Mako: The Mako Saga, #1

By Ian J. Malone

It's just a game…or is it?

 

On the heels of his divorce, down-and-out history professor Lee Summerston doesn't have a lot going for him—a nowhere job at a third-rate college with kids who don't care about anything except how to slide through class. All of that changes, though, when Lee leads a team of old friends to virtual glory as the first-ever group to beat Mako Assault, a revolutionary new game that has emerged from nowhere to take the Internet by storm.

 

As a reward for their achievement, the group is flown to meet the game's mysterious designer and assist in developing the follow-on game Mako 2.0. But what they find when they get there is more than they'd expected…much more.

 

Mako's intent was never to entertain its players. It was to train them.

 

An epic sci-fi thrill-ride of action, suspense, laughter, and romance, Mako is the story of five ordinary people who will have to rise to the challenge of extraordinary events, driven only by their faith in each other. If they can't, the game will become very real to more than just themselves—the Earth itself may ultimately be at stake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theogony Books
• Release date: Nov 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781648550294

Book preview

Prologue

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Expeditionary Log: Day 203

ASC Senior Science Advisor

Supplemental Entry: P-2 (Personal)

I watched as another sixteen squadrons fell today. That brings this week’s total to forty-nine—and it’s only Wednesday. I shudder to think what the year-to-date numbers look like already.

We were supposed to have something by now—anything—a single shred of a lead, for gods’ sakes. It’s been seven months since we arrived, and despite the thousands of manhours my staff and I have poured into this project, we still have nothing to show for it. All the while, our people are dying by the score back home, holding out hope that by some miracle, we’ll find answers.

In total candor, I’m beginning to wonder if maybe the sergeant major isn’t right. Maybe our lack of results is my fault. Granted, I could never admit that to the crew, but ultimately, this is my simulation. I wrote the protocols. I set the OS parameters. I laid the traps. Hell, I decrypted the data that brought us here in the first place—and for what? To see just how many subjects I could wash out in half a year’s time?

Honestly, I don’t know anymore. I only know that our entire way of life hinges on this program’s success, and as of right now, we don’t have a single viable candidate, much less an entire team to show for it.

Still, there may be one possibility: a new group based on the American East Coast. True, they only enlisted a month ago, so they’re untested. But they’ve shown real promise thus far. Commitment, resilience, innovative thinking, execution. I’ve flagged them for observation until something better comes along.

As it stands, we’ve less than six months remaining on this project. After that, we’ll have no choice but to pack up and return home. But what’ll be left of that home when we get there? If our last relay with Retaun was any indication, the war is not going well, and while the admiral remains adamant that the lines are holding, I’ve known him long enough to know when he’s holding something back. He looked exhausted during yesterday’s briefing—absolutely exhausted—and his body language alone told me all I needed to know. We’re losing. Badly.

I myself am no stranger to exhaustion these days. I can’t recall the last time I managed more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep. Plus, my knee is killing me. To her credit, Dr. Reynolds has kept the replacement functioning. However, until we reach home, a true repair isn’t possible. For now, all she can do is help manage the pain—not that this is of any real importance in the grand scheme of things.

Alas, the war rages on, and as the enemy draws ever closer to our shores, our time—both as a project and a people—may soon be at an end.

JR

* * * * *

Part One

Chapter 1: New Beginnings

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Savoring every last sizzling degree of the northern Florida sun on his shoulders, Lee Summerston sliced his way through another pass of the Atlantic surf, his body awash in the cool, emerald mist splashed upward by his board. He loved surfing, and had, ever since picking it up last year after moving to Jacksonville. Granted, the waters of Neptune Beach had never been known for the towering curls and mammoth shoots of the West Coast, but they fed Lee’s craving for adrenaline while keeping him off the couch. And three-to-five-foot waves were about all he could handle so soon in his surfing career.

As the hands on his dive watch ticked by, Lee cruised along the shoreline, soaking up each second of the serenity he always found there. For Lee, being out on the coast was as easy as breathing. No matter how stressful or chaotic his life had become in recent years, there was always something about the sun, the sand, and the surf that put him at ease. He had happily taken up surfing as an excuse to spend more time on the beach. Sadly, water sports weren’t the only thing on his itinerary, though, and by 7:15, the real world was beckoning.

We don’t need no education.

After stopping at the pierside shower for a rinse, Lee slicked back his shaggy brown hair then gathered his belongings and cut through the parking lot toward his most prized possession: a mint-condition Jeep CJ-7, restored to its original Silver Met and slumbering without its top at the gravel’s far end. He slid a hand through the roll cage and fished two items from the back seat: a bungee cord for securing his board and a tattered duffel bag with his clothes for the day. In line with Lee’s usual wardrobe, they consisted of faded jeans, a button-down cargo shirt, and flip-flops, or flips, as he called them. Were it up to him, he would have skipped the second article in favor of a T-shirt. However, the sizable tattoo on his upper right arm coupled with the school’s policy against faculty having exposed body art negated that option.

Whatever. Lee rolled the cargo’s sleeves past his elbows and climbed into the driver’s seat, catching the reflection of his stubbled face in the rearview mirror. Day one of fall semester already. He frowned and reached for his sunglasses. Ain’t that just grand.

Following a quick pit stop at Bella’s Corner Coffee Bean, a locally-owned brew house he’d found through a friend, Lee headed for the dilapidated downtown campus of Layne College. He couldn’t believe he’d drawn eight o’clock classes again this semester—and every morning, no less. True, he loved the content, particularly as it pertained to military history, his specialty. But his goal had always been to work as a researcher, not a low-totem adjunct lording over Christmas-treed exams, half-baked essays, and late-night term papers written on energy drinks and Adderall. Even still, as much as Lee hated the gig most days, he couldn’t bring himself to shortchange it. He’d been raised to believe in always giving an employer his best, no matter the task. And besides, for every three snot-nosed punks who wobbled into his class hungover, there was always that one who actually showed up to learn something. Lee wouldn’t sell that kid short. He couldn’t, not even for a paycheck that scarcely paid the rent, let alone the mountain of student loans facing him.

Lee heaved a sigh and focused on the palm trees swaying in the breeze beneath a brilliant southern sky. Never mind that he’d mortgaged his future, professionally and personally, on a doctorate which apparently wasn’t worth spit in a down economy, or that his career as a researcher was circling the drain sans a whiff of publication. At least he had his coast, and given that he could’ve just as easily landed at a frozen junior college in Syracuse, New York—yuck—that, to him, was something.

The a cappella bars of Kansas’s Carry on Wayward Son crackled from the Jeep’s radio, drawing a dark chuckle from Lee, who cranked the volume. After that, it was on to the Layne campus, and what Lee hoped would be a halfway-bearable semester.

* * *

Mornin’, everybody. Lee eyed the stream of latecomers as they shuffled in, heads down, from the back. My name is Dr. Lee Summerston. Let me be the first to welcome you to HIS-2321, Intro to Warfare History. Now, I know it’s early—

Ya don’t say, someone muttered through a mild chorus of groans.

Lee cocked an eyebrow, silencing the room. Like I was sayin’. I know it’s early, for all of us. But all I’ve got planned for today is an orientation to prep you for the semester. That’s it. If you’ll bear with me and hold your questions ’til the end, I promise I’ll have you out of here in plenty of time for a coffee reload en route to your next class. Deal?

They nodded.

Excellent. Lee tapped his podium. Now, since most of y’all are history majors, you’re obviously required to be here as part of your curriculum. Some of you, though, came by choice as an elective, and I’m glad you did. Whatever your reason for bein’ here, it’s my sincere hope that somethin’ about this class sparks your interest. I know it did mine, way back when.

Are we gonna get extra credit for attendance? someone asked with a yawn from row four.

You mean, am I gonna give you free points for not bein’ a total slacker? Lee stifled an eye roll. No. After today, I don’t take attendance again until the final, and even then, it’s only because I have to. The way I see it, you’re here on your own dime. If you wanna be here, you will be. If you don’t, then you won’t. Either way, your grade will be what you make it. With that said, I will toss you the occasional pop quiz.

Another chorus of groans.

Yeah, yeah. Relax. Lee dismissed them with a wave. All quizzes are for extra credit, and none count against your grade. They’re purely gimme points for those who may need to prop up their grade by the end of the year. The catch is, you must attend class to get them. No makeups.

A female student with an auburn ponytail raised her hand. What kind of questions will we get on the quizzes?

Lee tilted his head. Let’s just say it behooves you to know that it’s fall and I’m an avid college football fan.

So, check the scores before class, she said. Got it.

Satisfied with his opening, Lee grabbed the stack of course syllabi and began handing them out. In the third row, he spotted a heavyset kid in a gray athletics T-shirt slouched low in his seat. The boy looked completely oblivious to the world, too, eyes buried on whatever he was reading.

Lee craned his neck for a glimpse of the magic document’s cover. It was the course textbook.

My ass. Not wanting to tip the kid off, Lee continued handing out papers as he eased down the row. "Gamer-Prime Magazine, huh?"

The boy lunged to corral his coffee before it could topple onto the girl seated in front of him. He got a scowl back for his efforts. I, um...

Lee scooped up the magazine, which had fluttered from the boy’s textbook onto the carpet. Somethin’ tells me this ain’t gonna be on the final.

The boy peered sheepishly away as snickers circled the classroom. No, sir. I suppose not. I’m sorry.

Lee’s first instinct was to pocket the journal until class ended. But then something occurred to him. Here was a chance to make a point. What’s your name, kid?

Kyle, the boy said. Kyle Munson.

Tell you what, Kyle. Lee handed over the magazine. Hang onto this and don’t take it out again.

Kyle regarded his professor with bewilderment. Thank you...I think.

Don’t thank me, Lee said. "Thank the Gamer-Prime editorial staff. They handed you a peach of a cheat on page forty-three, and you’ll need that on E-14. Trust me, it’s a bear of a stage."

Kyle sat up straight. Sir?

"That’s the Mako Assault article, right?" Lee asked.

Ah, yeah?

And I’m assumin’ your clan is stuck on one of the earlier environments? E-10 or 11, maybe?

Kyle was speechless. E-9, actually.

E-9. Lee stroked his chin whiskers. Oh, right. Nine. That’s the bunker stage, ain’t it?

Yes, sir.

You make it in yet?

Yes, sir. We hacked the core and got the files, but CIB’s intel said—

Let me guess, Lee interrupted. The intel said that security’s response time was somewhere north of ninety seconds, only you’re gettin’ pinned down at the gate inside of sixty. Sound about right?

Kyle blinked. Yes, sir. That’s pretty much it.

A word of advice on CIB’s projections, Lee said. Always take them with a grain of salt. Historically, the bureau’s numbers are solid out of the chute. It’s when boots hit the ground and things go to pot that the data goes awry. Factor that into your mission prep, and you should do fine. Most days, anyhow.

Kyle offered a slow nod. Any pointers on beating the bunker?

Lee glanced at his watch. How good’s your com-spec?

Are you kidding? Kyle grunted. "Zeus full-on mastered Alystierian code via beta site training before we even started the game. The guy’s, like, untouchable. He’s the best MA hacker on the net!"

Lee flashed a wry smile. With respect, sport, I can assure you he ain’t. Anyway, tell Zeus there’s a secondary function in the primary security mainframe that’ll allow him to trip an installation-wide lockdown. He can access it using the ident-code Alpha, Zulu, sixty-four, Charlie. That should buy you the time you need to break to your ship and egress.

The boy sank back in his chair, visibly impressed. Is that how your clan got out?

No. Lee returned to his podium. We went another route. I found the lockdown code after the fact.

Really. Kyle arched an eyebrow. How’d you beat it then?

Lee had been waiting for that question. I did a case study once about a unit of British soldiers in World War II who found themselves in a similar situation. They were pinned down by the Nazis in a small village outside of Vienna, and they had intel that was vital to the Allies. Needless to say, they got out, and I modeled a lot of my workup for E-9 off their ideas.

And what did they do?

Lee grinned and pointed to the boy’s textbook. You can read about it yourself. It’s on page forty-six of your makeshift mag cover.

Kyle tried in vain to stifle a laugh as a series ewwws trailed around the room. Sir, can I ask you a question?

Sure, but make it quick.

Where are you?

Lee looked up. I’m sorry?

In the game, I mean, Kyle said. "In Mako Assault. Your team’s clearly past E-15, which is impressive on its own. But where exactly are you? E-19? 20?"

Don’t worry about it.

Oh, c’mon, Dr. Summerston. You just called me out in front of the entire class. At least throw me a bone for my troubles. Seriously—gamer to gamer—where are you?

Lee put down his pen and exhaled. We’ll begin E-42 tonight.

E-forty... Kyle stopped short. Only one clan in the world has—

Lee propped his hand on the podium, presenting his Florida State University class ring for the boy to see.

No freakin’ way! Kyle all but launched from his seat. You’re totally a—

Okay, class, if you’ll open your syllabus, we’ll get started.

* * * * *

Chapter 2: Echoes

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Fifty-five obnoxious minutes later, having answered six questions about the final, four about the term paper, two more about attendance, and another three about his grading system—as if none of that was covered in the syllabus—Lee crammed his thumb drive and leftover materials into his briefcase for the trek to his office.

So much for a short day one, he grumbled, waving goodbye to Kyle, who’d all but bum-rushed him after class for a round of twenty questions: Mako Assault edition.

What did you do on E-4? the kid asked excitedly. How did you get past the second wave on E-8? Is the ambush on E-16 legit? Do you ever square off with Commandant Masterson, or is he just a myth?

Blah, blah, blah, blah. In truth, Lee couldn’t hold it against the kid. After all, he’d been every bit as excited once he’d gotten hooked on Mako six months ago—still was. That’s why he’d shirked pretty much every responsibility he had that weekend to run back through his workup for E-42. Laundry, lawn work, cleaning the war zone that was his kitchen—none were as high up on the priority list as the upcoming campaign. To Lee’s knowledge, only a handful of clans had made it as far as E-42, and at present, out of an estimated thirty-six million users worldwide, his was the lone one even close to the end. Naturally, this had drawn their team a modicum of celebrity status in gamer circles.

Lee tucked his briefcase under his arm and turned out the lights, pulse quickening at the thought of what tonight could mean. True, there would be no monetary reward for beating Mako—although given last month’s utility bill, that would’ve been nice. There’d be no press interviews. No camera flashes or ticker-tape parades. Just the personal satisfaction of achieving something that literally no one else in history had done.

In short, beating Mako Assault meant having the chance to be proud of something again, and Lee hadn’t felt that in a very, very long time.

Jingling his keys into the lock of his office door, Lee pushed through the opening and tossed his briefcase next to the hand-me-down desk he’d inherited from a departing colleague. It wasn’t much to look at, all pencil-scarred wood and dented sheet metal, but it wasn’t in danger of collapsing on him, either. That alone was a welcomed upgrade from his last workstation.

Lee rolled his office chair to the desk and flipped on the ancient computer tower at his foot. The machine buzzed and sputtered to life. Meanwhile, Lee began sifting through the mail from his faculty box outside.

Junk, junk, more junk. Lee froze when he came to a large yellow envelope. On its face was the State of Florida’s official seal. Clerk of the Court: Leon County was stamped at the top.

Lee sucked in a breath and blew it out. He’d waited eight long months for this package, far longer than it would’ve taken had he bothered to show up in court when it’d all been finalized. Alas, he’d wanted no part of that meeting. There’d been nothing to gain from it, save for expedited paperwork and the reopening of a whole lot of wounds. Nobody wanted that, least of all Lee, whose psyche had been nowhere even close to stable at that point.

Better to stay home and leave the drama to the lawyers. Thankfully, Lee had an ace in the hole there. One of his best friends just happened to be an attorney.

Lee aimed a pensive stare at the photo of his parents nearby then ran his fingers through the envelope’s gluey seal to retrieve the documents inside. He pulled them out, inspecting the top form’s headline first. Dissolution of Marriage.

Finally...

I’m a cowboy. Jon Bon Jovi’s voice snapped Lee from his reverie. On a steel horse, I ride.

Lee pulled his cell phone from his jeans’ pocket and flipped it open, not bothering to look at the caller ID. What’s up, Dick?

Oh, look, a cop joke. The voice on the other end sounded less than amused. How wonderfully original.

Hey, man, if the gumshoe fits...

Wow, you’re just full of zingers today, aren’t you?

Lee cracked a grin. How’s it goin’, Danny?

Just another gorgeous day in food-stamp paradise, bro, Danny Tucker said. How’s life in Jax?

Same ol’, same ol’, Lee said. Took in a few waves this mornin’ before comin’ to class. Other than that, not much else is new.

Danny made a clicking sound with his tongue. Nice to have hobbies. I’m a fan of them myself, when I can actually afford them.

Lee knew the feeling. The only reason he owned a board was because he’d traded for one at a pawn shop. How’s the job search goin’?

Danny grunted. It’s going. Not nearly as fast as I’d like, but it’s going.

Any new leads?

Maybe. I got a line on some stuff down south, but it’ll be a while before I know anything. Also, a buddy of mine at Atlanta PD says they’re hiring, but we’re not sure yet how my credentials would transfer from state to state. Beyond that, I got nada.

Lee drummed his fingers. Any chance you could pick up some reserve hours with the sheriff’s office in Tally? I mean it’s not like you’re on bad terms with them. You were let go on budget cuts, not because you were fired.

That’s true. Problem is there are no hours to be had, reserve or otherwise. Every agency in the state is being forced to tighten their belts right now. That puts money at a premium to pay their existing force. By the time that happens, there’s not much left, even to pay someone like me with ten years’ experience. Danny sighed. I’d be screwed right now if it weren’t for my unemployment benefits, and those run out in March. I kid you not, bro, it sucks up here right now.

Lee hung his head and wished like crazy that he was in a better position to help his friend. Well, I’ve got a futon that’s all yours if you decide you need a change of scenery. You say the word, and you can stay as long as you like.

Ha. Danny chuckled. I appreciate the offer, amigo, but I’ve been shot at before. And frankly, it kinda sucks.

Lee frowned. Knock it off. It ain’t that bad.

Ain’t that bad? Lee, I’ve got friends at Jax SO who work that part of town. You know what they call your neighborhood? The Demilitarized Zone!

Lee’s sympathy for his friend was suddenly waning. Whatever. It’s a two-bedroom place for five-fifty a month, and on what I make, I’ll take it—lights and sirens or not.

Way to stick to your guns, professor.

And now he’s got jokes.

Danny chuckled again. Sarcasm in the face of reality, bro. It’s how we roll. You, of all people, should know that by now.

Lee pursed his lips.

So, Danny said. What else is new in your world?

Lee’s gaze drifted back to the envelope.

That can’t be good.

It’s nothin’. Don’t worry about it.

No, no, pal. There’s quiet with you, and then there’s silent. The second generally means something’s up, so dish. What happened? You get caught in a broom closet with a sorority girl or something?

Lee rolled his eyes. No, Hef. Unlike some people, I don’t feel compelled to tap everything that moves just because I’m single.

Ah, c’mon, Danny chided. Gimme a little credit. I’m kinda picky...sometimes, maybe.

Danny, we’ve been friends almost twenty years, so I think I’m qualified to say this. There are fat kids at dessert buffets who are pickier than you.

My boy Lee Summerston, Danny said through an audible smile. Chivalrous to the last. You’re a man of a different era, my friend.

Yeah, well, the papers on my desk say I’m an asshole and a failure of a husband.

Danny’s jovial tone vanished. I take it they finally came.

In my box this mornin’.

Sure took ’em long enough, Danny muttered.

That was my thought, too.

So. Danny paused. How do you feel about that?

Lee studied the finger where his wedding band had been. The tan line wasn’t even there anymore. Mixed, I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad the whole thing is over. But it still sucks to be here.

Trust me, I get it. Danny said. Nobody gets to be as cynical as I am about relationships without having gone through the Big D at least once. The fact remains; no matter how justified someone is to end their marriage—and let’s face it, you were about as justified as it gets—divorce is never easy. That’s why I ask the question. Are you okay?

I’m fine. I’m just...glad it’s over.

Damn straight, Danny said. I know how hard it was for you to walk away, Lee, because I know the caliber of man you are. When you commit to something, you see it through to the end no matter what. That’s an admirable quality. Too bad your ex didn’t share it. Otherwise, she might not have climbed into a car with a guy not named her husband.

Lee winced.

You made the right call, Lee. You deserve better. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

Lee allowed himself a moment to let his friend’s compliment sink in before responding. Thanks, Danny, seriously. Were it not for you and the others, I don’t know that I’d have survived that ordeal. Not with much sanity left, anyway.

Ah. Danny’s tone was dismissive. You might’ve come through it with a slight drinking problem and a massive inferiority complex, but you’d have survived.

Lee scratched his whiskers, happy to not have the drinking problem, anyway.

So back to the matter at hand, Danny said. I’ve already talked to Hamish, Link, and Mac about tonight, and they’re all set. That just leaves you, professor. You’re not gonna ditch us for your high-society friends again, are you?

Lee grimaced. Yeah, sorry about that. In my defense, though, when the head of your department throws a faculty dinner at her house, you’re kinda diggin’ your own professional grave if you don’t make an appearance.

"Excuses, excuses. The way I see it, this is all your fault anyhow. I never even liked video games until you and the others got me roped into this Mako Assault crap. Now beating it is all I’ve got to look forward to."

Oh, waah. Lee’s baby cry needed work. Don’t act like you’re totally devoid of ways to pass the time over there, or people to do it with. You’ve got options.

Danny’s silence said he clearly didn’t follow.

I’m referrin’ to Gloria, Lee said.

Who?

Gloria. You know. That college-girl server from Marie’s you were seein’ the last time I was in town.

Danny had to think about that for a second. Dude, that was Kelly. She graduated six months ago and moved back to West Palm.

Lee scratched his head. Then who was Gloria? The bank teller?

No, that was Charlene.

I thought Charlene was the aerobics instructor from Philly.

Close, but no, Danny said. That was Darlene. And it was yoga, not aerobics.

Lee huffed at the ceiling. Good Lord, son. How do you keep track of this stuff? In a spreadsheet?

Danny made an audible eh in lieu of a shrug. So, back to tonight. You will be there, right?

Yes, I’ll be there. Jokes aside, nobody wants to beat this thing more than I do. Rumor has it the first clan to do so gets a test flight with the new SF-13, and I want a peek at her while she’s still in prototype.

Danny scoffed. You do realize that there are real-life girls out there who are way more fun to fantasize over than some digital space jet, right? Maybe you even get super crazy and take one of them out for a change.

Lee frowned. Sorry, hoss, but you’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly ready for the broom closet yet.

And no one is saying you should be, Lee. Danny’s tone flashed serious again. But you’ve heard the old axiom about getting back on the horse? Well, my man, the ink on those papers is officially dry, and while nobody thinks you oughta saddle up for the Kentucky Derby—me included—it wouldn’t kill you to stroll past the stables on occasion.

Lee cocked his head. Sage advice. And how much do you pay in alimony, again?

"Dude! That was so below the belt, I might be sterile."

Lee had a comeback for that one, too, but he lost the thought when someone knocked at his door. It’s open.

A young female in jeans and sandals entered with a syllabus.

Gotta go, Danny, Lee said. I got a student here.

Chick?

None of your business.

Stables, bro, stables! And remember, if those beach girls in Jax don’t work for you, there’s always one in Athens who’d love to see your ugly mug. Think about it.

Lee was truly happy to be going. Later, Danny.

Later, Lee! And happy hunting!

* * *

Did you receive my recommendations for tonight’s protocol changes?

I did.

And?

And I have no intention of changing anything. The program is fine as is.

"I respectfully disagree, Doctor. I made my thoughts on this very clear during yesterday’s briefing. I am adamantly opposed to the integration of a rescue-op scenario into the simulation. We’ve spent nearly a year on this project, and I’m not prepared to throw that away on five strangers who may or may not be able to make a snap decision in a firefight. We’re too close to going home."

"Oh, I’m well aware of your objections to the Sygarious Protocol, just as I’m also aware that the leaking of its existence onto the net was a direct result of your decision to send unauthorized personnel into my simulation. You had no right to deploy your people, Keith. That was a blatant violation of internal security, and given everything that’s at stake here, you, of all people, should’ve known better."

Stop your whining. It’s my job to put your software to the test. I make no apologies for my methods, and besides, all of this could’ve been avoided if you’d been more open with me in the beginning.

"The Sygarious Protocol is a crucial component of this project’s success—perhaps even the key—because it will reveal to us the character of this team. We already know what we need of their skills, which are clearly beyond compare. But when everything is on the line, are they able to look past the mission and risk everything they’ve worked for to do what’s right? That is what this protocol is designed to tell us. However, it only works if the initial choice is an instinctive one. The presence of those prisoners must remain a secret, and your actions last week may have compromised that."

Relax, Doctor. We saw to our mess. There is no trace of your precious protocol anywhere on their internet. We’re clean.

I hope so, Sergeant Major, because if there is one thing that you and I can agree on, it’s that we’re almost out of time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have preparations to make before their launch at seventeen-hundred hours.

"Fine. Go tend to your beloved simulation. This whole project is just a waste of time anyway."

* * * * *

Chapter 3: Rise of the Game Changers

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Grateful that his last class of the day had gone off without a hitch, Lee locked up his office and headed for the exit, his thoughts still on his buddy in Tallahassee. Of all his friends from the glory days, he’d known Danny the longest. The duo had met in high school when Danny’s father, a world-renowned psychologist, moved his family from Miami to Lee’s hometown of St. Petersburg to launch his own practice. Danny and Lee met in a beginner’s guitar class, and, sharing a strong love of music, the pair hit it off at once. It wasn’t until later in college that they’d met the others, having stumbled into a dumpy basement dive bar just off campus at Florida State.

The Pourhouse. Lee chuckled at the memory. He’d hated the place initially. It was dark, dirty, and reeked of cigarettes—not at all a spot to meet girls. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined what the place would mean to him by the time he left Tally. What it would mean to all of us.

After firing up the Jeep’s elderly engine, Lee pulled onto North Main Street toward the weatherworn townhouse he’d called home for the last year. Tucked away in an aging community near the old Evergreen Cemetery, the place offered little in the way of lavish comfort. Dank and dingy, it boasted peeling paint, fried shag carpeting, and a floorplan that was almost devoid of natural light. Danny had likened it to a dungeon on his first visit.

Lee hadn’t argued. Still, with no need for roommates at such a bargain-basement price, it was his dungeon and his alone. At a time in his life when peace and quiet were everything, he would take it.

Pulling into the drive ahead of an afternoon rain shower, Lee threw the top over his Jeep’s roll cage then jogged to the front door as the first few drizzles began to fall. Inside, he tossed his keys onto his dining table and surveyed the wasteland of trash and dirty dishes covering his snack bar.

"Just because you live in a dump doesn’t mean you have to live in a dump," his mom would’ve said. Lee wouldn’t have disagreed, either. Bachelor or not, even he had his limits when it came to living in filth.

Two hours later, after replacing the smells of ripe trash cans and stale beer with the fragrance of ammonia and chemically-manufactured pine, Lee gave his stovetop one final pass with the sponge.

The phone in his jeans began vibrating again. Lee retrieved the device. He had a group text from Hamish and Link, both members of his team. You losers better not be bailin’ on me!

A Pourhouse mainstay, Hamish Lunley had been born in Chicago then adopted as an infant by Scottish immigrants. When he was around three years old, Hamish’s family left Illinois and returned home to North Berwick, a small bayside town just outside of Edinburgh, so that his father could take over the family medical practice.

Hamish was sarcastic, quick-witted, and most times exceptionally loud—all qualities that made him a hit with his peers. Still, he was always something of an outcast. Some of that had to do with his personality, which bordered on brash. Some of it, however, stemmed from the fact that Hamish’s biological parents were African-American. That literally made him the only black Scot in a school of just under fifteen hundred students.

Regardless, Hamish always stood out in a crowd, if for no other reason than people flocked to him to hear such a peculiar accent boom from such an unlikely source. One of those people was Link Baxter, Hamish’s best friend. Physically, the two couldn’t have been more different. Standing six feet, two inches tall and weighing in at two hundred eighty pounds, Hamish sported broad shoulders, a shaved head, and the physique of a bowling ball. Link, meanwhile—at five feet, six inches with pale skin and thick black hair on his face and head—looked more like a stick figure with fur. Still, the duo did share the same wisecracking temperament, and when paired together in public, especially at a place that served alcohol, they inevitably seized the limelight.

Just checking in to confirm that we’re still on for tonight, the text read.

Whew. Lee typed up a response then pocketed his phone. After that, he cut back through the kitchen toward what had once been the townhouse’s garage. Now it served as a bonus room, and it was this feature that’d drawn Lee’s attention to begin with. After all, what newly single guy in his early thirties didn’t love a man cave?

Stepping down into the dark, Lee found the light switch near the door and flipped it. The fluorescent bulbs overhead flickered on. Meticulously decorated with treasures from every flea market, garage sale, and online ad in three counties, the room housed a plywood bar in the back corner, alongside a billiards table, a dartboard, and a trio of old-school arcade games that Lee had scored at an auction. There were also bookshelves on every wall, each lined from front to back with texts. An avid bookworm since childhood, Lee read everything from academic papers and journals to comic books and crime thrillers. He’d even taken a stab at the teen vampire novel in his desk drawer, though only his sister knew of that one.

As home décor went, however, Lee would’ve been hard-pressed to pick a favorite over the classic western movie posters behind his bar. High Plains Drifter, Pale Rider, Silverado, Tombstone. Those were the films he’d grown up with, and while he would forever love the Star Wars and Citizen Kanes of the world, there had always been something about a good, old-fashioned western that he couldn’t seem to get enough of. Maybe it was their grand epic scale—or in the case of the later Eastwood films, their darker, more-complicated antiheroes—but ever since watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid as a boy with his father, he’d been infatuated with their stories of heroism, justice, and life in the Old West.

Grabbing a bottle of water from the bar, Lee slid past the dartboard and headed toward the room’s centerpiece. It was, in retrospect, the only good thing to come of his student loans: a first-class, full-service, video gaming suite, complete with twin flat screens, a digital home theater system, webcam interface, and a custom-built beast of a computer console that reduced most IT guys to giggling schoolgirls.

Activate console. Taking a seat at the desk, Lee waited while the system booted up.

The funny thing about Mako Assault was that