brick vibrating in his gut. His HUD simply displayed a single alert that his systems were in critical shutdown mode.
Still, he stood. Normally he’d chat her up a little because she was cute and his type by the look of her (the riders would be clamoring for it) but this was serious business, the sort of business that only came once a year. He could be cavalier with himself any other time but when he was doing his duty to an old buddy who’d asked him to take care of his son, he had to limit the charm.
Hark nudged Frankie closer. “Direct Access: The Borderlands .”
“Oh, I got to see this.” Binda moved in close.
Hark glanced at a bare wall in the room, it’s only decoration a single square in the middle. “Turn on.” Without a projector, the wall lit up in white light. To Frankie he said, “Project.”
A wide, establishing shot appeared on the wall as if backlit of rolling hills in such a bright green that it hurt his eyes.
Hark’s breath caught in his throat when he saw where he and his friend Paul Stammand had ridden into danger as free-wheeling sheriff Buster Boggins and his rascal companion Roy’s Jones. He’d spent almost three years in the low-budget Rend-V. It was a cult favorite now. Its numbers were nowhere near the big ones. But it had a special flavor, even though its principals were gone, that meant its fan base kept paying to return.
“Jump to Roy’s house.”
His access control as a principal allowed him to go anywhere he wanted. The direct jump to Roy’s cottage always caught him by surprise. It was a rough-cut timber home with beige stucco Roy’s wife kept painted every year. A hog pen out back ran up against a hay and horse barn. The corral was on the other side, as was the chicken coop, the dairy cow barn, and the vegetable gardens.
He expected to see Paul Stammand’s real-born son, Saul, rounding a corner, maybe carrying a bundle of sticks, maybe tender for the cast-iron kettle inside the home. He waited but Saul was nowhere to be seen, a grown boy, now, of ten. He had his father’s blue eyes and blond hair, and he had his own humble fan club supporting this interesting character without proper legal personhood.
Hark fought through a wave of nausea and vertigo as he realized the reason he was in this predicament wasn’t home. Saul knew he was always supposed to stick close to home on this week of the year—the anniversary of his father’s death and the time Hark could be held to fulfilling a critical promise. He had to know the boy was safe. And he wasn’t home. Neither was his mother. Hark grabbed the wall to steady himself.
“Come on, Krista, I need my memory.” He moved to Frankie and adjusted his arms. “Direct access: memory dump request.”
“Denied. You are not being tunneled by the official host—”
“Tell me something I don’t know. It was worth a try, though. List all illegal insertions: Collides Rend-V.”
“Harken Cole, specialist, unknown immersion host. Still at large.”
“Take a bow at telling me what I know. Pure brilliance. Who else?”
“Inspector Krista Cole and Agent Tripp Cole. Brief immersions. No longer present.”
“I know.”
“Who else?”
Frankie began to totter. Hark reached for him just as he fell. “That’s it for him for a while.” He set Frankie on the floor. “Get him that pillow.”
Binda set a pillow under his head. “He sure is smiling.”
Frankie’s eyes returned to normal; he shut them while mumbling to himself.
“He’ll sleep like a baby,” Hark said.
“What was all that?” Binda asked.
“I think Collides is under attack.”
Binda grinned. “And we’re the stars.”
“For the time being.”
“What’re we going to do?”
“My sister recruited you for a reason. Why?”
“I have no idea. I just got a message to look for you. Said it would help my career.”
“What are you good at?”
She looked perplexed. “Cooking. I’m a good cook.”
Hark shook his head and sat
Still, he stood. Normally he’d chat her up a little because she was cute and his type by the look of her (the riders would be clamoring for it) but this was serious business, the sort of business that only came once a year. He could be cavalier with himself any other time but when he was doing his duty to an old buddy who’d asked him to take care of his son, he had to limit the charm.
Hark nudged Frankie closer. “Direct Access: The Borderlands .”
“Oh, I got to see this.” Binda moved in close.
Hark glanced at a bare wall in the room, it’s only decoration a single square in the middle. “Turn on.” Without a projector, the wall lit up in white light. To Frankie he said, “Project.”
A wide, establishing shot appeared on the wall as if backlit of rolling hills in such a bright green that it hurt his eyes.
Hark’s breath caught in his throat when he saw where he and his friend Paul Stammand had ridden into danger as free-wheeling sheriff Buster Boggins and his rascal companion Roy’s Jones. He’d spent almost three years in the low-budget Rend-V. It was a cult favorite now. Its numbers were nowhere near the big ones. But it had a special flavor, even though its principals were gone, that meant its fan base kept paying to return.
“Jump to Roy’s house.”
His access control as a principal allowed him to go anywhere he wanted. The direct jump to Roy’s cottage always caught him by surprise. It was a rough-cut timber home with beige stucco Roy’s wife kept painted every year. A hog pen out back ran up against a hay and horse barn. The corral was on the other side, as was the chicken coop, the dairy cow barn, and the vegetable gardens.
He expected to see Paul Stammand’s real-born son, Saul, rounding a corner, maybe carrying a bundle of sticks, maybe tender for the cast-iron kettle inside the home. He waited but Saul was nowhere to be seen, a grown boy, now, of ten. He had his father’s blue eyes and blond hair, and he had his own humble fan club supporting this interesting character without proper legal personhood.
Hark fought through a wave of nausea and vertigo as he realized the reason he was in this predicament wasn’t home. Saul knew he was always supposed to stick close to home on this week of the year—the anniversary of his father’s death and the time Hark could be held to fulfilling a critical promise. He had to know the boy was safe. And he wasn’t home. Neither was his mother. Hark grabbed the wall to steady himself.
“Come on, Krista, I need my memory.” He moved to Frankie and adjusted his arms. “Direct access: memory dump request.”
“Denied. You are not being tunneled by the official host—”
“Tell me something I don’t know. It was worth a try, though. List all illegal insertions: Collides Rend-V.”
“Harken Cole, specialist, unknown immersion host. Still at large.”
“Take a bow at telling me what I know. Pure brilliance. Who else?”
“Inspector Krista Cole and Agent Tripp Cole. Brief immersions. No longer present.”
“I know.”
“Who else?”
Frankie began to totter. Hark reached for him just as he fell. “That’s it for him for a while.” He set Frankie on the floor. “Get him that pillow.”
Binda set a pillow under his head. “He sure is smiling.”
Frankie’s eyes returned to normal; he shut them while mumbling to himself.
“He’ll sleep like a baby,” Hark said.
“What was all that?” Binda asked.
“I think Collides is under attack.”
Binda grinned. “And we’re the stars.”
“For the time being.”
“What’re we going to do?”
“My sister recruited you for a reason. Why?”
“I have no idea. I just got a message to look for you. Said it would help my career.”
“What are you good at?”
She looked perplexed. “Cooking. I’m a good cook.”
Hark shook his head and sat
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