Head On: A Novel of the Near Future (Lock In #2)(5)

“And when the head is taken, they try to punt it through the goalposts.”

“Punt it, toss it, or carry it through, yes.”

“And everyone has swords and hammers and bats—”

“They have those because that shit’s just fun.”

The first man stopped to consider this. “Why ‘goat’?”

The second man began to expound on this, but I went back inside to find Mom.

Who I found in the seats facing toward the field, drink in hand, smiling tightly while some young and overenthusiastic dude chatted her up. I recognized the smile as the one Mom used as an alternative to murdering someone. I went over to her, to save her from the overenthusiastic dude, and to save the overenthusiastic dude from her.

“Chris, finally,” Mom said as I came up. I bent over to receive a peck on the cheek. She turned, acknowledging her seatmate. “This is Marvin Stephens. He’s with the league’s PR department.”

Stephens stood and held out a hand for me. I shook it. “A thrill to meet you, Chris,” he said. “I’m a big fan.”

“I didn’t know FBI agents had fans,” I said.

“Oh, well, not of your FBI work,” Stephens said, and then produced a slightly startled look. He was worried he’d made a faux pas. “I mean, I’m sure your FBI work is good.”

“Thank you,” I said, dryly.

“I meant when you were younger.”

“Ah, you meant when I was famous for being famous.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.” Stephens’s startled look was back. “I mean, you were a symbol for Hadens everywhere.”

I thought about poking at Stephens a little bit more, and finding out just how many permutations of his startled look I could get out of him. But it wouldn’t have been nice.

And anyway, he wasn’t wrong. When I was young, I was a symbol for Hadens everywhere, the poster child for an entire group of humans, all locked into their bodies by a disease and using machines and neural networks to get through the world, just like I did, and do. Being a poster child was a nice gig, until it wasn’t. Which is why I stopped doing it and went to work for the FBI instead.

I could have explained this all to Stephens, who was still standing there, looking increasingly worried that he’d just stepped in it. Stephens was just trying to be complimentary, just like lots of other people who unintentionally blurted out a reminder I currently resided in the “where are they now” category of fame and then thought it was a bad thing, instead of something I hoped for and planned to happen.

But that would have taken time and it would have meant having a long conversation of the sort that didn’t mix well with a sporting event.

“I was,” I said. “Thank you for noticing.”

Stephens relaxed and sat back down.

“Marvin was explaining the game of Hilketa to me,” Mom said, waving toward the field, on which the Bays and the Snowbirds were currently going after each other with melee weapons. “In detail.”

“It’s an amazing game,” Stephens said to me. “Are you a fan?”

I shrugged.

“Chris was more into video games growing up,” Mom said.

“Hilketa is a video game too,” Stephens said. “In fact, the NAHL sponsors several virtual leagues to help train our athletes and to find new talent. Hadens and non-Hadens both.”

“I ran into some non-Hadens protesting outside,” I noted. “They didn’t seem to feel they were well represented in the league.”

“Well, there’s a skill gap,” Stephens said. “Non-Hadens still lag behind in piloting threeps. It’s a reaction-time thing.”

“Is it.”

“That’s the official response, anyway.” Stephens got that startled look again. He realized what he’d said and how he’d said it. I wondered how long he’d been in his job. “I mean, it is the reason. It’s not just an excuse. The NAHL is open to qualified athletes regardless of Haden status.”

“Good to know.”

“It’s just that piloting threeps is tricky. You know . . .” He motioned to me, or more accurately, my threep. “Without a neural network, getting around in a Personal Transport requires a lot of skill and attention.” Stephens pointed out toward the field, to a Toronto tank threep that was pounding the hell out of a Bays player with its fists, to cheers. “When I started this job, they put me in a VR getup and had me try to pilot a tank threep around an open field, so I could get a feel for how the players did their job.”

“How did you do?” I asked.

“I walked it into a wall,” Stephens admitted. “Several times. I just couldn’t get the hang of it. So it doesn’t surprise me that we don’t have non-Hadens playing the game at a professional level yet. It’s the one place Hadens have the advantage over the rest of us.” The startled look returned. “Well, I mean, not the only place. . . .”

Mom glanced over at me on that one and then tinkled the ice in her glass at Stephens. “Would you be a dear and top off my drink for me,” she said, and Stephens practically fell over himself to grab the glass and extricate himself from the situation.

“He seems nice,” I said, watching as he sprinted toward the bartender.