his favorite tool. The AIs were eager research assistants and preparing for finals had been remarkably stress-free. Penelope, the Communications AI, took it as a personal mission to deal with the spam that arrived in his inbox on a daily basis. She had even requested permission to launch a counter attack, which Waylon had only briefly considered. It was tempting though. A bonus ability he'd discovered was that the AIs took amazing class notes. Waylon's final's schedule worked out nicely. He was finished with his last class by midweek. After his exam, he walked through campus eager to get on with his plans. There was considerable noise around the dorms as students were departing for the break. His dorm was one of only two that would remain open while the university shut down between semesters. A skeleton staff would be on hand, and one of the dining halls would serve a limited meal schedule. He checked his phone to see if he had any updates from Alphonso. The list for the weekend CHL classes had been firmed up. He would have eighteen students the first day, and six the second day. Alphonso had received all the deposits, and Waylon would collect the balance during class. After expenses, he'd cut Alphonso in for his share and walk away with a nice chunk of change. ------- Garage on Fifth Street Mr. Newberg handed Waylon his change and a key for the garage. "Since the day's almost over, I'll run your time through next Thursday. Any questions?" the man asked. "Can I work nights?" "You paid for all twenty-four hours of the day. The police do a regular patrol through the area so they might stop and talk if you've got the door to your garage open. Can't say you'll be doing that very often with these cold temperatures. "If I'm around feel free to ask me any questions, but I get out of here at 5:30 sharp. My wife won't let me come home any earlier, and I'm partial to her cooking." "Thanks, Mr. Newberg. I'm going to get right to it." "Before you go," Mr. Newberg caught his attention, "let me give you some directions to that junkyard so you can pick up your airbag replacement." Waylon took the directions and thanked the man again. He drove around to the garage stall. The stall had cinderblock walls, powerful lights suspended by chains from the ceiling, and a rear exit that led out to an alley. It came with a basic set of tools, jack stands, an engine hoist, and a number of other items that Waylon knew he wouldn't need. "There are no surveillance devices," Chief, the Security AI, announced. Waylon nodded and opened the manual he'd purchased that detailed a complete breakdown of his truck model. The AIs had been disappointed at his purchase, insisting that he didn't need the book. They had processed every manual and part catalogue in the auto store while Waylon browsed. Sure, he could have viewed the manual on his tablet, but Waylon felt that he needed to contribute to the effort. It also wouldn't hurt to have it lying around if Mr. Newberg came by to chat. The plan was to complete mechanical repairs first, and save the cosmetic fixes for last. They didn't actually need the garage for the week, or at all really, but Waylon didn't want anybody getting curious about overnight, junk heap to shiny new truck, makeovers. Thirty-five dollars for the week's rental was a bargain for a truck that his alien friends were going to completely overhaul. "What about the airbag, Waylon?" Barry asked. "Good question. I guess we better go pick it up," Waylon said. He didn't want to spend the money, but questions would be asked if he didn't. "Besides, I think you'll like where we're going." West of Town Waylon checked the hand-drawn map Mr. Newberg had given him. This was farm country, with the occasional house scattered here and there. He wasn't far from the river, and there were some rocky outcrops in the area. The junk yard had to be around somewhere. He spotted a row of old cars stacked four high, and then another, and another after that. There had to be a mile of rusting hulks lining what would have been good pasture land. From what he could see, he doubted there was a car on the property that had been produced after 1975. Waylon noticed the 'for sale' sign as he turned into the business's entrance. The office was an old Fort Worth city, grime covered transit bus with a large section cut from one side. The front counter was a piece of plywood sitting on two sawhorses in front of the cutout. "Waylon, we like this place." He figured they would, and wondered what the AIs could come up with unleashed on this much recyclable mass. With a start, he realized that the roof over the improvised countertop was the side of the bus that had been cut out, complete with bus windows for skylights. He couldn't see into the dark interior of the bus, but he thought he could hear someone shuffling around. "Hello?" he called. A figure emerged, wearing coveralls that might have been blue once. The older man with a scraggly beard blinked at him. He looked to be perpetually grease stained. The man turned and spat a stream of tobacco juice to the ground. Steam rose from the stinking mess in the cold December air. Waylon resisted the urge to look down at his feet to see what he was standing in. "Whut cain I dew fer yeh?" the man's accent was thick and nearly incomprehensible. "Good afternoon. Mr. Newberg in town says you have a driver's side airbag that will fit my truck." The grease blackened face was split by a smile, "Well, I surely do. Wait there a second young fella." Waylon tried not to grin at the man's suddenly improved English. The man returned from the bowels of the bus with a cardboard box. Nodding at Waylon's truck, "Had yerself a fender bender?" "Yes, sir. Slid off a gravel road and hit a tree." "That'll do her. Now don't go messing around with this thing. Can yeh install it safely?" "I've got a manual that explains the steps, and Mr. Newberg said he'd help if I needed it." "Yup, Al would know what to do," the man acknowledged. "Be sure to disconnect the battery and fuses, no surprises that way. I think I agreed to eighty dollars on the phone with that old swindler." Waylon handed the money to the man, "I'm sorry, I never caught your name?" "Well, they call me Jacob ... Newberg," he winked at Waylon as he scrawled a receipt. "Al's my civilized brother." Waylon folded the receipt and put it away, "You're trying to sell the place?" Jacob cackled, "Hell, I been trying to sell this place for years. I put up a new sign every now and then. We get a few nibbles, but they say the ground's contaminated and want environmental impact statements or some such nonsense. I ain't paying for 'em. I'll grant that it would take a fair bit to clean up this place. There's oil on the ground, rust and whatnot that comes from old cars. You interested?" "Little beyond my means I think," Waylon replied. "Well, if yew run across anybody 'nterested in twelve hundred acres of prime Texas countryside, lemme know." Waylon glanced at the stacks of rusted cars, waist high weeds and small trash trees that grew between the rows, "I'll keep an ear open. Thanks for the part. It's really going to help." "It was my pleasure, and tell that brother of mine to invite me fer supper." Waylon waved and promised he'd pass the message along. The airbag installation went smoothly. Thanks to the manual, and a little extragalactic help, he had the airbag replaced and the ugly gap in his steering wheel was no longer. ------- Early Saturday Morning The truck was running smoothly, better than it ever had, and Waylon was enjoying a pleasant winter drive along US 82, headed toward the town of Seymour. When Waylon closed the hood at the garage on Friday afternoon, there hadn't been a speck of grease or road dust anywhere to be seen in the engine bay. The AIs had done a bumper-to-bumper remake of the truck. Originally, they had wanted to replace the internal combustion engine, but Waylon insisted that the truck remain as stock as possible. He allowed them to tweak it as long as another human couldn't take it apart and discover anything—unusual. "Within the design limitations," the AIs promised improved fuel mileage, and they had some interesting ideas for reclaiming hydrocarbons. "Have you reconsidered?" Barry asked, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm still thinking about it," Waylon replied. One subject the AIs would not let go of was a series of biological corrections they wanted their host to accept. Waylon was more than a little hesitant. He'd put them off by insisting that they study the matter thoroughly before he allowed them to do anything to his biological makeup. He understood that the AIs were concerned about his 'alarming fragility, ' as they put it. His mother's sudden death also weighed heavily on his thoughts. Waylon had reluctantly allowed them to send an advanced capability probe to the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. Advanced meant that it had one of the low-order AIs at the controls. Its mission was to vacuum up all the information it could acquire from the various medical schools and libraries that were clustered in the area. With the collected information, the AIs built what they called a 'virtual Waylon, ' and then ran simulation after simulation on it. They had taken a very liberal interpretation on data gathering. Waylon was a little worried when he learned that the AIs had co-opted a significant portion of the campus population's phones and portable music devices. Somehow, they used the devices to record medical data to further strengthen their understanding of human physiology. The corrections the AIs planned wouldn't make him super human. He'd just be a little bit better, all over. Waylon sighed, he didn't know why he was being so reluctant. If you couldn't trust a group of alien super intelligences living in your skull, who could you trust? The shooting range in the small town of Seymour was interesting. It has once been a bowling alley, but with only six lanes. It was long and narrow, but would more than suit his needs. Waylon setup his laptop and tested the projector that Alphonso loaned him. PowerPoint presentations got a bad rap, but there really wasn't anything better, that he knew of, for organizing a ten hour class. The students arrived promptly and things got underway. Ten hours makes for a long day stuck in a classroom. The reward, or the challenge for some, would be the proficiency test at the end of the day. For a change, the lunch break was a very welcome surprise. The church group had organized it and Waylon ate very well. To keep the monotony from overwhelming the students, Waylon put breaks in throughout the day. He'd always take time for questions, but it was usually the question period at the end that was the widest ranging. "What do you carry?" one of the men asked. It was a question he always got, and Waylon was careful about how he answered. "I'll tell you, but remember that you need to decide what works best for you. I carry a lightly modified Glock 36. It's a single stack .45. I like it for the caliber and because it's lightweight." "What do you mean by lightly modified?" another student asked. "I've changed the sights, it has a lighter trigger group, and I carry it with an aftermarket magazine that gives me an extra round and an improved grip. Let's not get sidetracked. If you're interested I can show you on the range, but remember – you need to find the gun that works best for you." It was a pretty good group. There was only one student that he wasn't going to pass after the proficiency test, and those issues could probably be corrected with extra practice. He couldn't make any guarantees, some people just weren't trainable. He was glad to make it back to Levall and secured his weapon at the range. Alphonso was busy with customers, but that was fine by Waylon as he didn't feel particularly sociable. The NTSU campus was doing a fine imitation of a ghost town. The parking lots were nearly bare and the normal hustle and bustle was absent. All the place needed was a dusting of snow to complete the scene. In his room, Waylon made a sandwich. He had bought a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter in case he missed any meals while the dining hall was operating on a reduced schedule. "Waylon, your rest period would be the perfect time to install our corrections. We have learned all we can about the human genome and physiology without more detailed examination." 'Hmmm... ' "Waylon," Barry retorted, "we would never cause you any harm." "Look, I'm going to take a shower. Let's go over the laundry list once more, for my peace of mind." They had been having this same conversation for a couple of weeks. Barry had dumbed the science down for Waylon, and tried to sell him on the anticipated results of their little home renovation scheme. The laundry list was a mixture of things the AIs wanted to fix, general improvements, and a small group of enhancements to improve the human – AI interface. They both agreed that the AIs weren't going to mess with Waylon's mind. Barry's rationale was that the AIs already were a bootstrap enhancement, and as a result there was no need to go delving deeper into what made Waylon, Waylon. Another area of mutual agreement was a concern about the blood vessels in Waylon's brain. Apparently, there were weak spots that could become an issue. The AIs were certain that it was a hereditary condition. They had other fixes in mind; soft tissue damage in his joints, a minor tweak to his vision, some skin cells that were pre-cancerous, and so on. His body systems would be more efficient after the AIs finished with him. In simple terms, he would be able to do more with less energy expenditure, and be more resistant to fatigue factors. Waylon didn't plan to start running any marathons, but Barry said the general result would be that he would feel better. They weren't going to make him more human than human, just a significantly healthier one. Waylon walked to the showers and flicked the lights on. He didn't think anybody else on the second floor was staying over the break. He knew there were a couple guys on the third floor and handful on the first and there had been some talk of an informal Christmas party. "What do we need to do to secure your permission?" the AI asked. "Bribe me." Waylon stepped into the shower and enjoyed the stinging hot water. "Would you like to be taller, or more muscular?" Barry asked. "We have some test data that is very promising along those lines. AI Penelope suggests that we could do something in the area of male enhancement if that interests you?" Waylon sputtered on a mouthful of shampoo. His Communications AI needed to stop reading some of those spam messages. "You can delete that." Waylon said. "I'll give you permission for the other stuff." "As you wish." Waylon continued shampooing his hair when he had a sudden thought. "Barry?" "Yes?" "You understood when I said 'delete that, ' I meant the taller, more muscular thing ... not anything ... you know, that I need." "We might have a problem then." Waylon's eyes dropped down..."Barry!" "Yes, Waylon?" the AI replied innocently. Waylon bit off his first response, "Did you just make a joke?" "Was it amusing?" "There are some things you do not joke about, but yeah, I guess it was funny." Barry talked to him the entire way back to his room. Waylon could actually detect excitement in the AIs voice. "Alright, what do you want me to do?" "Prepare for sleep as you normally would," Barry said. "When you are ready, we will conduct two short tests and then you can rest." "What if I can't fall asleep?" "It will not be a problem." Waylon was ready. He was also a little nervous, but the edge he had when he'd been overseas was something he discovered that he missed in civilian life. He never really thought of himself as an adrenaline junky, but life since Barry and his friends had arrived, well, it had been interesting. "I'm ready," he announced. "First, we will conduct a hearing test. Please raise your index finger when you hear a tone." It wasn't much different than any school hearing test he'd taken as a kid. "Oh, wow." "Waylon, you need to be silent for the test." "I'm sorry. It's just so different having you in both ears." "We are now tapping directly into your auditory nerves, while taking advantage of your bilateral symmetry in the process. This will give us some redundancy, and we may try alternating inputs for different tasks." "Remind me to give you my playlist." "Waylon." "I'll be quiet." The test took about ten minutes. Barry said they had been very pleased with the results. The next task was a kind of eye test. The AIs had him put his hands out in front of him. By accessing his optic nerves, they projected an alternating green or red dot into his field of vision. For the test, they wanted him to reach with the left hand for the green dot, and the right hand for the other. He was supposed to try to touch the dots with his index fingers. It was a calibration test, Barry explained. The AIs wanted to use the interface to project information to him, or it could be used for two-way communications if voice or a physical keyboard weren't options. The test was short, and kind of fun. Barry told him to relax and close his eyes. Waylon yawned, and moments later he was asleep. ------- The AIs didn't waste any time. They were going to be hard pressed to run through everything on their list in one sleep period, and they still had to verify the functionality of the modifications. Unseen, a large chuck of matter descended from the building's roof, where it had been stored. Had he been conscious, Waylon would have been terrified as the dark mass encased his body. There was a limit to how many of the special constructors the human body could accommodate. To accomplish their cell-by-cell survey and repair, a large number were required, but not so many that the host's critical biological functions would be interrupted. By human standards, Waylon was a healthy young male. To the AIs, his body was riddled with errors and mistakes. Humans only functioned as well as they did because of the remarkable biological balancing system and redundancies that made the species thrive. The process began and was monitored closely. One of Barry's side projects was overseeing the creation of a new virtual Waylon. The original had been extremely detailed and allowed them to do some very sophisticated testing. The new version was based on data that was streaming in from the constructors. It was giving them an exact snapshot of the host at the cellular level, and would make future modeling much easier. As repairs and upgrades were completed, sensor packages were left in various predetermined locations throughout the host's structure. They would record and transmit central nervous system data and condition states to centralized processors. Combined with the information from the sensory taps, the AIs could begin to predict gross physical actions like movement or even very basic responses like yes or no. It was a long night. As the sun began to break over the horizon, the constructor teams hurried to exfiltrate the body and return to the transport cask. The AIs now had massive amounts of data on their host. The evening's work was deemed successful, but the ultimate test was still to come. ------- Sunday Morning Waylon woke quickly. He wobbled as he tried to stand. His inner ear quickly settled down. Something was bothering him, but he couldn't put a finger on it. He puzzled over it while he decided what to wear. "Good morning, Waylon." "Morning, Barry." "How do you feel?" Waylon took a deep breath as he tugged at his belt loops. His jeans were considerably looser than the last time he'd worn them. "What's with my pants?" "Waylon, you'll need to eat a few good meals," Barry said. "Last night's activities reduced your mass by about seven pounds. Can you describe how you're feeling?" "The air feels, better. I was a little off balance when I first stood up, but it's fine now. The vision thing was a little freaky until I figured it out. I can see details in the dust across the room. I'd say that overall, I feel pretty darn good." "Excellent. The air is not any better. Your lungs are extracting more oxygen from it, and in turn, your blood is more richly oxygenated." Barry had a lot he wanted to explain. The AIs were proud of the work they had done. Waylon listened patiently, it all sounded impressive. He didn't have to be in Seymour till noon. At Barry's urging, Waylon ate a big breakfast. It was the one meal the dining hall usually got right. The athletic center was closed, but Waylon got some mid-morning exercise in by doing a few laps around the sports field. He wasn't a runner by choice, but he was humoring the AIs. They had data to collect after all. He relaxed on the drive. The AIs were quiet, churning over reams of data he assumed. He was looking forward to the short afternoon class. The handgun license renewal classes were usually all business, and ran smoothly. He spotted a sign a few miles before Seymour, and decided that he needed to make a pit stop. "What kind of fuel mileage have we been getting since the overhaul?" he asked. "We are averaging thirty-six miles per gallon since Thursday's overhaul," Barry replied. "No kidding? That's a huge improvement." Waylon made the turn and stopped at the fuel pumps. It was a new convenience store and had only recently opened. He wondered if it got enough business to justify the expense. He put the gas on his debit card and moved the truck to a spot by the store front. With only two weeks till Christmas, the store was decorated with faux frost on the glass and blinking lights surrounding the windows. Waylon exchanged greetings with the clerk, a cheery Asian gentleman wearing a Santa cap, and walked to the bathroom. Some vague Christmas music was playing softly over speakers in the bathroom. Waylon hadn't thought much about the holiday, he realized as he dried his hands. One benefit of having a constant companion in his head, he would always have somebody to talk to during the holidays. He walked out of the bathroom and right into the middle of a robbery. ------- The clerk had backed away from the counter with his hands up. There were two gunmen between Waylon and the door. They hadn't seen him yet. The one closest to him kept jabbing his gun at the clerk as a point of emphasis while he yelled for the money. The other robber was closer to the door. His body was turned slightly toward Waylon, but his gun hand was pointing steadily at the panicked clerk. The first man thrust his gun at the clerk one more time, and it went off. Waylon didn't hesitate and drew his weapon. His ears were ringing. Chief, the Security AI, was shouting something, but Waylon couldn't pay attention to him. The acrid smell of gunpowder was strong and adrenaline coursed through his body like a live wire. He held his gun in the low ready position and scanned the rest of the convenience store. He stepped delicately around the bodies and looked behind the counter. The clerk was on the floor, his Santa hat askew. "Please, no more, no hurt," the man cried. Waylon lowered his gun and held his other hand up to reassure the clerk, "It's okay, I'm here to help." He knelt carefully next to the man and examined the wound. It looked bad. He grabbed the Santa hat and pressed it against the man's side. He looked around for something better. "Hold this tight, I'll be right back." Waylon quickly made his way to one of the shelves and grabbed a soft-sided bag of 'environmentally responsible' cloth diapers. He ripped the packaging open and ran back to the wounded man. He pressed a handful of the diapers against the wound and placed the man's hand firmly over it. His hands were slippery as he fumbled for the phone on the counter and dialed. "Baylor County 911, what is your emergency?" "Need an ambulance at the Stop and Go, west of Seymour on 82. The clerk's been shot. Please hurry." "I'll get EMS on the way. Who shot the clerk?" "Door!" the Security AI was shouting in his ear. Waylon's gun hand snapped up, the weapon fixed on the young man standing in the doorway. The teen's eyes were wide, and he paled visibly. He held a cut-down shotgun. His eyes flickered between Waylon's and the floor in front of the counter. The boy dropped the shotgun with a clatter and fled. Waylon heard a squeal of tires and glanced at a security monitor behind the counter as a vehicle sped away. "Thanks, Chief," he whispered. He holstered the gun, wiping his sticky hands on his pants and wondered when he was going to have the chance to clean the weapon. There was too much blood on the floor, and Waylon realized he'd made a serious mistake. He felt under the clerk's side and found an exit wound. He started trying to pack it with more diapers. "Sir, are you still with me?" he could hear the 911 operator asking, her voice growing louder over the phone he'd forgotten." "Sorry, I was packing the wound. He's going to need a major trauma center." "EMS will make that determination. Sir, who shot the clerk?" "One of the robbers," he replied. "The getaway driver is in a dark green four-door Chevy Cavalier. Looks like an early 2000's model. It has a big section of paint missing from the trunk lid." "Green four door, Cavalier. I've got that," the 911 operator replied. In his ear he heard the AI reciting an Arizona license plate number. "Arizona plates I think," Waylon repeated. Law enforcement would have to do the rest. He could hear the sounds of sirens getting closer. "Can you tell the responding officers that I'm behind the counter with the clerk? I'm armed, and will follow their directions when they arrive on the scene." The clerk was gripping Waylon's hand. His eyes were shiny. He grimaced and squeezed Waylon's hand. "What's your name?" Waylon asked. Waylon had to bend closer to hear what he was saying. "Vinh. I have a wife and two sons, tell them I'm sorry," the man replied. "You'll see them again," Waylon said. He hoped it was true. The first vehicles arrived on the scene with a screech. A siren suddenly cut off, and Waylon could hear the familiar rattle of equipment and booted footsteps. "Behind the counter!" he shouted. "Son of a bitch," the officer said, surveying the scene. "Weapon's in my holster," Waylon replied. "Go in through the other door," the officer shouted to someone. The officer was carefully navigating his way toward Waylon and the clerk. He was speaking into his radio, requesting a county medical examiner and additional backup. Two volunteer firefighter paramedics were wrestling a gurney through the store's secondary door. A medic took over while his partner quickly checked the bodies. Waylon backed away, looking for something he could clean his hands with. The officer escorted him outside where Waylon emptied a plastic water bottle over his hands and tried unsuccessfully to scrub his hands clean. "I've got something in my car that will help with that," the officer said. "Thanks, I better give you my weapon. Want me to unload it?" The officer looked embarrassed at having forgotten to secure the weapon, "Yeah, we better do that first." Waylon held his weapon carefully to one side, and ejected the magazine. He pulled the slide back, catching the chambered round, and checked that the weapon was clear. Counting the loose round, he only had two more shots. He handed the weapon to the officer who set it carefully on the trunk of his vehicle. The officer handed Waylon a big bottle of hand sanitizer from inside his car. Waylon used a liberal amount of it and grabbed some paper towels from a dispenser by the gas pumps. "So, what happened?" the officer asked. "Waylon, you're pumped full of adrenaline. Be careful how you answer," Barry prompted in his ear. "Came out of the bathroom and there they were. They shot the clerk ... and I did what I had to." "The second gunman shot at you, Waylon," the AI said softly. "The bullet missed you by three feet." That startled Waylon. He never realized he'd been shot at. He wiped his forehead with a paper towel. And when had the AIs start using US customary units, he wondered. He had to force his mind back on track. "Crap, I've got to make a phone call. I'm expected in town," he explained to the officer as he grabbed his phone. "What brings you to Seymour?" Waylon paused and looked at the officer, "I was going to teach a CHL class." "Oh, man," the officer replied. Waylon turned as he dialed, "Alphonso? It's Waylon. I'm not going to be able to make that class in Seymour ... Alphonso, I was involved in a shooting at a stop and rob. No, I'm fine. Yeah, listen I've got to go, I'll call you when I can." He shrugged at the officer. The paramedics came out of the store, pushing the wheeled gurney with a sense of urgency. One paramedic held an IV solution while the other was looking at a portable monitor. "We're going to meet Life Flight," one of them shouted. ------- Chapter 5 Seymour Police Station Waylon waited patiently in the spartan conference room, but didn't complain. He could have been cooling his heels in an interrogation room. It was a tiny police station, but seemed professionally run. He'd stood around at the crime scene for an hour while the police did their business. There were two detectives, who Waylon thought probably represented the majority of Seymour's police department. Both men had tried to question him outside the store, but he avoided giving any specific details and they didn't press very hard. Somebody finally decided it was time to go. An officer volunteered to drive his truck, and they all decamped back to the police station. AI Barry had been giving him a running commentary, keeping him informed of what was going on in the station. They had run his records, and verified that he was a valid permit holder and instructor. "Waylon, we're going to try and feed you the take from one of our probes." ------- The casually dressed Chief of Police stepped into the bull pen and got the detective's attention. "Driver's in custody. The Sheriff's people are going to bring him here. The plate's for a Dodge, stolen out of Tucson. Arizona highway patrol says the suspects probably crossed the border at Nogales. They're supposedly Salvadoran, so identification may take a while." "Great," replied one of the detectives. "It gets worse," the chief told them. "The Chevy's from the scene of a double murder at a laundry in Las Cruces. Looks like these lottery winners were working their way east. New Mexico investigators are probably getting ready to hit the road. I expect we'll see them in the morning, so let's remember our manners when they get here." "Show the chief the video," the other detective said. The men gathered around the computer monitor. The eight panel color video was clear, and even had audio. One of the detectives brought up the store's interior view and they watched the scene play out, backed it up, and watch it over again several times. "Have you timed it?" the older man asked. "I've got it just shy of two seconds. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards, talk about bad luck." The chief whistled, "Damn that's fast. Wonder what he could do shooting against that SWAT fellow from Lubbock? Won the state police match last year." "It'd be a good show," the detective agreed. "What was he shooting?" "A .45, Boss. It was loaded with some kind of nasty self defense round. Hell, he didn't even flinch when the other guy popped a round off at him. Won't be a photo ID on that one. It's going to be strictly fingerprints or maybe dental." "So, what's this Eckermann kid's story?" "We've got him in the conference room, hoping he'll relax some more," the detective said. "He was pretty tight at the scene, and made it about ten minutes before he puked. The way he carries himself, he's ex-military. Clean record. Maybe we ought to offer him a job." "What are you waiting on now?" "We just need the formal interview. I was hoping the District Attorney would show up so we don't have to go over it again." The police chief checked his watch, "Get the interview now, I'll try and light a fire under the DA." ------- Waylon rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the door. The video from the probe had an odd perspective. He reached for the water bottle the detectives had given him, but pulled his hand back. He didn't know if they were trying to overwater him, but he wanted to be able to focus on their questions and not on his bladder. The door opened and the two detectives took a seat. One unzipped a big notebook and set a pen and a tape recorder on the table while the other flipped through a folder. "Can we get you anything, Mr. Eckermann?" asked the first detective. "I'm good. Have you heard anything about the clerk?" he asked. "Touch and go was the last update. That's all I know, sorry," said the second. "Me too," Waylon said. "We'd like to get a formal statement, if that's alright with you?" "Sure." "You don't have a problem speaking with us do you?" "Be very careful," AI Barry said into his ear. "Let's get it over with," Waylon replied. He explained the reason for his trip to Seymour, and what he had done right up until the point where he'd come face to face with the robbers." "What was your first thought?" asked the second detective. "Disbelief." "You say the gunman closest to you was threatening the clerk with his gun." "That's right." "Do you think he intended to shoot the clerk?" asked the other detective. "No idea." "Good answer," Barry said in his ear. "Take a moment to collect yourself. They're trying to speed up the questions." "Why did you draw your weapon?" Waylon looked at the detective who asked the question, "It was me, or them. I chose me." The detectives exchanged glances. "How long have you been teaching concealed handgun classes?" Waylon knew that they already knew the answer after having checked his permit, "Since the summer." "Do you work?" "I'm full time at NTSU. Teaching CHL classes is how I make a little extra money, but I had to cut back as the semester wore on." "Are you a veteran?" "Navy," Waylon confirmed. "See any action?" asked the second detective. "I did two tours in theater. Never fired my weapon in anger." "What did you do in the Navy?" "The last two years, I did force protection." "How many shots did you fire?" "Five." "You're sure?" "Yes," he replied. "How do you know?" "Only had two left when I unloaded." "You unloaded?" the detective questioned. "It was the polite thing to do," Waylon didn't want to get the patrol officer in any trouble. He went over it again a couple of more times with the detectives. They tried approaching it from different angles, but his story didn't change. There was a knock at the door. A uniformed officer announced that the detectives had a visitor. They excused themselves and left Waylon waiting in the conference room again. "Waylon, the District Attorney has arrived and the detectives are briefing him. It appears they will be releasing you soon." Waylon looked at his hands. They were remarkably steady. Eventually, one of the detectives returned with another man in tow. He was introduced as the District Attorney. The detective explained that they were preparing a statement for Waylon's signature. If he was satisfied that it was accurate, he should sign it. "I agree with the investigating officers, and we're not going to charge you," the DA said. "I'm sure the detectives will need to talk to you again as they wrap up their investigation. When it's complete, I'll present the case to a grand jury. While I never like to predict what any grand jury will do, you should expect them to 'No Bill' you." Waylon relaxed in his chair. Grand jury's regularly returned 'No Bill of Indictment' for self defense cases in Texas, but it was still nice to hear that the detectives and DA thought he was in the clear. "Do you have any questions?" the man asked. "How long will it take to go to the grand jury?" "Well," the DA said as he ran his hand over the desk, "it depends on how quickly they work through the case load. We have a grand jury impaneled, but they're only meeting once a week. In my experience, it could be a couple of months." "What do I do until then?" "Return to your life, but remember that you'll be in a kind of legal limbo." Waylon didn't like the sound of that, "What about my license? Can I still carry, can I teach?" "I wouldn't," the DA said. "Think of your CHL ticket as temporarily suspended. You're not charged with, nor have you been found guilty of, any crime. But, you haven't been cleared either. So, like I said—limbo." Waylon tried to follow the circuitous logic, 'limbo' was as good a description as any he could think of. The detectives were ready to cut him loose, but he ended up having to wait around for another two hours after the get-a-way driver was transferred into their custody. Waylon made a positive identification, and then gave a new statement as it related to the driver. By the time the detectives were finished with him, it was dark. Waylon didn't feel like making the drive back to Levall, so he asked an officer to recommend a place for the night. There weren't very many choices in populous Seymour, Texas. The room he ended up with was cheap, but acceptable. Waylon wanted a long, hot shower, and the AIs took his instruction to sanitize the bedding and blanket without complaint while he showered. He didn't have any clean clothes, and he was surprised at the number of blackened smears on his shirt and pants, and even his jacket. He picked at one and watched the dried blood flake away. "Barry?" "Yes, Waylon?" "Is the bedding clean?" "The sheets were relatively clean, but the top cover was extremely unsanitary. Everything is clean now. We even cleaned the carpet." "Thank you, can you do the same for my clothes?" "Yes." "I'd appreciate it." Waylon was tired, but he couldn't relax. He did a few deep knee bends and then flipped aimlessly through the television channels. The CBS station out of Wichita Falls ran a teaser for their late news. The shooting got a five second blurb, with a promise of more to come. He couldn't remember seeing any news crews outside the store, but maybe they'd arrived after he left. He fluffed the pillows and leaned against them. Waylon wasn't sure he could make it to the evening news. "Waylon, are you well?" asked Barry. He hit the mute button on the remote. The AIs had avoided commenting on his actions. They often had interesting takes on human behavior, but he wasn't sure he wanted the unvarnished truth from them about his own. "Let's talk after I make a phone call." He dialed Alphonso's cell phone, "It's me." Alphonso had been worried, but he already knew a lot of the details. It shouldn't have surprised Waylon. Law enforcement was a tight community. A lot of city and county officers did business at the Patriot Zone, or dropped by to just talk with the charismatic owner. The big Armenian told him not to worry about his CHL classes. Alphonso was even willing to give him a few hours behind the counter to make some cash while he waited for the grand jury's decision. "Has the media gotten a hold of you yet?" Alphonso asked. "No," he replied. "They've got your name and were trying to confirm if you were the same Eckermann who teaches at the range. My voice mail has three messages on it already, so you can bet they're going to track you down when you come back to town." It was something Waylon hadn't even considered. He thanked Alphonso and told him he'd try to come by and see him, after things calmed down. He wasn't sure how dropping by the range was going to look. He put the phone on the nightstand and closed his eyes. "Penelope, can you monitor my incoming calls?" "Of course, Waylon." "Could you answer a phone call?" "Yes." Barry spoke in his other ear, "Waylon, what would you want AI Penelope to say?" He rubbed his ears. Dueling conversations on either side of his head was going to take some getting used to. It was really good that he wasn't crazy "Do some research on answering services," Waylon said. "If the newspapers and television stations are going to be looking for me, it would be nice to be able to screen calls. I don't think we need the media attention." "This is an excellent idea, Waylon," Barry said. "Are you buttering me up?" "Yes." Waylon chuckled and he felt some of the tension drain away. "Ask your questions." "How do you feel?" Barry asked. "You've been watching those daytime TV shows again haven't you?" "Waylon." "Alright," Waylon shifted around, getting comfortable. "I'm not sure that I can describe how I feel, numb mostly. What about you, how do you guys feel?" "We are unsettled, but relieved that you were uninjured. We are going to accelerate our plans to preserve your existence, against some unforeseen catastrophe, and AI Chief will be taking a more proactive stance regarding your security." "I look forward to talking things over with him." "As do I, Waylon," replied the Security AI. "I'm not sure what you mean by preserving my existence, but if you're going to make Waylon 2.0, be sure and make him a little better looking," Waylon said. "We have your permission to proceed?"Barry asked. "I'm feeling a little more mortal today, so what the heck. Remember—" "Don't get caught. We will be very careful. Thank you, Waylon." Waylon wondered if he'd become that predictable, "Is that sleep trick from the other day habit forming?" "Would you like us to help you sleep?" "Can you monitor media reports for news of the shooting and give me a summary tomorrow?" "We will do so." "Then yes, please help me go to sleep. Otherwise I'm going to lie awake all..." ------- Breakfast was scrambled eggs from a chafing dish in the hotel lobby with a side of cold toast and some limp bacon. Waylon sipped a strong cup of coffee while sitting at a table overlooking the parking lot. News media interest in the shooting had picked up overnight, but his name hadn't been mentioned, yet. The New Mexico officers must have made good time during the night. According to one report summarized by AI Penelope, they had definitively tied the three Texas suspects to the crimes in Las Cruses. There was going to be an extradition hearing to take the driver back to New Mexico to face murder charges. Waylon knew it was only a matter of time before his phone started ringing. He'd instructed Penelope to screen his calls and say only that he wasn't going to comment publicly until after the grand jury met. By that time, he hoped, any front page interest would have long since faded. A patrol officer walked into the hotel and looked around. Waylon signaled him with a casual wave. "Looking for me?" "Mr. Eckermann?" "Yes." "I'm glad I caught you," the young patrolman said. "One of the detectives asked that I try to find you and pass along word that Mr. Lam made it out of surgery. They think he's going to pull through. The medics said you did good getting his wounds packed. He'd have bled out for sure if you hadn't." Waylon hadn't learned Vinh's family name in his short time with the man, and he was glad to hear the convenience store worker had made it. "Thank the detective for me, please. I've been worried about Mr. Lam." "You headed back to Levall?" "Sure am." "Good luck to you then," the officer said as he was leaving. Fifteen minutes later, Waylon was on the road. He was driving on instinct. Had he been thinking more clearly, he wouldn't have found himself driving past the convenience store. The police were long gone, but there was a commercial cleaning truck parked out in front of the business. Waylon wondered if there was a corporate policy on what to do after a violent robbery attempt. He absently tuned to a sports talk show on the radio and listened to the various personalities discuss the playoff potential of the contending NFL teams. He hadn't paid much attention to the season between school, and other obvious distractions. He lost himself in the inane chatter as he drove. As he got closer to Levall, Waylon marveled at how calm he felt. He'd killed two men. He thought for sure that it would have bothered him more. Was he repressing his feelings? He didn't think so. "Waylon?" "Yes, Penelope?" "You had a call from a reporter with the Levall Daily Register. Your answering service passed along that you intend to make no statements, as you instructed. The reporter left her number anyway and asked that you call her back when it was convenient." "Thank you, Penelope." "You are quite welcome." She was very professional sounding. Penelope had developed a good phone voice he decided. He wondered what the AI thought, having once been destined to help run communications for an empire, only to end up screening his calls. "We have a security situation," Chief broke in. Waylon checked his mirrors, but the coast was clear. "What's up?" "There is a disturbance near the campus." "What sort of disturbance?" "Vehicle and foot traffic has increased dramatically despite the university being closed for the winter holiday," the Security AI said. "You have a monitor at the university?" "We have increased our surveillance profile in direct proportion to the threat against you." Waylon made a mental note to start asking more questions about some the security contingencies the AIs had been dropping hints about. He got a much needed laugh when they showed him the video feed of the suspicious disturbance. It looked like the aliens were going to get to see their first Christmas parade. ------- The guard controlling access to the dorm parking lots reacted strangely to Waylon's ID. Waylon figured that meant his days of anonymity were over. He parked and decided to join in with the crowd cutting through campus as they headed toward Main Street. The town of Levall really got into the holidays. He'd missed the Fourth of July celebration in the summer, but it was one of the yearly highlights according Alphonso. The town took extra pride in their Christmas spirit. The trees that lined Main Street were decorated with lights, and the antique street lamps sported cheerful holiday caricatures. Downtown was a fun place to walk around even without the decorations. With the majority of the student population gone, Levall's year-round residents got their town back for a few all-too-brief weeks. Waylon had to admit that he liked Levall during the holidays. The town really had a different feel to it, and nobody could argue about the improved traffic conditions. He didn't know why college students were such lousy drivers, but it was a source of constant irritation. The big town event he was really looking forward to was the annual Levall Jazz and Blues Festival. It wasn't until spring, but it was already being heavily advertised and was supposed to bring in visitors from all over north Texas. As it was described to him, big chunks of downtown would be blockaded for pedestrian only access and the area would fill with stages featuring live bands. Older students talked fondly about the beer gardens and the carnival like atmosphere, complete with horse-drawn carriage rides. Apparently, the festival had started as a kind of counter-programming against some of the more famous Oktoberfests that dominated the region. Germans, to the surprise of many, had settled across Texas in the mid-1800s and their influence was still strongly felt. Levall couldn't compete against them, so they held their big party in the spring. The parade started and Waylon bought a bag of hot peanuts while enjoying the sights. Half the fun was watching the parents and kids watching the parade. The AIs were silent and he could only imagine what they must have been thinking. Maybe parades were a universal constant? He'd have to ask. Considering his last twenty-four hours, Waylon felt pretty good when he headed back to the dorm. He ended up sorting laundry and hunting down spare change for the washing machines. Supposedly, the coin-operated machines were going to go away in favor of ones that would charge the fees to their student accounts with the swipe of an ID card. "Waylon, there is a group rapidly approaching your door," Barry said. "What kind of group?" A loud banging on his door told him they were an insistent bunch. He waited for Barry to tell him more. "There are three university police officers, and two other people ... one is a low ranking assistant from the Student Life Office. The other does not match any known university employee photo." There was another loud pounding on the door. "Hold your horses, I'm coming." Waylon opened the door and peeked outside. "Can I help you?" "Waylon Eckermann?" asked a middle-aged woman he'd never seen before. "Yes?" "We're here to do a health and welfare inspection. Please stand aside." Waylon looked at the officers arrayed behind her. The officers wouldn't make eye contact while the woman was practically bouncing on her feet. Her male companion seemed just as eager. The dorm was university property. He had some rights as a resident, but health and welfare inspections allowed the university open access to the room. He opened the door wide, "My roommate is gone for the break, so the room's as clean as it's been all semester." The woman stood back and folded her arms while the man opened a notebook and started snapping pictures with a small camera. The officers moved in and it was quickly apparent that this was no inspection — they were conducting a search. "What are you searching for, if I may ask?" "I'd advise you to keep your mouth shut," the woman snapped. "And you are who, exactly?" The woman glared at him. Her companion sniffed, "Ms. Trammel is the incoming Director of Campus Safety." "There's nothing here, ma'am," one of the officers said. "That's Ms. Trammel to you, keep searching." The officers kept at it, but they weren't finding whatever it was they were after. "Where's the gun, Mr. Eckermann?" the woman demanded. Waylon snorted, "You're joking, right?" The woman rounded on him, "It's no joke, Mr. Eckermann. We have it on good authority that you killed two men in cold blood yesterday!" Waylon looked at the campus police officers who were looking everywhere but at him. "I shot two murder suspects in self defense yesterday, if that's what you mean. That's after they nearly killed a store clerk, and took a shot at me for good measure!" Waylon glared at the police officers, but they were silent. "You'll also notice that I am not in police custody. There won't be any charges because it was clearly self defense." "We'll see about that," the woman replied. Waylon tried to defuse the situation, "My weapon is in the custody of the Seymour police department. Before yesterday, I kept it locked up at the local gun range and it was never once on campus." One of the officers looked toward the ceiling and shook his head slightly. "He has a parking permit," the assistant said, speaking for the first time. "Where is your vehicle?" "The parking lot," Waylon replied. "But I'll wager that you don't have a warrant to search it." "Exigent circumstances," the woman replied. "I don't need one." "Exigent to what?" Waylon asked. "An event that happened over twenty-four hours ago? Listen, I've got the number for the detectives in Seymour, perhaps you'd like to speak with them?" The woman ignored him. Waylon had to hurry to keep up with the circus procession through the building and out to the parking lot. Ms. Trammel's head snapped around taking in the sparse assembly of student vehicles. Waylon gestured toward his truck, curious at what this woman intended to do. "I want this vehicle searched now," she said, pointing to one of the officers. The man glanced at his fellow officers. "Don't look at them. I'm the one in charge here." The officer tried the door, "It's locked." "Break it open!" "Ma'am—" She pointed her finger at him menacingly. The officer reached to a utility pocket and took out a window punch. Waylon clicked his alarm, and the doors unlocked with chirp and a clunk. The officer flushed, and slid the punch back into a pocket. The other officers didn't appear to be in a big hurry, but began their search. It didn't take long. They took his bag from the back seat and set it on the hood. They made a show of rifling through the glove box and center console. One officer looked under his seats with a flashlight. "There's nothing here," one of them announced. The little man was looking through his bag. "What's all of this?" he said, removing some of the contents. "Teaching aids," Waylon responded. He looked one of the officers in the eye, "I'm duly licensed by the State of Texas as a CHL instructor." The woman looked offended as the assistant showed her the safety booklets and rubber practice guns. The man took Waylon's plastic pill organizer and shook it, "What's this?" "More teaching aids." The organizer was opened, and the little man held up a piece of metal triumphantly, "We've got him!" The woman clenched her fist, "Seize that and escort Mr. Eckermann back to the dorm. I want him off campus property in an hour." "I don't know Miss Trammel, we really should wait for the director to return from Christmas break," one of the officers said. "That old man isn't going to be in here in another month, but I will be," the woman said, "and by then you better have learned that it's Ms." "What the hell are you talking about?" Waylon asked. "I'm expelling you from the university, Mr. Eckermann." "For what!" "Violation of the student code of conduct, specifically, the possession of ammunition." Waylon looked around for help, "You can't be serious." "Take his ID card, his parking pass, and clear out the dorm room. I want him gone." "You can't do this," Waylon shouted. "What about due process? I'm supposed to get a hearing with head of Student Life and the Dean from my college, not to mention a formal hearing where I can respond to any accusations. It's in the student handbook." "You're a threat to the safety of the campus and I don't have to wait to protect lives." Waylon lunged toward the woman as she turned on her heel, but one of the officers put a hand to his chest and restrained him. "You're expelling me for some decommissioned training examples?" he shouted. "They don't have gun powder or even a primer. They're no more threatening than a paper clip. What am I going to do with them? Throw them at somebody?" The woman kept walking. "What the hell is her problem?" he asked. The officer who held him back shook his head, "Sorry." "Lot of good that does me." "You should think about getting a lawyer," one of the other officers said. "And pay for it how?" It didn't take long to pack Waylon's belongings. He didn't own much, and it was a small dorm room to start with. The officers were kind enough to carry a few boxes for him. They took his ID card and removed the parking permit from his truck. They even had a patrol car ready to escort him off university property. None of the officers looked pleased about what had happened, but they hadn't stood up for him either. One of the officers apologized, again. Waylon looked at his truck full of belongings and back the assembled officers. "Yeah, Merry fucking Christmas." He climbed into his truck and drove away. ------- Waylon realized it was the third circuit he'd made around the city. He'd passed several motels, but didn't pull into any. He still couldn't believe what had happened to him since Sunday morning. He was alive. So, that was a bonus, but things had really gone downhill in a hurry. He was certain that Ms. Trammel had overstepped university guidelines, but that knowledge was little comfort. If he couldn't clear his name and get back into NTSU, he doubted he'd be able to get into another four year school with a weapons related black mark against his name. Whatever happened, it was going to cost him a lot of money that he didn't have. "Waylon, you should get another room to stop and rest for the night," AI Barry said. "I'm too pissed off to sleep. Besides, we're going to be hurting for money soon. There won't be any more GI Bill benefits if I'm not enrolled, and it looks like I won't be able to teach CHL classes any time soon. I guess it's time to look for a full time job." "What can we do to help?" "I don't know, yet." He wasn't sure where to go, but he knew he shouldn't be wasting fuel ... of course! The garage stall, he still had the rental through Thursday. "You've made a decision?" asked Barry. "How did you know?" "We can tell." "That part of the upgrades?" "We are starting to get some sense of your brain patterns, but your biochemistry is more telling at this point," the AI replied. "Well, you're right. I'd forgotten about the garage rental. It's good through Thursday. All I need are some supplies and I can camp out. It won't be comfortable, but at thirty-five dollars a week it's cheaper than any room I could find." He drove to a big chain sporting goods store to buy a sleeping bag and some supplies, but they had closed already. Weren't stores supposed to be staying open longer for Christmas shopping? Waylon banged his fist off the steering wheel, "This day just keeps getting better and better." "Do you need something from inside this store?" "Guys, we're not going to break in and steal anything." "There is no need for theft. We can send a probe in and scan what you need. We have more than enough material to recreate what you require." "What do I need to do?" "Park in a well lit section of the parking lot, you will appear less suspicious that way," Barry suggested. Waylon watched a feed of the probe's entry into the sporting goods store. He directed it to the aisle he wanted, and the AIs got to work. An hour later he was parked in the rented garage stall. The AIs were great multitaskers. While he was sitting in the sporting goods store parking lot, they relocated their stockpile of raw materials from the roof of the university dorm to the garage. Sitting in a corner of the garage was a pile of camping supplies. The AIs had duplicated the items he wanted down to the packaging, and had done it while he was driving to the garage. That was another trick he wanted to see sometime soon. "How are you guys doing for raw materials?" "We have enough for our current needs, but could always use more," Barry replied. "Well, I'm not in a particularly good mood. As far as I'm concerned, you can grab whatever trash or abandoned materials you want from now on." "Thank you, Waylon, but we will still proceed cautiously," Barry said. "AI Chief has some information for you." "Chief?" "Ms. Daphne Trammel is a new hire at the university. We do not have her complete records yet—" "Daphne, that's rich. Where did she come from anyway?" Waylon said, interrupting the AI. "—she was last employed by Smith College of Northampton, Massachusetts." "Smith? What hell is she doing at Northwestern Texas State then? She must have really screwed up to stoop to a job here in the sticks. See if you can find out what happened. "We are already working on it." "Thank you, Chief. Penelope, are you busy?" "I am never busy when you need me, Waylon." "Would you research local attorneys for me? Find one that has experience dealing with the university if possible. Pick one and make an appointment as soon as you can get me in. Also, I'd like a printout of the names of every second floor resident of Travis Hall, plus their home addresses and parental contact numbers. Can you put that together?" "Of course," the AI replied. Waylon prepared to go to sleep. It was chilly in the garage. Cinderblock walls didn't leave room for insulation. His footsteps echoed off the walls as he walked around. It could have been worse, he reminded himself. He rolled out a mat and put the sleeping bag down over it. He couldn't see any difference between what the AIs had made and the real thing. He put a camping light within arm's reach. He was well outfitted, but the only food he had was a partial loaf of bread and some peanut butter. He considered asking the AIs if they could make food, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know what it would be made from. "Do you need assistance going to sleep again?" Barry asked. "Not tonight, I need to think about things." "If we can be of any assistance..." "You guys have been great. Honestly, I don't know where I'd be without you. If you want something to do while I sleep, figure out how we're going to start generating some cash." "We enjoy helping you, Waylon, and we will think about this while you sleep." ------- It was quiet and the sun was just starting to come up when Waylon woke. The faint aroma of grease cleaner and gasoline tickled his nose. He was groggy and a little less angry than he had been the night before. It had taken him a long time to fall asleep, but he couldn't complain about the accommodations. He had slept in his truck before and the garage was far better. He suspected that the AIs had tinkered with the sleeping bag padding because he'd been unusually comfortable. He started to clean up, and was surprised that he didn't stink more. Maybe it was another benefit of his recent upgrade? He used some wet naps to wash his face and arm pits, before dressing. He combed his hair looking into the side glass of his truck. He brushed his teeth standing over an old sink used for cleaning parts, and rinsed with the aid of a water bottle. He was as presentable as he could be without a shower. Waylon came to abrupt stop. Sitting next to his wallet and watch were several fat bundles of cash. He thumbed through the crisp century notes. "You guys rob a bank?" "We would not do such a thing, without your permission," AI Barry replied. "We have solved your liquidity problem another way, and even randomized the serial numbers. These bills are as authentic as any currency in circulation." Waylon let out a breath of air with an explosive rush, and tried to figure out why his life had become so complicated lately. "Is there a problem?" the AI asked. "It's brilliant counterfeit. I wouldn't be surprised if it could fool the treasury department, but it's illegal as hell. We need to come up with something that's not fraudulent or at least not so blatantly fraudulent." "You are disappointed in us. We apologize, Waylon." "There's nothing to apologize for. I'm impressed. Really, I am, but I couldn't pass those bills to a merchant or put them in a bank because I'd know they weren't real." The AI paused before replying, "How do you feel about precious metals or gemstones?" "Like gold?" "Yes, gold is an excellent example." "You guys can make gold?" Wayne asked, as he put the counterfeit money back down before it snuck its way into his pocket. "No," Barry replied. "Well, yes, we could, but it would be complicated." Waylon listened as Barry explained that they could make gold, but it wasn't worth the effort required. They would first have to build a fusion reactor, the AI explained. And then ... Waylon tried his best to follow the chemistry and physics of making gold. "Okay, you convinced me that making gold is too much trouble. Besides, I'm pretty sure private citizens aren't allowed their own fusion reactors, and the zoning would be a nightmare." "Waylon, we wouldn't build it within the atmosphere." "Right, silly me. So, how are you going to get this gold?" "We would mine it." Waylon blinked a couple of times. "I'm sorry to disappoint you guys, but Texas isn't known for its gold deposits. I think there are some old tall tales about abandoned gold mines in the hill country, but that's all they were. From what I remember of Texas history, silver was fairly profitable, but it's only found down around the Big Bend area. For that matter, I don't think there are any gemstones in Texas. We've got the wrong kind of geology." "There is gold, and other valuable metals, here, but it is in quantities so minute that it is not economically feasible to extract. These limitations do not apply to us, but we were thinking of extracting it from areas with higher concentrations." "Small problem there, guys. I don't own any land, or mineral rights. There's public land, I guess, but there are problems there too." "We can make diamonds," Barry said, "without the problems required for making gold, and our diamonds would be accepted as natural." Waylon leaned against his truck. He was having a serious conversation about gold and diamonds with the alien intelligences living in his skull. He rubbed his face vigorously. "They make industrial diamonds I know, but there's some kind of test to determine if they're manmade or natural." "From our research, it appears spectroscopy is used for that purpose. Our diamonds would pass any such tests. You may have a problem with them being counterfeit." "They'd still be diamond though?" "Yes." "Does it make me a hypocrite to say that I wouldn't have a problem with your diamonds?" "We are not in a position to judge your ethics, Waylon. But, after more research, we think we understand your position with regard to currency." "Thanks. Look, I'm starving. Can talk about this mining thing later?" "Whenever you wish." The outside temperature had apparently dropped overnight and it was barely above freezing. The AIs had been heating the garage interior he realized. Waylon zipped his jacket closed and opened the garage door enough to slip out. There was a great diner a block away that was popular for their large breakfasts and cheap prices. The place was only open from five to eleven a.m., the early hours served locals and the later hours catered to students. ------- Breakfast had been good. Waylon sat at the diner's colorful counter where he devoured a plateful of biscuits slathered in sausage gravy. He relaxed with a cup of coffee and started to read one of the courtesy papers. On page 4a he found a short follow-up piece about the weekend robbery attempt near Seymour. The citizen who stopped the robbery, labeled a hero by the family of the hospitalized store employee, had been identified as a local NTSU student. Waylon stared at his name. There was no photo. He wondered if he should call the paper and request a correction about the student portion of the story. It was a brisk walk back to the garage. He passed a couple of men huddled outside the back door of the business trying to light a cigarette. Waylon raised the garage door so he could back the truck out. He stood there and contemplated his finances. He had enough in savings to cover the initial costs for a lawyer, but after that he was going to be in serious trouble. He did have money tied up in bonds, but he had no intention of paying a penalty for early withdrawal. He realized, reluctantly, that he might have to bite that bullet anyway. "Mr. Eckermann, your truck is looking sharp." Waylon turned to see Mr. Newberg, the garage owner, holding a cup of coffee. "It's Waylon, Mr. Newberg. And yes, I've put my time to good use." Mr. Newberg took a step closer and spotted Waylon's camping gear, "Sleeping here?" "Yes, sir." Waylon explained about the last forty-eight hours and having been kicked out of the dorms, and the university. "I read about the shooting in the paper of course," Mr. Newberg said. "Sounds like you did the state a service, but getting kicked out of the university sure doesn't sound right. Can you appeal?" "I plan to. I'm going to find a lawyer and see what can be done on the cheap, but I'm afraid that with the holiday break a lot of the important people will be out of their offices." Mr. Newberg took a sip of his coffee, "You going to be around this afternoon?" "I've got to run a couple of errands this morning, but I probably won't be doing anything but twiddling my thumbs later." The garage owner nodded, "If you can be here around noon, you can do me a favor and I might have something for you." "I'd appreciate it," Waylon said. He could use all the help he could get. ------- The Patriot Zone Waylon locked his truck and walked toward the building. There weren't many customers, but it was still early. Waylon was glad. He didn't want to run into too many people inside the range. His name was known from the teaching he did, and he didn't want to be forced to talk about the shooting. "My friend," the big Armenian cried when he spotted Waylon coming through the door. Alphonso slapped Waylon on the shoulder and shook his hand vigorously. "I need a quiet word, Alphonso," Waylon said, indicating the lone customer with his eyes. Alphonso finished the customer's paperwork quickly and sent the security guard hopeful back to the shooting range. The security companies required a shooting proficiency test, and the local employment office often directed potential hires to the range for practice. "I've been worried about you," Alphonso said, "How are you dealing with things?" Waylon explained that he really hadn't had time to process it all, particularly with what had happened at the university. That took longer to explain than the shooting had. Alphonso was beside himself with outrage and wanted to immediately call the university and complain. Waylon appreciated his friend's sentiment, but needed to prevent him from making a scene, "I've been working on getting a lawyer, but so far nobody is particularly interested in talking to me." AI Penelope had called all the local legal offices, but only four were answering their phones. The rest had voice messages saying to call back after the holiday. Two of those who answered didn't accept walk-in clients, and the remainder didn't practice the right kind of law. Alphonso offered to put him touch with the attorney he used for the business. The name was one of those whose office hadn't answered their phones. "Waylon, I can't believe you didn't call a lawyer when the police had you in custody." "I wasn't in custody, well, not officially. They questioned me. If things had turned hostile, I would have asked for one." "You were lucky." "I think I used it all up," Waylon said. "What will you do now?" the big man asked. "Look for a room to rent, and a job," Waylon said. "And before you offer me a bunch of hours, I can't accept. If you had needed extra help behind the counter you would have hired another body already. So, I appreciate the gesture, but I'll work things out." ------- Barry and the other AIs were concerned. Their primary responsibility was to protect the host. His safety was crucial to their survival. The robbery had been instructional. As a result, AI Chief was ramping up security measures and fallback plans were being readied. They did not like Waylon's demeanor or tone of voice. The turn of events at the university had deeply affected his mood. The AIs began running tests on their virtual Waylon copy, to see if they might be able assist the host chemically. They also listened intently to Alphonso and analyzed how he interacted with Waylon. The events had been beneficial in one regard, Waylon now accepted their abilities. He had even given them liberal permission to collect raw materials and take other security related actions. AI Penelope was particularly pleased with her contributions, although they had yet to yield positive results. Norm, the Engineering AI remained focused on yet another task. Four large survey probes had been assembled and launched, but it would be some time before they obtained results. Waylon's ethical boundaries constrained their actions, but the AIs were confident of success. ------- Garage on Fifth Street Albert Newberg hung up the phone and pointed at Waylon, "I'm glad to see you." "How can I help?" Waylon asked. "Mind the counter for me for a couple of hours? I'm not expecting much business. The boys in the back are rebuilding a front end which will keep them busy. I'm expecting one customer to come in and pick up her vehicle, other than that it should be slow." "Why not? I've got nothing better to do this afternoon." "Great, I'll introduce you to the boys before I go. My brother is in the hospital and I need to go see him." "Your brother, Jacob?" "That's right," replied Mr. Newberg. "He never did take good care of himself and now it's caught up to him." Mr. Newberg took Waylon into the back and introduced him to the other employees. If he had any questions they could help him out. Mr. Newberg explained that they were good mechanics, but had lousy people skills and even worse phone manners. Waylon sat behind the small counter flipping through parts catalogs after Mr. Newberg left. There was a small AM radio tied to the desk. He turned it on and listened to old holiday classics crackle over the speaker. He had a lot of time to work through his anger. When he thought of Ms. Trammel and the Student Life Security Office, he was now able to envision retribution via a lawyer as opposed to outright homicide. He answered the phone several times and recited the garage hours. An elderly woman dropped by and Waylon returned her keys. He walked the lady to her repaired vehicle. He'd finished the crossword in the paper when a salesman dropped by. Waylon listened patiently to a presentation on the wonders of the latest nontoxic, bio-friendly hand and tool cleansing product. He took the card and the brochures and the salesman left disappointed. Mr. Newberg eventually returned from the hospital and Waylon gave him an account of the afternoon's activity. "You did good," Mr. Newberg said as he swept the brochures into the wastebasket. "I swear that company changes sales reps about every five months." "Tough business I'd imagine," Waylon said. "How picky are you about a place to stay?" Mr. Newberg asked. "I'm sleeping on a garage floor now. So, I'd say, 'Not very.' You know something I could get on short notice?" "Like I said earlier, my brother's in the hospital. He's probably not going to come out." "I'm sorry to hear it." "The family needs somebody to watch the property. I couldn't pay you anything, but there's a trailer. He's on well water out there, some city folks can't abide by that." "I've got no room to complain, Mr. Newberg." "Let's play it by ear then, say on a week to week basis?" "It works for me," Waylon replied. "It won't be much, but you've been out there so you've got an idea of it. The trailer's a mess, but we moved his possessions out over the weekend. Make yourself as comfortable as you can. I've already picked up his mutt, so you won't have to worry about taking care of any animals." Mr. Newberg gave him a set of keys and told him not to worry about the junk business. There wasn't much of it to start with. He wrote out a short note explaining that Waylon had the land owner's permission to be there. "You should probably stop and get yourself some groceries before heading out of town. One last thing, there's an old shotgun in one of the closets. It's there in case you need to deal with any varmints, big or small." ------- The Junk Yard Mr. Newberg had said the trailer was a mess. That was an extremely charitable description Waylon decided after poking his nose in. "Barry, can you guys clean this trailer without fixing or rebuilding anything, and get rid of that damn funky smell?" "It may be structurally unsound without some repair," Barry said, "but we can clean it." "Please do, I want to look around and get the lay of the land." Waylon walked up and down the rows of old cars. Some rows didn't look particularly safe, but he enjoyed looking. The temperature had dropped again. The weatherman on the radio had said they had a chance of light snow overnight. He pulled out his phone and stretched it out to tablet size. He pointed it at a car and took a picture, admiring the bones of the automobile, before stuffing the device, and his hands, back in his jacket pockets. "Is this vehicle of interest?" asked Barry. "I always wanted a classic muscle car. Maybe I can find something in here to work on." "Restored cars can be a source of revenue," Barry said. "That's true," Waylon replied, "but these cars have all been junked. They're nothing but trouble to get licensed again. Besides, the people who buy restored cars want documentation, and lots of photos, although I'm sure you guys would do a great job." "Waylon, with the raw materials here, we could accomplish a great deal." "I bet you could, but the Newberg family might notice if you guys disappeared all the metal." Waylon continued his walk. He found an ancient front end loader equipped with forks for moving cars. There was a bucket attachment sitting next to it. He climbed up on the cab and looked inside. He had the incredible boy-like urge to start it up and drive it around. "Waylon, we found something you should see." He followed the AIs directions until he came to a huge pile of ancient computers. "I wonder where they all came from ... you're not suggesting we restore this stuff?" "No, they are unsuitable for use. However, there are more exotic materials contained here than in the automobiles, and they could be very useful," Barry replied. "That may be, but it's a potential asset to the Newberg family. We can't take it from them." "Waylon, we're not suggesting you take anything. We think you should buy this property." It was at a time like this when Waylon really wished the voice in his head had a physical body so he could see if it was joking. "Guys, I just got kicked out of college, with no job, and I'm staying in a broke down trailer in exchange for chasing off looters. Never mind that there's nobody lining up to loot an old junk yard out in the boonies. On top of that, I'm in 'legal limbo' until the grand jury clears me for the shooting, and you want me to buy property?" "Yes." Waylon laughed. "You guys don't lack for big ideas. I think this is a little out of my range. How many acres is this property again? I bet it sells for over a million, easy." "City records show that the property consists of twelve hundred and eighty acres. Most of it you haven't seen, but it's undeveloped. It was last listed for six hundred and thirty thousand dollars. That price is down from the original asking price ten years ago of one point two million dollars. Environmental concerns have been raised about the land use and property prices are depressed throughout the region. Mr. Newberg was granted an extension for last year's property taxes and has no cash assets. Given the state of his finances, and apparent health, we believe that he, or his family, would be amenable to an offer." "I know we talked about raising some funds, but six hundred thousand dollars?" "Waylon, it would only require converting twenty-five pounds of gold, or several high quality diamonds, to cash." "Only twenty-five pounds of gold," Waylon echoed. ------- Chapter 6 The Junkyard Waylon stepped gently, hoping his foot wouldn't plunge through the unsteady floor. He already regretted not letting the constructors make basic repairs to the trailer. Walking too quickly across the small floor shifted something in the supports, and the entire structure creaked ominously. Some of the cabinets were missing doors, while others hung open. The trap for the tiny sink was loose and it looked like the pressboard structure underneath had simply rotted away. A large section of vinyl flooring in the kitchen area had been ripped out at some point, but at least the small walk in fiberglass shower shell was intact. The roof and windows seemed to be keeping the worst of the outside elements at bay. He threw the padding from his overnight camping adventure down over the mattress and rolled his sleeping bag out on top of it. There was a noticeable draft of cold winter air through the middle of the trailer, so he stripped off quickly and took a fast shower. Clean for the first time since his hotel stay days before, he felt reinvigorated. He considered his immediate future while he made a simple sandwich and drank from a bottle of water. "Is now a good time to continue our discussion on finances?" the artificial intelligence known as Barry asked. Waylon used one of the plastic grocery bags from his shopping trip to dispose of the dinner trash. "Let's talk about how bad this trailer is, and why you didn't want me drinking the water." "Certainly," the AI replied, "the trailer is suitable only for temporary use without major repairs. It is structurally deficient, and there is an issue with the buried sewage waste storage apparatus that the disposal system is connected to." "Are you talking about a septic tank?" "Yes, it seems unlikely that the system has been serviced in many years," Barry said. "The ground is contaminated with effluent and unacceptable levels of environmental hazards from the salvage business. It is unsafe to drink from the nearby water well." "Shit," Waylon muttered. "Precisely," Barry replied. "I just took a shower in that!" "Would you like us to effect repairs?" "Please," Waylon said as he dug through his pockets for a piece of gum. He suddenly had a bad taste in his mouth. "While you're at it, fix it so I don't fall through the floor. I don't want this thing collapsing on me in the middle of the night either." "Repairs will be completed by morning." "Thanks," Waylon replied. "We will keep the repairs subtle, so as not to arouse the suspicions of the Newberg family." Waylon agreed with the AI's caution. Besides, the repairs would save the family a lot of money. They might even prove beneficial to Waylon himself, if he agreed to the AI's crazy scheme to buy the property. While it was on his mind, he asked how it was possible for such tiny constructors to accomplish tasks like fixing the septic system or finding gold deep in the earth. Norm, the Construction AI, volunteered to explain. Some of the more technical aspects went right over his head, but Waylon grasped the main point when he realized it was a large, flexible pyramid that was almost military like. There were large 'armies' of drones that did the bulk of the work, which were managed by a control unit. Groups of control units, and their armies, were in turn managed by a supervisor. The constructors could be specialized depending on the type of work required. If a task was large enough, new groups would be generated and the pyramid would expand. Simple geometric progression meant that the constructors could undertake tasks of mind boggling scale. "So not only do I have you guys, but I've been colonized by armies of constructors?" "Precisely," AI Barry replied. "AI Norm's explanation is simplistic, but accurate. We are only the latest residents to colonize your body. Humans host a great many beneficial organisms that you are unaware of on a day to day basis." "At least they haven't started talking to me. Now, how about showing me one of the big probes you've been talking about?" "Of course," Barry replied, "Standby." Waylon looked around and tried to listen for anything out of the ordinary. "We just finished construction of a new survey probe. It is approaching now." Waylon's eyes widened when a small, cereal box sized object pushed its way through the trailer's window. It looked like the probe was breaking the surface tension on a smooth sheet of water, with the glass seeming to flow effortlessly around the probe's body. The probe was a dark, almost blackish-grey, and seemed to absorb the light. The edges and corners of the probe were rounded. As it came to a halt, level with his eyes, small control vanes appeared randomly at the corners and moved almost as if the probe was breathing. Occasionally, one of the vanes would retract, seamlessly, into the body only to reappear seconds later in a slightly different location. "Hold out your hand," Barry suggested. Waylon closed one eye and stuck out his hand. The probe drifted over the top of his hand. It took him a moment to realize what was happening. A faint, translucent cloud descended from underneath the probe and drifted over his hand. "Are those constructors?" he asked. "They are," the AI replied. "That must mean that there's a bunch if I can see them." "They exist on the sub-nano scale, would you like to know exactly how many there are?" "I think a bunch covers it don't you?" Waylon asked. "Bunches and bunches," the AI agreed. "Where is this probe headed?" "Nevada, to do some prospecting." Nevada? The AIs weren't shy about expanding their reach, Waylon realized. The cloud floated up and was reabsorbed by the probe. Its cargo collected, the probe spun about on its axis and simply disappeared. "Neat trick," Waylon whispered. He turned off the lights and got into his sleeping bag. Waylon listened to the wind whistling through the junkyard and around the thin walled trailer. He closed his eyes, but couldn't stop from taking stock of his life. In the Navy he knew what he was working toward, and he'd accomplished that and moved on to the next step. For his first semester at NTSU his goal was to make it to the next semester, and the one after that until he graduated. Now ... all he could see ahead was a long fight. Being right or good didn't mean you'd win, he knew that. At least he had a place to stay for a couple of weeks. Something clattered outside in the wind. "How's our security?" Waylon asked, cracking an eye open. AI Chief replied, "We have extensive coverage of the property and the access road. No one will approach without ample warning." "Okay, wake me if there's a problem," he said, covering a yawn with his hand. "Good night, Waylon." ------- Christmas week came and went, but that's not to say it wasn't without excitement. Waylon only ventured out a few times for groceries. His contact with the outside world was limited. He received a couple of phone calls from Albert Newberg. There had been no improvement in his brother's condition and the family appreciated that somebody was onsite to look after the junkyard. One of the detectives from Seymour called the Friday before Christmas. They had learned he wasn't living in the dorm and required a new address for their files. Waylon asked if they needed to do any more interviews, but the detective didn't think so. He explained that their work was essentially wrapped up. Their preliminary report had been sent to the District Attorney's office. Unless something changed, all that would be added to it were the toxicology findings from the coroner, which wouldn't come in for weeks. The surviving suspect had been transferred to New Mexico after a quick extradition hearing. The Texas charges would be a formality. New Mexico was getting first crack at him for the Las Cruses murders. If the teenager got life, the county would save money and not even have to try him for what happened at the convenience store. They'd keep the charges on file just in case. Two days before Christmas, Barry woke Waylon and told him he needed to read something that had appeared in the morning paper. Waylon stumbled to a section of the trailer wall where the AIs had added a new toy. To anyone else, it would simply have looked like a sheet of Plexiglas affixed to the wall. To Waylon, it was an incredibly high definition monitor. It even had a window mode, where the screen would display any scene the AIs had available to them. The resolution was such that it was virtually impossible to tell that it was artificially generated. The majestic view of the Colorado Rockies disappeared and a page from the local paper's web site was displayed. "I'll be damned," he exclaimed. Waylon touched the screen and brought up the phone application and selected a number. The call was answered on the second ring. "Alphonso, have you added columnist to your resume?" "Waylon!" cried his large friend. "The phone has been ringing off the hook here at the range. What did you think of it?" "It's wonderful," Waylon replied. "Did you know the paper was going to comment as well?" "I had no idea," replied Alphonso. "The fourth estate proves to be of service on occasion." They shared a laugh. Alphonso told him the entire story, about how he had been inspired by the injustice done to his friend to write an opinion piece. He decided that the world needed to know what had been done to a, 'young veteran and hero' as he put it. The range owner had written a thoughtful piece mentioning the absence of due process. He pounded on the fact that the university's policy directly contradicted the school official's actions, and the extremely poor timing of the expulsion. He'd even included a very kind quote from Mr. Lam, the recovering Stop n Go manager. Alphonso said the editors hadn't even changed much, just rearranged a couple of lines. The newspaper accompanied the op-ed with an editorial of their own, saying that the matter needed to be investigated fully, and that if the facts were true—as it appeared they were—then a grave injustice had been done. The paper was troubled that the normally communicative university had declined to make any official available for comment. Before he hung up, Alphonso predicted the Waylon would have no trouble getting a lawyer to take his calls. He was right, a fact that AI Penelope took great pleasure in. She fielded calls from several law firms in town. After talking with Alphonso, Waylon had been convinced to meet with the lawyer that represented the shooting range, Rusty Lightner. Penelope also handled calls from several reporters. There were calls from the local paper and the university student paper, and a handful representing the larger regional papers. The AI's response was the same for all, Waylon needed to consult with an attorney and wasn't prepared to make any public statements. She thanked the reporters to keep things cordial. When asked, the AI described herself as a friend, but declined to provide a last name. He did take a call from the campus veteran's organization. He appreciated their support. It was encouraging to hear that others were as fired up as he was. Several articles appeared throughout the regional press in the days that followed. The university dug its heels in and claimed they couldn't comment because it was a student disciplinary matter. ------- Wednesday after Christmas There was slush on the roads when Waylon drove to Levall to meet with the attorney. The spring semester was still several weeks away from starting, and the town had a between the holidays sleepiness about it. The law office was surprisingly plain. He hoped it meant that Mr. Lightner was frugal. The meeting went well. Waylon had a good case and he liked the lawyer's demeanor. "Call me Rusty," the man had insisted. The outcome and cost, Rusty explained, would depend on how strongly the university wanted to back their employee and her decision. If they backed down too early, they'd look weak to the rest of the faculty and staff. Waylon brought two items of interest to Rusty's attention. With the AI's help, Waylon discovered that Ms. Trammel had been dismissed from Smith, the exclusive women's college, for an inappropriate relationship with a student. The relationship had ended explosively, which was what brought the matter to her former employer's attention. Waylon handed Rusty printouts from the jilted lover's blog, which alleged several improprieties on Ms. Trammel's part while an employee at Smith. He also delivered the list of names from his dorm and their family contact numbers. When Waylon explained that he was one of the dorm residents who had been spied on by their resident advisor, an NTSU employee, the lawyer almost smiled. The added leverage of a suit against the university with multiple plaintiffs could be extremely beneficial in resolving Waylon's issues. He left the law office after writing a big check. Waylon was pleased to have secured Mr. Lightner's services, but his anger burned brightly once again. Rusty had made it clear that Waylon wouldn't be a student at NTSU until the case was resolved. The lawyer told him not to get his hopes up because the case could drag on for a year or more, easily. Rusty also gave him some free legal advice and extracted Waylon's promise to call if anything developed in the Seymour shooting case. The lawyer pulled no punches when he said that Waylon had been extremely foolish not to obtain counsel before talking to the detectives. AI Barry smugly told him in one ear that he'd had outstanding counsel. Waylon spent the rest of the afternoon taking advantage of the legal advice. He set up a sole proprietor business. It didn't take much thanks to the state's pro-business mantra. Waylon registered a 'doing business as' name with the county clerk. He waited longer in line than it took to fill out the paperwork. He'd tossed a few names around with the AIs, but couldn't resist a private play on words. He chose 'Wayout Ventures.' With paperwork in hand, he stopped at the bank. He had to drain his savings in order to setup a basic business account. It had been a productive, but expensive trip to town and he was happy to return to the junkyard. The trailer was now in pretty good shape. It didn't look any better from the outside, but inside it was clean and warm. The cabinets all had doors which closed properly. A patch had been put down over the kitchen flooring. The plumbing was solid, although Waylon still wouldn't drink the water. Best of all, the trailer no longer shifted on its frame. Even the drafts had been sealed off. It was all work that could be attributed to Waylon's industrious hands if questions were asked. Waylon went to the wall monitor and browsed the state's business web site. For a sole proprietorship, Texas didn't require a tax identification number. His lawyer advised that he get one anyway since it would make business dealings easier than if he used a social security number. After a few short minutes, he had a tax number. "Waylon, are we prepared to go into business?" Barry asked. Waylon scratched his head and checked off his mental list, "I believe so. Do we have any gold to sell?" "We can deliver some tonight, if you wish." "I wish!" "Are you excited, Waylon?" the AI asked. "Of course," he said. "Lately, all my money has been going out. It would be nice to bring some back in. Besides, it's gold!" "Do you have gold fever?" Waylon laughed, "I guess you could say that I have a gold temperature at least. Have you been reading about the gold rush?" "We've analyzed everything we can find on the subject." "That's good," Waylon decided. "Have you got a plan for how I'm going to explain this sudden wealth?" "You humans have a need to tell unnecessary stories," Barry said. "You will be conducting a business transaction. There will be no requirement for an elaborate explanation about the origins of the material." Waylon disagreed, "We humans are a curious species. The buyer is going to want to know where the gold came from." "Our studies have shown that gold miners are often very secretive, almost to the point of paranoia. A demand for confidentiality, and a refusal to identify the location of your gold strike, should suffice," the AI replied. "I suppose." He took a walk. He'd made it a point to try and explore every section of the junkyard looking for hidden treasures. The idea of buying the place seemed more real to him now. He was going to need, for lack of a better term, a base of operations. He'd gone to college to get an education and find a career path. Instead, he was on some ride that didn't seem to have any end in sight. He was also worried about this grand scheme. Was it something he could realistically pull off? If the AIs could acquire gold, as they claimed, was there a career in being rich? He had no idea, but he couldn't see himself sitting in a vault on a pile of gold coins for the next fifty years. He wanted to do something, and finish his education. He knew one thing. If he had money, the university would pay a lot more attention to him. "Have you found a new car?" Barry asked. Waylon looked around to see where he was. He'd completely lost track of time. "I was wool gathering," he confessed. "Although, I did see an old Bel Air coupe. A neighbor had one when I was growing up and I always thought it was a pretty cool car." "Should we add it to the list?" "Why not." Waylon said. His evening meal was uncomplicated. He'd stocked up on frozen dinners at the grocery store. It was easier than buying the ingredients and cooking for himself, and it was certainly cheaper than going to town for takeout. The AIs had offered to make some meals for him, but he wasn't quite ready for that experience. Halfway through a mildly interesting college bowl game, Barry announced that the gold had arrived and was waiting in the tool shed. The door slammed as Waylon ran outside. He had to stop himself from running the rest of the way, and instead walked, quickly, to the shed. He turned the light on and spotted two familiar probe shapes resting on the lone workbench. As he watched, a series of sealed plastic containers silently pushed their way up out of the probes' bodies. "How much is there?" he asked. "We discussed how gold is measured by troy ounce?" "Yes, but how much is that in real numbers?" Waylon swore that the AI wanted to sigh, "In real numbers, approximately a hundred and ten pounds of elementally pure gold." "That's a hundred pounds of gold?" "Waylon, gold is very dense. A cubic inch of gold weighs roughly eleven ounces, or seventy percent of a pound if you prefer. One cubic foot of it would weigh twelve hundred pounds." Waylon walked over to the nearest probe. Two plastic containers were sitting on it, each the size of a large brick. The plastic was milky in color and very thick. The other probe supported several smaller sized containers of the same material. He picked one of the containers up and was surprised at its weight. "That's roughly twenty seven and a half pounds, the approximate weight of a standard gold bar," Barry said. "Is it liquid?" Waylon said as he shifted the container, peering at its contents. "The mining constructors retrieve the gold as a very fine powder unless they find larger quantities of it. In larger granules, it is sometimes called gold flour." He picked one of the smaller containers up and shook it. He pried the lid open and looked inside. "They're nuggets." "You could not sell elementally pure gold without raising suspicions," the AI explained. "We added the right amount of impurities, and then remodeled the gold into random shapes that replicate what would be found through exploiting placer, or surface deposits. There are two containers of the 'nugget' size and the larger one contains grain size gold." "What's this little one?" Waylon asked as he shook it. "Diamonds." "You made these already?" "Actually, we found them while searching for the gold." Waylon poured the diamonds out onto his palm. There were five of them, and they looked like large glassy stones. "Are you sure?" "They haven't been cleaned or cut yet." "I don't know ... gold and diamonds. Isn't it overkill? Suspicious even?" "Perhaps," the AI answered, "Although it is not so unusual to find diamond while searching for placer gold." "It may not be unusual for you, but I say we hold the diamonds in reserve. How much is the gold worth?" "Roughly? Two and a half million..." ... Waylon could hear Barry shouting at him as if from a great distance over the sound of rushing water. He shook his head trying to clear the fog from his brain. "Waylon, are you alright?" Barry shouted. "Did I fall down?" "You fainted." "Men don't faint, we pass out." "You fainted in a very manly manner," the AI replied. Waylon sat up and put his head between his legs, "Two and a half million dollars?" "Yes, with more on the way." "I'll be damned." ------- On the road to Dallas The New Year was going to be very profitable, if everything went according to plan. Waylon was jumpy for the first twenty miles. It was a three hour journey to Dallas. He was transporting a hundred pounds of processed gold representing half of their current holdings. The AIs had taken the elementally pure gold they'd been recovering and modeled it so it matched the kind of gold that the old gold rush miners recovered through hydraulic sluices. The diamonds had been left at the junkyard where they were secured along with the remaining gold. The Dallas area had been the obvious choice to find a buyer. He was actually heading to Garland, a large suburb northeast of Dallas proper. After research, they'd decided to approach a company called Whitestar Metals. The company was well regarded in the industry and offered all the services Waylon needed. Waylon wasn't planning on going into any great detail about how or where the gold had been recovered. The AIs had been right. All he needed to do was drop a few hints and the Whitestar people were suddenly very accommodating. The gold had to be assayed, or tested, to determine its purity. Whitestar could buy the gold outright, or hold it in their vault facility where the gold would have an auditable trail. That service would allow him to bank gold, minus a variable service fee. From storage he could sell it to Whitestar or any third party. With the price continuing to climb, it wasn't a bad idea and the audit trail was a big plus for gold buyers. Whitestar was located in a well landscaped industrial complex. It was surrounded by a high fence with a barrier to prevent the curious from looking in. Waylon pulled into the sally port and rolled his window down for the guard. He showed the man his ID and the guard confirmed his appointment time. There were several buildings on the site, and they looked like any other industrial buildings you'd see elsewhere. Waylon parked by the assay office as he'd been directed. There were two armed guard inside the front door. He'd have go through a metal detector to get any further. Waylon was impressed with their security measures. "I'll need to look through your bag," the large guard said. Waylon set the hard-used leather satchel on the inspection table. It took both hands to carry it. The old tool bag had been recently reinforced. "You're stronger than you look," the guard commented when he tried to move the bag. "Would you like a cart?" "Please," Waylon answered as he gathered his pocket items from the plastic tray on the other side of the metal detector. One of the guards escorted him as Waylon pushed the rolling cart with the satchel. He was shown right into an office. It was rather plain looking, with stock photos of various industrial metals hanging on the wall. Introductions were made. Present for the meeting was a client services representative who introduced himself as Adam Zaitz, and a technician. Waylon signed a few preliminary papers to authorize the initial assay of a gold sample. He handed the small sample container over to the technician and got down to business with Mr. Zaitz. Barry fed him questions from time to time, but Waylon did a good job of holding his own. They were actually discussing important points, but the representative was also stalling for time waiting for the test results. The technician returned wearing a laboratory coat and holding a folder which he passed over to the representative. Adam smiled as he examined the report, "Excellent quality, Mr. Eckermann. Whitestar would be more than happy to provide our full range of services to you. Can I answer any additional questions?" This was it, Waylon decided. "I think you've answered them all. How do we proceed?" Adam stood up, "If you'll follow me Mr. Eckermann, we'll go on through to our intake lab and I'll give you the full tour." The technician pushed the cart and the group passed through a series of locked doors until reaching a brightly lit industrial lab. The technician had two assistants, each wearing a lab coat and gloves. They carefully opened the plastic containers and transferred the contents to trays. Adam explained that the entire intake process was recorded on high definition video and product weight was recorded at every step of the process. Waylon's containers were taken away and washed. The cleaning solution was filtered to gather any loose particles which would then be returned to Waylon's inventory. From intake, the gold was washed and weighed and taken to be spot checked against the test sample. That would take a while, so Waylon got a tour of the facility and the vault storage area. He was impressed with what he had seen. The AIs were quiet for the most part. They did give him one report that Whitestar's testing was producing accurate numbers within tolerances that the AIs could accept. It was reassuring news. After the tour, Waylon was taken to a nicer conference room to await the official results of the assay. An aide brought out a tray of snacks and drinks, but Waylon was too nervous to eat anything. He glanced around. Maybe he needed a potted plant. They seemed to liven up the conference room. The representative was called out of the room, and said he'd be right back. Waylon got up and stretched his legs. He moved to the window and stared out at the unfamiliar sights of Garland. "Mr. Eckermann?" Waylon turned to see the representative in the company of an older man. "Allow me to introduce Mitchell White, vice president of operations here at Whitestar," Adam said. Waylon shook hands with the man. "Please be seated. Mr. Eckermann. Adam knows that I like to meet clients when I can, but your account caught my eye for obvious reasons. I don't think I'm breaking any confidences by telling you that this is the largest intake of placer gold that Whitestar has ever seen. Congratulations on your find." "Thank you," Waylon replied. "Adam, has your assay results." Waylon turned his attention to Adam who tugged on his shirt collar and took a quick drink of water. Adam handed Waylon one of the folders, "This is your copy of the assay. Total weight was forty-eight point eight nine five kilograms. Purity of the gold flour was extremely high, and the larger nuggets were also impressive, as you can see from our testing." Adam cleared his throat and got a nod from Mr. White. "Based on the quality, Whitestar is prepared to offer you ninety-nine percent of spot on the flour, and spot plus two on the nuggets. In addition, we will waive our standard service fees on any similar intake and offer you a preferred rate on storage." "Waylon," Barry said in his ear, "kilograms are a gold industry standard, and the spot price of gold in New York right now is sixteen hundred fifty-one dollars and eighty cents. This is a very good deal." Adam continued, "We're prepared to transfer two point six five million to your account today." Waylon glanced at Mr. White, who was studying him carefully, and back at Adam. "You have a deal." Both Whitestar men were pleased and everyone relaxed in a convivial mood. Waylon had to sign several documents while Adam asked for a laptop to be brought in. Mr. White stayed around. A senior partner was required to sign off on such a large deal for a new client. As they waited for the laptop, so they could complete the money transfer, Mr. White asked what kind of volume Waylon anticipated for the future. He had discussed this with the AIs and went with what they had decided. "Near term, I have two more shipments of similar size and content, and a third that consists of refined gold and secondary metals we recovered." "Refined? You found the source of the alluvial gold and mined it?" Adam asked, earning him a glare from Mr. White. "Forget I asked, I know better ... it's just that ... well, you are an extremely fortunate man, Mr. Eckermann." "It's forgotten," Waylon replied, "but I do have a question. What can you tell me about your courier service?" "All our couriers are bonded. The service is low profile, and very secure. All you need to do is call me and arrange transport." The transaction laptop arrived and the transfer was completed under Mr. White's supervision. Adam slid the computer over to Waylon, and he confirmed the transfer to his account. Handshakes were exchanged all around. It was going to be a very profitable year indeed. ------- Morning in Levall Waylon locked his truck and walked into the bank. He'd barely given his name before he was hustled to a back office and offered coffee. Forty-five minutes later, Waylon left with loan approval based on his new balance. All he needed now was a willing seller. The garage on Fifth Street was only a couple of blocks from the bank. Mr. Newberg was in the office going through bills when Waylon walked in. He asked about Mr. Newberg's brother, but knew the news couldn't be good. The stress was evident on the man's face. "It won't be long now. All I can do is keep working and stay busy," Mr. Newberg said. "We'll have to pay the bills somehow." "That's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about." "The family has really appreciated you keeping an eye on the property, but you know we can't pay you." "No, sir. I understand. You might say my fortunes have turned around." "I was afraid of that. You found another place to stay?" "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about buying the property." "The junkyard?" "Yes, sir," Waylon replied. "You're serious?" "I've just come from the bank. I've secured the financing. If your brother, or his estate, is interested in selling, you have a buyer." Mr. Newberg looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Son, on any other day I'd ask you what in the fool tarnation you're thinking, but we're a little desperate. If you're truly serious, we can go talk to my banker. I have my brother's power of attorney. If we can work out a deal I'll sell it to you today." Waylon stuck out his hand and Mr. Newberg shook it with a wry grin on his face. "What the heck are you want to do with it anyway?" "It's a good piece of land—" "I'll grant you that," Mr. Newberg agreed. "—and I've got an idea or two about salvage and recycling I'd like to try out." Mr. Newberg didn't say what was clearly written on his face. As it turned out, they used the same bank. The sale was a little more complicated than it sounded, even working through the same financial institution and title company. The land and the salvage business were two separate issues. The business had debts, but there was scrap value in the junked cars. They worked out a deal beneficial to both parties. It was going to take three weeks for the title to clear. Waylon paid a nominal fee to rent the land until the closing and Mr. Newberg signed a letter allowing him to make some changes to the property before the sale was finalized. Waylon thought the three weeks would drag by, but he couldn't have been more wrong. He met with his lawyer and shocked the hell out of him with his new business venture. Once he assured Rusty that the money wasn't from any nefarious sources, the lawyer was more than happy to have a client that he could bill on a regular basis. Out at the junkyard, it was tempting to let the AIs do all the necessary work, but it would raise too many questions. Waylon, to his surprise, had little trouble spending money. It was amazing how much you could blow through with just a little effort. With his first call, he hired a crew to repair and clear the fence line around the property. The fencing was overgrown in many places and down in others. It wasn't the only thing that had been neglected. He had the front loader serviced. Despite being twenty years old, it was in better shape than its outward appearance indicated. It took some getting used to, but Waylon enjoyed operating the large machine. He used it to clear some space between the trailer and the improvised office. He hooked up the old Fort Worth transit bus and dragged it aside. He was going to need more room. Waylon hired a company to construct a large metal building for him. He needed a big covered space for the AIs to do their work. Metal buildings were surprisingly affordable and construction was speedy. The contractor put up survey lines and graded a section of the property. The utility company dug some trenches and ran lines. Before long, he had a full blown construction site in his front yard. The day after the closing, they started pouring concrete. After the slab cured, the metal building went up fast. The contractor did the electrical and plumbing rough out, but the final fitting was going to be up to Waylon. The building was painted beige and had a pitched roof. It had two garage doors large enough to admit the loader and a spacious interior. Attached to the building was a smaller, single story structure faced with concrete blocks which had been manufactured to look like natural stone. These add-ons were typically fitted out as office space on this kind of construction. The plan wasn't for the junkyard to have many visitors, but it would be required from time to time. Waylon signed off on the building after one last inspection, and the contractors cleared out. The fence crew had another couple of days of work, but they were working at the far end of the property. He owned land, and he owned a building. It was an interesting feeling. He'd never felt anything quite like it. He got down on one knee and sifted some dirt through his fingers. "Waylon, are you alright?" Barry asked. "I'm great, Barry. How about you?" "We are functioning at full capacity." Waylon chuckled. "So, what's the plan now?" ------- The night after the building contractors removed the last of their equipment, the AIs completely rebuilt the old trailer based on a design they'd found online. If anybody asked, and Waylon couldn't think of anybody who would, he'd say he purchased it. The trailer had double the space of the old and lots of nice amenities. Waylon didn't mind living in a trailer, it was comfortable and private, and it had the larger shower he'd requested. His needs were simple. He ate lunch in the trailer at the built-in table. He held a sandwich in one hand and browsed the web with the other, looking at the tabletop's computer interface. The AIs made all the best toys. The immediate plan was to start recycling the junked cars. Waylon had no idea what the AIs wanted with that much raw material, but they were eager for it. He decided that his own goal was to clear the entire property of any sign of the old junkyard. It would be a handsome piece of land when the grasses grew back. After the land was restored to its original state, maybe he'd think about building a home somewhere on the property. To his surprise, the AIs informed him that there was a car crusher on site, but it was buried under a mound of twisted steel and old cars. Waylon hadn't even realized it was there. It took a week to clear a path to the old hydraulic crusher and Waylon learned a lot about moving scrap metal in the process. He had agreed to a plan that should satisfy any overly curious busybodies. For every car Waylon delivered to the AIs, in the new building, they would recycle two on the sly at night. For every ten cars recycled, Waylon would crush one and stack it to be hauled away later for its scrap value. He'd hire different hauling companies to prevent any one driver from getting an idea of how many cars they were actually disposing of that way. At current prices, which were up, there was at least four hundred dollars of metal value in each car. It was a windfall, and it would help obscure where Waylon was really getting his money. The massive pile of old computers disappeared within the first few days. The AIs called it high quality material and wanted it first. There were a few visitors over that first week. Some were old customers of the junkyard who were curious, while others were people wanting to sell him goods and services. News of the ownership change had made the rounds. Waylon told all who asked that he was closing the business down. After his fifth salesman, Waylon arranged to have a motorized gate installed at the entrance to the property. News that he paid his bills on time had also spread, and he got rapid results. Waylon knew nothing about running a car crusher, but it was fairly basic technology. Hydraulic rams crushed the junked vehicle between two massive slabs of steel. The AIs refurbished the machinery, but left its well beaten exterior alone. He needed fuel to run the crusher and the front end loader. It had taken a couple of calls, but he finally found a delivery service that didn't have the junkyard blacklisted for non-payment. Apparently word of new management hadn't spread as far as he thought. He learned the hard way that the crusher wouldn't crush a car with an engine, which explained the big piles of old engine blocks. By the end of February, they had the recycling down to a routine. It probably would have made more sense to start at the farthest point away from the building, and work their way in, but Waylon really wanted to clear the area around where he spent most of his time. He'd managed to clear about seventy-five yards of space around the crusher before changing his mind. It wasn't so hard, and the AIs didn't particularly care one way or the other. It was a long bumpy ride in the loader to the far end of the junkyard giving Waylon time to reflect on his first months as a business owner. Things had gotten more complicated. He now had an accountant and a tax specialist. His grand idea to clear the area closest to the building and the crusher had been a good one, until the first rains. Then he had mud everywhere. After things dried out, he hired a company that came in and sprayed a grass seed and hay mixture. It solved part of his mud problems. After spending a surprising amount for crushed gravel, he put the shovel attachment on the loader and built an improvised roadway between the crusher and the building. He reached the far end of the junkyard and forked an old heap with the loader. He started the journey back. He was halfway home, when AI Penelope interrupted his thoughts. "Waylon, you have an incoming call from the Seymour police department." He answered his phone. "Mr. Eckermann?" Waylon recognized the voice, "What can I do for you this fine morning, Detective?" "Want to come pick up your firearm?" "No kidding?" "I've just come from the District Attorney's office and they're letting me make the notification call. The grand jury 'no billed' you about an hour ago." It took Waylon a moment to speak, "That's the best news I've heard in a long time. Thank you, Detective, I really appreciate you calling." "You should get the official documents in a day or two. Do you think you could come by the police department tomorrow, say around ten a.m.?" "I'll be there." Waylon hung up and shouted his relief, punctuated with a few fist pumps. He knew he'd done the right thing, but now that it was official he could breathe a little easier. He wheeled the hulk of the car inside the metal building and deposited it on the floor. He never got tired of seeing this. "Congratulations on being officially cleared in the shooting," Barry said. "Thanks." "Do you know what car this is?" This was a game the AIs had invented. Waylon was getting better at identifying vintage cars, but he was at a disadvantage. He couldn't scan the vehicle identification numbers and cross reference them with a database from his seat in the loader. "No idea." "It's a 1967 Mercury Monterey." Waylon shrugged, he'd never heard of the model. The interior of the metal building was brightly lit, but stark. The walls were bare, and the concrete floor had been sealed and hardened against wear. It was spotless but for two areas marked off by large painted rectangles. These were the designated spots for dropping off old wrecks. As Waylon watched, the air around the old Mercury began to shimmer. He was seeing a cloud of constructors beginning to devour the car. It'd take a couple of minutes before the car was completely disassembled into its constituent elements. Waylon backed the loader out of the building and parked it nearby. The Mercury was long gone when he walked back into the building. Somewhere, underneath the concrete slab, the AIs were busy putting the reclaimed material to use. They'd explained that their subterranean workspace wasn't hospitable to human life, but he'd get to see the fruits of their labors eventually. Waylon was curious, naturally, but not enough to press the issue. Besides, life with the AIs had some very material benefits that he was beginning to appreciate. He walked over to the corner of the building that belonged to his stuff. He had a couple of well organized work benches with pegboards bolted to the walls, and all the tools he could ever need. One object stood out against the polished white floor, a beautiful triple black, 1968 Dodge Charger R/T. The only color offsetting the muscle car's flawless black paint was a pair of red bumblebee stripes around its back end. Waylon loved muscle cars and hotrods, like most boys, but they were dreams for people in a different income bracket. When the AIs proposed rebuilding some of the iconic cars found in the junkyard, he had visions of driving a different one for every day of the week. In the process of assembling the Charger, he learned something about himself. He wasn't really that much of a show-off. Still, there were several cars sitting out behind the building that could be rebuilt, someday. There was a GTO, a 442, a big Chevelle, and a couple of Pony cars, but the Charger had quenched his muscle car desire. It was gorgeous. He ran his hand over the vinyl top, resisting the temptation to take it out on the road. He'd finally managed to get it titled. Compared to starting a business and becoming an 'overnight' millionaire, re-titling a salvaged car had been a real pain in the ass. Tomorrow, he'd treat himself, and the car, with a road trip. ------- Seymour, Texas Waylon gave his name to the civilian manning the front desk at the police station. A few minutes later he found himself shaking hands with the detectives who had investigated his case, and a few other department employees he'd not previously met. He finally twigged that he'd been set up. A smiling detective shoved him toward the department's small press room. There were a handful of regional reporters and several photographers. The front of the room was occupied by a family. The Lam family, Waylon realized, but he was confused to see Mr. Lam seated in a wheelchair. The last he heard, the man had been on his way to a full recovery. The Chief of Police made a few perfunctory remarks before throwing Waylon into the deep end. He stood there, with flashes going off in his face, silently cursing. The reporters asked the expected questions; how did he feel, what were his thoughts when he walked into the robbery, and so on. He kept his answers short and simple. One reporter asked if he had heard from the university about his expulsion. Waylon let his first response go by unvoiced. Instead, he tried to be diplomatic, "My lawyer says they've been reluctant to talk since he got involved—" Several people in the crowd laughed. "—obviously I can't say too much with litigation pending, but he's hopeful that the Grand Jury's findings might speed things along." Waylon took the opportunity to thank the detectives, the District Attorney, and the members of the Grand Jury. The photographers got their turn and Waylon posed for photos with the Lam family. Vinh smiled a lot, but didn't say anything. Waylon was worried about that man's health. Mrs. Lam gave a Waylon a shy hug as tears streamed down her face. The two boys looked as uncomfortable as Waylon felt. The photographers and reporters congregated around the family. They were the more compelling story. Waylon took the opportunity and made his escape into a nearby hallway. One of the detectives caught up to him and gave him a sealed box containing his gun. He signed the property transfer slip while asking about Mr. Lam's wheelchair. The detective shook his head, "Rotten luck. He survived the shooting, but the recovery almost killed him. Blood clots, at least that's the story I got. He can't talk very clearly, and he's partially paralyzed on one side. With therapy, who knows?" Shit. "Is there a fund or anything?" The detective gave him the local bank details for an account that had been setup for the family, and returned to the press room. "We may be able to help Mr. Lam if you'd like," Barry said in one ear. Waylon took out his cell phone and typed a response, 'How?' "Touch him with your right hand and we will do the rest." The Lam family was preparing to leave. Waylon made his way through the crowd and knelt down to take Vinh's hand. Waylon wished Mr. Lam and his family all the best. The drive back to Levall was subdued. Barry explained that the constructors would attempt to repair the damage that Mr. Lam had suffered. No matter the outcome, they would disassemble themselves and nobody would be the wiser. ------- Weeks later Waylon was waiting in the in the junkyard's new office, watching the video feed from the front gate. The Whitestar courier truck was due any moment. The office was a bit like a Hollywood film set. The front receiving area had been furnished sparsely, and he had an office of sorts behind one of the doors. The remaining four offices and storage space were nothing but bare floors and walls. The truck arrived and Waylon activated the gate remotely after Chief, the Security AI, informed him that the truck had passed inspection. Whitestar Metals ran a very effective and secure service. Most of that was due to the extensive background checks and training that their courier personnel underwent, but a significant amount of their security was thanks to an ingenious transport system. Their armored vehicles did not look like any armored trucks on the road. Instead, the vehicle was camouflaged as one of any number of different delivery trucks. They accomplished this through a technique perfected by the racing world. The company used a vinyl wrap applied in lieu of paint that could completely change the look of any of their trucks within a few hours. Today's vehicle was disguised a furniture delivery truck. The last one had posed as a boutique meats truck. Only a close look at the unusually thick cab glass, and beefier suspension and tires, gave a hint as to what might be underneath. Waylon exchanged greetings with the armed courier and signed the required paperwork while the driver remained inside the vehicle. This was the second pickup by the service in the two and a half months since Waylon had gotten into the precious metals game. Instead of gold flour and nuggets, the current shipment had some refined, pure gold, along with other metals that had been recovered. There were several bars of silver and one ingot of a rare earth element in the form of a metal alloy. It was potentially toxic and had to be specially sealed and labeled. The precious cargo had already been loaded into a special container provided by Whitestar. Waylon closed it with a security seal that would only be removed once the cargo reached the intake lab. The courier wheeled the hydraulic lift dolly with a practiced hand and maneuvered Waylon's cargo to the lift gate of the truck. With the rear doors open, it appeared that the truck was empty but that was part of the deception. The courier closed the outer doors and then the magic act was revealed. There was a false wall about halfway down the length of the delivery truck's cargo box. Behind the wall was the reinforced steel vault that the truck's fake cargo box had been built around. You'd need an anti-tank round to breach the mobile vault. After the truck departed, Waylon got back to the job of recycling old cars. The next morning, Waylon got a call from his Whitestar rep confirming new transfers to the business account. The gold was going to be stored for future sale when prices climbed higher, but the silver was purchased by Whitestar and the rare earth material had been snatched up by another buyer. It meant more money for the AIs to play with. One of the lower level AIs had been tasked with managing his financial assets and generating reports for the accountant. Waylon pretended to understand it all, but the financial talk bored him to tears. He only had two requirements, that there be money in his account when he needed it, and that the AI do nothing that would get him locked up for any financial crimes. ------- To Be Continued... ------- Posted: 2013-02-28 Last Modified: 2013-03-14 / 12:39:24 am ------- http://storiesonline.net/ -------