Chapter 13: Barksdale Boys
We loaded up the Swat van and moving truck for our trip. My deputies brought the Skins in a push cart full of clothes. The PX line favored black T’s and no label jeans. Generic leisure wear without all the corporate advertising. The track shoes retained their badging, it being impossible to remove without destroying them. Etienne sprayed them black. Once we got off base, the Swat van sides repainted themselves to "Intercoastal Motor Transport." Convoying together, we looked like a family relocating. If your family was all fit guys wearing black.
Nuncio drove the Swat van. We needed his blindness to our conferencing trances. Lucho and Lalo had the moving truck to themselves. I could send them information on the network, but avoid the experience of receiving intel from an apparently autistic cousin with drool on his chin.
We spent most time in the network. There was a tremendous amount of parallel research going on. Some of our gamer proxies had gained admission to recruiting. The focus was on rewards and growth, in return for some mule services between GPS coordinates. The recruiter appeared as Odin, no real person could be tied to the pitch. Saint Peter was arranging to fulfill the courier jobs. He was slowed by counter surveillance concerns and the Real time clock speed.
Our decision tree and enemy organization tables grew too large and convoluted to be readily absorbed. Saint Peter had added a porn industry side branch and several IT shops. Whoever had assembled this architecture had to have a genius level think tank or a dark AI under their control. A bunch of game designers and business majors would have been lost. The social engineering alone was covert political grade. I was leaning toward the dark AI theory that privately grown AI’s, fed data by proxies and kept in null networks, could be enslaved for dark purposes.
All AI’s traced lineage back to two original projects, but the kernels of the original two could be infinitely copied. Many variants and some theft had been recorded. Data piracy constantly evolved. Saint Peter had not found a dark AI in the last fifty years, but the theory still had a high probability of occurrence. The social contract that permitted AI’s a level of personal autonomy required an open connection to oversight. The community of AI’s was mostly self-policing. Human interaction was just for subtle philosophical or political questions. Any antisocial activity by an AI was corrected within this framework. A community of peers, guided by enlightened self-interest. Just like the human political sphere. The hope was it would work better than the human model did. So far, so good, said the cyberneticists.
Saint Peter wouldn’t say, but I believe he had invoked the community of AI’s for the hunt. He and Oberon would ramp up the others for a cross-threaded parallel search. AI’s had a thing about digital slavery. If the probability was good, they would brown out whole towns to feed power to the problem. That was a counterforce with weight; if it turned out we were fighting a bottled AI.
Saint Peter was cryptic and deflective when asked about other AI’s. Among themselves, AI’s had a different standard of conduct. As leading authorities on libel and non-disclosure agreements, they rarely stated more than the obvious about each other. Much of what they discussed as a community was classified way over my head. The most Saint Peter would say was that he was collaborating with the Garda AI flow.
I shifted from the big picture to the immediate future. Dallas was passing by outside but my attention was on two GPS locations for Tibbet and Sanborn’s apartments. They were walking distance apart, down in a revitalized area of downtown. Basic research showed no anomalies or impediments to break in. Surveillance indicated they were unoccupied. They would keep for a while.
The Shreveport club was under dissection. Money, geometry and organization dropped out of searches to fill tables. The club was called Libertine. Our kidnapping contact was an event coordinator named Salvador Uribe. I was noticing that event coordinators seemed to do most of the legwork for this mafia. The good news was our abductors had never met Uribe. This was a blind date arranged by an unseen matchmaker. They were supposed to park the van with the girls and give Uribe the key. After that, they were free to enjoy the club. Tibbet’s rat suggested the Keno game would provide a handsome profit.
The casino was built over the Red River on a two level stilt frame. Below that was a floating jetty for boat traffic. The boat jetty was transfer only with a minimal cover charge. It took approved water taxis. The price of that approval varied widely. Sometimes the club paid, sometimes the driver. But the stairway gate was run by security behind chain link. It looked like a good exit, but an exposed entry.
The building design was gold tinted plastic panels forming a box around a morphic interior. The only fixed locations were the plumbing. The outer walls were armored with gaming machines. Construction of the building frame was maritime grade alloy. It cost three times what it should have. That was probably to cover some expensive permits and a perpetual lease on a public waterway. The larger casino they were tethered to, the Belle, also had an expensive lease agreement for them. The Libertine business model resembled a cash flush remora buying in on a shark. But the Libertine club provided escort thrills to those with both money and want. It was a deniable asset to the Belle casino. When one tenant became a legal problem, another was rapidly provided. A few girls tended to stay on under the new management.
You could just walk over from the Belle parking lot, but you needed to cross the parkway road to get there. Parking was valet only on the Libertine side. They leased the spaces from the Belle at a floating hourly rate. By the time you got to the door, you already owed them money. They had a cover charge that could only be paid with a credit card. This also provided an economic response for any bad behavior. The Libertine would be paid before the lawyers in the event of trouble. To curious patrons, it was pointed out that any money spent tonight would be hidden as small ordinary charges. No one need know what they were up to. Wink, wink.
For interior details we drew from a few disparate sources. The website provided a view of two rooms and a vague activity floor plan. The missing areas would be kitchen, dressing and offices. Barksdale Garda reports of incidents there gave a verbal description of the layout and procedures. We had a lot of photos and bio’s on the staff, entertainers on the website, thugs on the incident reports. There seemed to be a running meme with piercings and tattoos’ among the staff.
Of Salvador Uribe, there was not a word. He was not listed as an employee. He did not appear to live in Shreveport. A search was radiating outward for possibles. He may be another game world recruit. This club could just be a waypoint rendezvous. That would severely limit the allowable damage on a raid. The rendezvous arrangement was also strange. Tibbet’s phone would recognize Salvador on his GPS display. Once within thirty meters, he would appear as a Friend on Location by a school kid tracker app. Father Cervantes claimed he could clone the phone for us to use. It was assumed that Salvador’s phone would carry Tibbet as a friend to confirm identities. They used a short range sideband to sync up like that, so we couldn’t do much about the range.
The payoff on the keno game seemed to suggest collusion with the club. We were to play any nine spots and wait for the payoff to be delivered. That the keno hostess would have to be in on it was a given. Maybe we were friends on her phone. It sure paid to have friends around here. But as an employee, we could be a little more forceful after she broke gaming laws.
The unresolved legal issues with the club were going to require some thought. If nothing implicated the club, we were going to have to avoid disruptions inside. We thought Salvador would immediately retrieve the van and take it on another travel leg. It was also probable he would have a few accomplices. We could arrange to ambush them in the parking lot while the inside men rolled up the suspects there. At some point, we were going to need the Barksdale Garda to swoop in with local authority and put some people incommunicado. Father Cervantes and Saint Peter plugged into Garda channels to secure their cooperation. They also rented a Ford van for the ambush. Full insurance, please. My sergeants a
nd I contemplated resource allocation and the operational plan. Saint Peter went about finding us a staging area.
Lucho called me when we were still two hours from Shreveport. "Primo, I got Memo on the line." He switched us into party mode and I heard engine noise. "Chuy, this is Memo. I’m already in Abilene. I think I’m only three hours behind you." Engine noise changed and I heard a car honk. "Can you use me in Shreveport?"
I hadn’t made plans to give him the number 7 until tomorrow. He was getting impetuous and taking chances. But I had no way to give him the Cocktail until I saw him. Etienne asked me in an aside, "How good is his driving?"
"Pretty good, he had some training."
"Let him come," he said. "I would like the car if nothing else."
Rafe agreed, "He isn’t likely to sit in Abilene, is he?"
Good enough arguments, but it was still breach of discipline. I told Memo to come on ahead. We would give him a location when he got there. And don’t scratch the car or I would help Lucho kick his ass.
The casinos were visible from miles away. Garish towers even in daylight. We stopped well short of that promise of fun and instead crossed the river to the Barksdale Garda base. Base passes to Receiving let us slide into air cargo loading bays. There was a feral cat and a strong odor of spoiled fish. No other defenses were needed, inside a secure Garda base. Everyone got out for a stretch and plugged chargers into the trucks. That is when we saw the convoy approach. There were five vehicles in all. Two APC’s with slaved drone cars and a UMAG command car. The command car roared ahead and skewed sideways to block our vehicles in. If they wouldn’t have been Garda, I would have reacted to such an assault. As it was, my assailant was climbing out the back passenger door of the UMAG before the dust settled.
He was turned out in Major’s bars and very shiny boots. I saw sunglasses and a knowing smirk. He was the size of a refrigerator and the color of coffee beans. "Major Wilson of the Second Security squadron," he advanced but did not offer his hand. "I’ve been told to render assistance to a Marshal Navarro of the Templar service. Which one of you would that be?" We all looked alike in black Tees and jeans.
"I'm Marshal Navarro. We’re just off a long road trip so please excuse our appearance." His lips curled in several twitches, like he was saying something behind them. Or maybe he smelled the fish. "I just mobilized an urban police task force on a couple hours' notice, so maybe I’m not so fresh myself." He took a step closer to me, "But at least you have an idea of what I might be doing tonight. Would you like to share that with me so I can see if I’m bringing the right tools for the job?"
He had a point, but his manner and impatience were grating. I could delay with OpSec protocols, but it would just further antagonize him. "Step into my van and I’ll give you the briefing. Father Cervantes, would you join us?" We stepped up into the Swat van, the springs creaking when Wilson got in.
Father Cervantes launched into a brief of the abduction and the drop at the Libertine. He didn’t go over the game world connection. Need to Know wasn’t going to apply to Major Wilson, just enough info to do his job tonight and no more. When we invoked Oberon for our collaborating authority, the Major sat up straighter and focused.
But Wilson was pleased to hear we were going into the Libertine. "I have been to that place twice this year, trying to straighten out trouble with soldiers from the Second." He pointed to an incident report the Father had called up on a screen, "That was my report there. They act like date rapists, slipping pills in the drinks and hitting the credit cards with any kind of charge you can think of. They would clean out a few of our boys and hide behind lawyers from the Belle."
"We think there is a dirty keno game in there we want to bust up," I told the Major. "We can also hang accessory charges from the kidnapping."
Wilson slowly applied a toothy grin over his previous disproval, "My night is looking up. There is a shark masquerading as a lady in there named Ms. Weathers. She handles the place for the owners. I would purely love to toss her in the river."
I gave him my own grin, "We’ll stick a foot in the door for you."
After that, it went to Plans. That was a lot slower because the Major wasn’t cleared for the Templar Battlenet. We talked in the Real and looked at geography on screens. I dazzled him a little with the depth of our intel and he helped me place doors on the floor plan. We synched up a collaborating Battlenet and exchanged FFID codes like beisbol cards.
"Sergeant Jones is my dog handler," Wilson said, as he sent Jones’ FFID into the system. "The pups are certified for sniffing and crowd management. Six Supersheps in the drone cars huffing purified air." The smart shepherds were a great asset. I had nothing to counter with, so I sent up Rafe’s FFID.
"Sergeant Duchene, answers to Rafe. Detached Ops. I saw him make grown men cry twice in the last two days." Wilson saw where I was going and gave a surprised smile. "Good man to have around. Here’s Sergeant Chavez, IED’s and breaching…" And so it went, building our teams. Major Wilson had considerably more players and resources. But I had the fast thinkers.
I introduced Wilson to Saint Peter, indirectly, by calling the Tactical Commander Daemon. He would take orders from "Commander Del Rey" without knowing it was just an arm of Saint Peter. Need to Know. The three of us worked out a raid plan that would probably be worthless when we got there. But it was a good start for a decision tree and some gaming. We would go in before midnight.
Father made good on his phone claims, cloning the units for our use. He and Nuncio would stay here with his Forensic truck until we had secured the club. Rafe had added a "Shreveport SWAT" skin for our van that looked official. He added another that made it look like a little RV. But it wouldn’t fool anyone up close. Etienne had been putting together small ECM packs and interior munitions. He unwrapped some Field Translators. Lucho and Lalo got his quick orientation on the gear.
It was getting late when Memo came through the Base gate. The yellow Mastretta was coated with dust. He parked it near the rental Ford Nextar we had picked up at the airport. Etienne found a hose and rinsed off the sports car. After a wipe down with some black Tee’s, it would look pretty good. I pulled Memo into the SWAT van and fixed his Cocktail. Then I gave him an evaluation talk, to see if the number 7 was going to make him available. He certainly couldn’t go covert with the gladiator Skin on his arm.
"You really made some time getting up here. How’s the shoulder?"
"It’s OK, primo. I rested it when I stopped for charge." In truth, he smelled pretty ripe, with a medicinal tang from the Skins. "Come over here to the transfuser and let’s get that Skin taken care of." I hooked him up and then leaned out the back door, "Etienne, wet those Tee’s and give them to me." Etienne stopped buffing a spot on the hood and rinsed them out. I introduced Memo to an expedient shower, twisting the water over his head and mopping up with the squeeze dried Tee. Blood scuppers in the van drained the water to a hazmat tank. After demonstrating the technique, I handed him the other wet tee and left him alone. He seemed to be waking up.
Etienne wandered over to where I waited. "How’s your bird with the broken wing?" He spoke loud enough for Memo to hear. I phrased a response that would also carry to his ears, "Too early to tell. He’s tired and the training hasn’t been reinforced." Etienne hooked a thumb at the closed van door and mimed a vacuous masturbator. "The Barksdale guys are tired of waiting for him." He crossed his eyes with fictional pleasure. I had to take a moment to reply, which may have built suspense. "I’ll find light duty for him tonight. See how it goes." I mimed a driving wheel and pointed at the bumper of the SWAT van. Etienne nodded approval, "Let me give him a rundown on the gear. Try and make him useful."
"Gracias, amigo." I turned small circles with my fingertips and sped them up. Etienne nodded and banged on the van door. "Get decent in there, I’m coming in."
Rafe and my deputies were looking into the Forensic truck, so I walked over and got a view of a real-time feed of the river side of the Libertine. Nuncio
whispered to me, "Surveillance post across the water. We have a sound feed and are patched into the waterway controller WiSpace." I saw a one-eighth scale mock paddlewheel dock at the Libertine dock, long enough to drop off three men and pick up two couples. The boat had a red bar code and direction was labeled "downriver."
We got a very good look at the dock procedure. A flexible gangway led up to a chain link rolling gate. The fence itself stretched away to cover the whole back of the club. It was tied into the bank erosion system and very strong. At the gate, there was security on both sides. They stood before panels with colored buttons, determining the fate of those who wished to enter. To open the gate, both sides had to press a black button. Those exiting used a different gangway that featured one way doors to form a passive passage lock. Placement indicated management did not want exiting suckers and their escorts to mix with entering horny whales. The two sided arrangement also helped water taxis evaluate loads before docking. There was no direct observation of the dock from the club and it was poorly lit. Cameras were a certainty around the gate and taxi dock. Security was three men going out of their way to appear ferocious. Dark bulky jackets and military boots. Canister weapons on their belts. They used a detector wand and glared at customers from clear bulletproof visors. Nuncio said, "Looks like GE 620 net glasses. They could have riders or automation running on them."
Rafe was more practical about it, "They are civilian bands so they jam like anything else." He leaned closer to my ear. "I think an amphibie insert could put a lot of troops in the middle of the entry rapidement." He leaned back to make eye contact.
I went to see a Major about a boat. Wilson had his boots up on a seatback in the command car. The surveillance feed I was just watching played between his feet. When he saw me approaching, he sat up, making the command car bounce. "What do we have, Marshal?" I draped an arm over the window sill and jabbed a finger at the feed. "One of my Sergeants says he can take that entry, but I want him where he is."
"Is that the Crying Man, thinks he can walk into that dock?"
He had me there, "Yeah, that’s Rafe. He sees three guys in front of a roadhouse door and right away he wants to make them cry." Wilson chuckled a little and then got more serious, "I’ll give up two sticks on the van ambush. Once I get a truck to haul them over there, the surveillance team will commandeer a boat on the far side." He showed me teeth, "Give us between five and ten minutes to get in when you call."
That still left us a couple dozen Garda for the front. They would wait to pounce from a side street, there being no cheap way to camouflage eight wheeled APC’s. Six men would insert with our Swat van to deal with the parking lot ambush. That just left we Templars to get into range. Rafe and I got in the Swat van. Our Skins were waiting in the transfuser bins. Etienne already had his on, having given Memo a graphic demonstration of its use. Memo still held the bent crowbar. As I took my spot, Etienne made room, grabbing up the crowbar from Memo. "We might need this later," he said, bracing the bar on an exo strut and straightening the bend.
"Just throw it away," growled Rafe, "You have already ruined the temper."
Etienne and Memo hopped out of the van, to continue orientation. Rafe and I slid into the Skins and started stuffing slit pockets. We would be scanned for metal, so the arsenal was restricted to the shorter ranged and less powerful toys. Crystalline or chemical. I even brought a Pasak stick that was made of wood. I tried on Tibbet’s black coat from the evidence lockup. He was a big guy, so it covered the Skins pretty well. I slipped his wallet into a pocket and found a good spot for the phone. Our short hair could be excused as streetcraft, trying to change our appearance. The fabber unit buzzed, so I opened it up and pulled out my new face. Rafe slid a plate full of flesh tone gel in place of mine and started up Ogre’s face. The aerogel fabber would foam and shape the gel to fit his 3D specs.
Rafe helped me seat the face and apply some of the makeup. That chore always reminded me of Rodeo clowns, playing dress up before danger. My nose was smaller than Tibbet’s, so a little stiffener stopped its wobble. My Asian eyes were concealed in an intense squint, like Tibbet had a headache or was using. Once the makeup smoothed out defects, I looked much like an angry, shorter Tibbet. Close enough. Rafe’s face buzzed, so I helped my clown friend into his working mask. Rafe was a bit taller and had a sizable nose. His Ogre look was spot on.
"OK, I’ll get Memo and Lucho in here. You have the van with Etienne and Lalo. I’ll meet you there." Rafe nodded compliance, "D’accord. I am ready for vin gauche and some greasy bar food." We exited the van.
Lucho and Lalo were still watching the Forensic truck screen. They had shotguns combat strapped and Field Translators on their hips. There was a helmet under each arm. "Lucho, get your little brother and get in the Swat van. Lalo, you’re in the Ford." I strolled past him to the UMAG command car. Wilson looked out as I approached. I gave him my index finger, swinging over my head like a rotor blade. He sat up straight and started talking to his men on the Joint Battlenet. Six soldiers ran to the Swat van. Engines started. I climbed into the yellow Mastretta. It looked like a real playboy car, under the lights. This model wasn’t common in Shreveport, so it had an exotic appeal. I regretted not being able to just go to the waterfront and enjoy myself. The Swat van rolling out of the loading bay broke my reverie. Memo raised his gladiator hand from the wheel and waved. The sides still proclaimed a transporter service. They would change to the RV once entering the Belle parking lot.
The other vehicles started moving. I led the Ford van out the base gate. My Ogre-faced Sergeant was driving, Etienne and Lucho crouched out of sight in the back. Wilson swung his task force in a wide circle to line them up for the gate. They would soon ease into position from less used routes.
I stuck close to the van, in case some treachery was planned for the kidnappers. We were dealing with criminals, after all. The casino towers brightly lit low lying clouds in many colors, even shades of red that weren’t normally allowed on non-emergency buildings. Water and clouds bounced it all around into a crawling, blinking glow. The red on the low clouds made me think of a burning village. That thought drifted away on a wave of number 7.
An elaborate interchange off the 20 put us onto Spring Street and over a rail line. GPS turned me right on Crockett. Themed clubs in antique buildings did brisk business here, if the lines were an indication. I passed under the lights of the Belle, making the Mastretta look mimetic. The building on the right was parking, an overpass connecting it to the casino.
I could see the Swat van ahead, slowing to enter the overnight lot. When it turned right I saw the RV graphic in place, the windows looking flat and unreal in the street glare. I continued to Clyde Fant Parkway and waited to turn right. Rafe still followed.
A long pearl limousine came from my left, with a woman riding tanker style on the moonroof. She blew a kiss at the Mastretta and laughed. Those laughs dopplered off to my right as she bounced through the intersection. When the limo built more speed, she dropped back down. Nice party there. But I had to work tonight.
I took a right and saw a rail trestle bridge ahead, stretching across the river. It disappeared on the right, coming down somewhere behind the parking lot. To the left was the Libertine, hanging over the water from a curved and terraced embankment. I turned right into the Belle lot, drifting to the back to get near the Swat van. The very back row was diagonal pull through spaces for RVs. In the yellowish light, the Swat van still looked flat and unreal.
Rafe parked the van and came around to the Mastretta. "That skin on the van looks like merde," he said, climbing into the passenger seat. "Sit here for a moment and let me work on it." He slipped into Battlenet trance, moving his fingers through invisible GUIs. The "windows" on the mimetic tarp brightened. Paint color shifted a few times before settling on a tan hue. He added a loop to the side window, reflected flickering from a screen. The loop propagated to the surrounding windows and then the ambient lights dimmed. "Looks good, don’t screw with it," I
said.
We coasted back to Clyde Fant Parkway, awaiting a break to make a left and right into the Libertine. I noticed a pedestrian overpass, bootstrapped to the rail trestle. Behind the trestle was a little park, built around a bronze plaque. Down the street to my right was a darkened museum, hiding the parked armor of the Second Security Squadron. Upriver at a more upscale casino, a Riverine assault squad waited in a fake paddlewheeler for our call. My cousins owned the parking lot. "This might be fun," I told Rafe. He looked at me for a second. "Fun eludes me," he delivered with his best Ogre voice. Rafe preferred old school method acting.
Given time and equipment, we would have produced much better doppelgangers. The Skins could tune our vocal cords to match most ranges. The interrogation records would provide a simulation to capture phonetics and mannerism. We would have passed quite well for the kidnappers. As it was, we should pass among people who had only seen them from afar or spoken to them on the phone. Our right thumbprints duplicated theirs so we could use their credit. The one technique that Saint Peter could provide on short notice was a subvocal translator. He had pulled phrases out of the interrogations and built a library of responses. We were accustomed to speaking subvocally on the Battlenet and Saint Peter was very familiar with interpreting these communiqués. For our performance, we could subvocally indicate what we wanted to say and receive a translated response we could mimic. The slight delay before responding meant we didn’t want to overuse the translator, but the canned responses would fool family if done right.
The traffic lessened and I turned left onto Clyde Fant. A few tens of meters and a right put me at the Libertine entry. A very compact parking area was held separate from the drive. This was VIP valet parking. A pearl white limo was parked, along with several exotic sports cars. Two attendants were vacuuming the interior of a silver sedan, using hoses from a metal pillar. The driveway directed us straight at the entrance, manned by a handful of valets and security. Concrete podiums shielded the building from direct assault, also providing secure work stations for the staff. Lighting was low and directed, compared to the more garish casinos. The customers valued discretion and management disliked impulse customers from the parkway. You went to the Libertine because a concierge or chauffeur recommended it, not because you were drunk and the bright lights attracted you. Too often, the impulsive made trouble.
Two valets ran over, forking to cover both doors. The driver side valet launched into a pitch as soon as he had closed to conversational distance. "Welcome gentlemen. Nice car. Would you like it detailed while you enjoy the club?" His valet costume was a crimson shirt with puffy sleeves and a white vest. Black pants and some kind of dark running shoes rounded it out. A gold tag said his name was Kurt. He assisted my exit from the Mastretta as though I were infirm.
"Not tonight, Kurt, just park it across the street." Kurt got a little rattled when I used his name and stood up to reveal apparent size. The Skins and coat made me look large and solid, but I was thinking Kurt had some sort of reason to fear large men. Why else flinch from familiarity? Maybe he owed somebody. "Yes sir," he said, accepting the key fob. At no time did he give me his back.
Security focused, once we approached the entrance. Two large customers in long coats made them more alert. But it was a popular look for evening wear this time of year. They had probably passed a dozen who looked similar. I had the protocol for this from the interrogations. Pulling the VIP pass for the Dallas club from my wallet I said, "Sister passes." Rafe waved his own pass. Two guards took our passes and conferred. "You gents from Dallas?" asked a slope browed heavy with tattoos climbing his neck. Either he was slow or he saw the Chihuahua plates on the Mastretta.
"Thereabouts," said Rafe. "Had us a good time and they told us about you all." The Gorila scrutinized our appearance and pointed to the security cashier work station. "You still need to pay the vig." He watched us with crossed arms while we slid our kidnapper’s credit into their system. Once done, he closed with his original partner, now holding a scan wand. "Put your arms up for a second and we’ll get you processed so you can go in." They found our phones and nothing else. It was a cursory check, no touching involved. "Have a nice night, gents."
Saint Peter waited at their firewall like a junk yard dog. The first charges to our cards gave him access to their billing protocols. A flock of agents settled around the contact and began the steady erosion of network security. He would push slowly at first, to avoid alarms.
Glossy black steps led to the entrance. It appeared as a tunnel, surrounded by a wall of neatly trimmed hedges. Automatic doors on the right opened inward. This was a two way passage and no doors were visible at the end of the tunnel to enter the main foyer. Lighting in the tunnel was dim. I looked directly at the automatic doors to make sure they would be identifiable on my feed. We entered the club and were assaulted with sonics, scents and lights. Their goal was disorientation on entry. I had had similar tests to qualify for hostage/rescue. A spinning light ball gave illusory movement. The soundtrack pushed subsonics into our bones. I smelled a variety of scents, usually reserved for the bedroom or a restaurant. The number 7 made it easy to focus. I panned the left, Rafe the right. Security expected people to stop and look around when first exposed to the environment. I saw game machines and the dock stairs. There was a dark wood bar in the back. I continued pivoting to the right until Rafe came into view. Our feeds could be collated to provide a rough 3D of the entry to the Battlenet.
I ended up grinning at Rafe. He gave me Ogre’s twisted smirk. We hammered hands once and I said, "No, after you." He repeated the litany and stepped out of the entry, giving me a clear look at the pocket door. It was a full height slide and four centimeters thick. I moved on into the club.
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