Los Angeles - Eagle Records

Beach Head massaged his weary brow, yet it did little to relieve the pressure in his sinuses. He opened the utility drawer and found the first aid kit. He opened the kit and rummaged through its contents:

Shit. Nothing for allergies.

He settled for the Tylenol and chewed two tablets dry. "Mainframe what's your status?"

Mainframe came in loud and clear over the radio. "The recording studio is still empty. They appear to be closed. Airtight and I are standing by in position."

Beach Head acknowledged the report. "Sci-Fi, do you see anything from the roof?"

"Negative," Sci-Fi replied.

Beach Head grunted, impatient. "Cover Girl?"

"Nothing on the Satellite." Cover Girl's focus remained on the readout of her HUD. "You do realize we're probably hours early."

Beach Head grunted again.

"Is there a bathroom on this thing?" Techrat said.

Cross Country snorted. "Pull out the panel to your left; you'll see a funnel that empties into the septic tank."

Techrat pulled out the panel as instructed, and he grimaced. "Surely, you can't be serious?"

Beach Head regarded the hacker. "This isn't a luxury liner, Hammler." And he paused, not for what presently annoyed him, but rather the fact that up til now:

It's too quiet...

He went to the medical cot were Roxy had supposedly been sleeping, and he retracted the privacy curtain. She was gone.

Beach Head clenched his jaw, struggling to say, "Where. Is. Pellegrini?"

Techrat shrugged, his attention focused on other, more pressing endeavors. "Don't look at me."

Cross-Country came out from his periscope, and he cursed. "Sorry, Master Sergeant, this is on me. She said she felt lightheaded, so I cracked the escape hatch so she could get some fresh air." He cursed again. "I didn't think she could've wriggled her way out of that."

Beach Head ran his fingers along the hatch, noticing the scratch marks where it had been pried open, made by something thin and sharp—like a switchblade.

"No. This is on me." Beach Head manned the communication station; the monitor displayed a topographical of the surrounding area within a one mile radius.

"Should we abort?" Cross-Country said.

"Negative." Beach Head put a device on his wrist. He pushed a button, and a point of light flickered on the monitor. "She's close. I'll get her."

Beach Head left the VAMP. He followed the signal to a run down building that appeared to have been a storage warehouse at one time in its past. He walked around the entire edifice to find its back alley entrance. He considered changing into more civilian-friendly attire, when he saw a group of youths enter ahead of him. Piercings, spiked hair and wild makeup seemed to be the norm in there.

Not exactly a conventional dress code.

Beach Head paid his way inside. The loud music and flashing lights were bad enough, but the smoke made his head pound.

That's not tobacco…

Beach Head changed out the filter in his mask; it helped. He looked about to the sea of bobbing heads just breaking through the surface of a smoky haze. The lighting changed, and he caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He cut through the dance floor to find Roxy moving to the music; she seemed to be detached, in a different world, until Beach Head's voice brought her back.

"Pelligrini!"

Roxy turned to Beach Head, and she froze. She regarded him wide-eyed with her teeth tugging her bottom lip, as a child would look upon a parent after being caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

He took her by the arm and led her away from the loud subwoofers. "You're not going to be satisfied until I have you bound and gagged, are you?" He let her go when he took notice of her pained expression, and he forgot his anger. "Sorry..."

She massaged last night's bruises, still fresh, on her forearm. "Look, I'm not trying to piss you off. I'm sure squaring off against international terrorists and killer robots is all in a day's work for you, but for me… I'm barely holding it together. "

He straightened with his hands clasped behind his back. "I've seen you in action. You're stronger than that."

"You don't get it." She sighed. "It's hard for me to let people in, but once they're in, they're in. Now, I've seen men like those Dreadnoks before…. There's no way they're gonna let my friends just walk, is there?"

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to them—"

"Still... I can't be there when you take Zartan down." She averted her eyes in shame. "I'm not ready to know yet."

Beach Head curled his lip and spoke gently. "Okay."

She snorted quietly and hugged her chest. "You must think I'm some kind of dummy."

"I don't think that at all."

"I don't need your pity, soldier boy!" she snapped, and she turned her back to him.

He stowed the urge to touch her, saying instead, "I had a friend in school. He was an albino like you. The kids made fun of him and he really acted out as a result. Especially in class, he got hostile when the teacher made him participate."

She shrugged. "School is dumb."

"That's what he said at the time. Turns out he had trouble seeing print. It was hard for his albino eyes to distinguish between letters. All he needed to fix the problem was a pair of glasses, but he resisted."

She shrugged. "Glasses are for dorks."

"He said that too. But, he was lucky enough to have people who loved him enough to kick his ass every day until he got with the program. As a result, he graduated second in his class."

Her head lifted. "Only second place?"

"Yeah... unfortunately for him, our school valedictorian was a real asshole."

"Are you trying to say that if I only wore glasses in school, that I too could've come in second behind an asshole?" She turned to face him. "On the street, second place isn't good enough."

He took a step closer. "All I'm saying is, to've gotten where you are in life with what you had took a lot of smarts."

She blushed, and she smiled. "Shut up." And she punched his shoulder playfully.

He tried not to wince as the wound in his shoulder started to pulse. He was less successful hiding his sarcasm. "You're welcome."

She snorted. "Soldier boy, I've been called a lot of things, but having 'a lot of smarts' has got to be the strangest on the list, right behind my grandmother calling me occhi diavolo—" She quieted when he placed a finger under her chin to gently raise her eyes to meet his.

"They don't look like 'devil's eyes' to me," he said, translating that last part. "They're violet—an optical illusion—it's the same phenomena that makes the sky blue. It's called the Tyndall effect."

She blinked under his intense gaze. "H-how do you know all that?"

"Remember the asshole that beat out my friend for valedictorian? I was the asshole."

"You were a nerd?" She shook her head. "No. Effing. Way!"

"Don't judge a book by its cover." His hands returned behind his back, and he cleared his throat. "So, what the hell kind of place is this anyway?"

"It's a dance club," she replied, nonplussed. "Isn't it obvious?"

"But, why is it full of people? The sun's still out."

"That's why it's called a 'Day Rave', soldier boy."

"Don't these people have jobs?"

"Not everyone has a nine-to-five." She hip-bumped him. "What was all that noise about not judging a book by its cover?"

The music started up again, and the crowd cheered. Beach Head tensed as a wave of people assailed them from both sides, encircling and entrapping them.

When Roxy saw Beach Head reach for his forty-five, she grabbed his arm. "NO! Go with the flow."

"What?!"

She grinned. "Trust me."

Beach Head released the pistol back into its holster, and steeled himself as five men slammed into him, sending him stumbling into an opposing wave of dancers. Taking her advice, he gave ground and allowed himself to get jostled about. The thump of the bass coursed through his body. The thump itself seemed to synchronize with the oscillation of the crowd; indeed, there was an odd equilibrium to be found, and by feel he was able to navigate via the order hidden in the chaos. He grabbed Roxy as soon as she was within arms reach and held her close. She was giggling.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and in answer to his perplexed eyes, said, "Slam dancing."

Beach Head grunted. "Aptly named." And he picked her up, carrying her with one arm. With the other he plowed his way off the dance floor. He found a darkened spot along a wall, away from the bustle. The lighting changed, and he paused to take into account how her fair hair and skin served as a canvas that hosted the varied colors that ran across the room.

For a brief second, they shared a look.

The ranger set the rocker down gently, as if she weighed nothing. Roxy found her balance, and she loosened her arms from around his neck. Her fingertips glided along his broad shoulders and down to his bulging, immovable arms.

She suppressed a gasp, biting her lip, as she surreptitiously indulged her hands. Wow...!

Beach Head's communicator beeped, but he did not answer it, saying instead, "Pellegrini, if I leave you here, do you promise to stay put?"

She nodded in answer, his willing prisoner, with pleading eyes. "Only if you stick around for the next song." She tentatively placed her hand on his chest.

In answer, Beach Head spoke into the transceiver thus: "All units, I'm going to continue to monitor this operation from the dance club across the street with Pellegrini... Mainframe, what's your sitrep?"

Mainframe acknowledged the order. "A man just entered Eagle Records."

"Is it Gabor?"

"Negative." Mainframe said. "Permission to engage?"

"Granted." Beach Head put the transceiver away, and he said to Roxy, "I should go."

"Wait." Roxy pouted as she pulled the soldier closer. A single dainty finger traced the seam down the side of his balaclava. "So, what's with the ski mask… are you, like, all gross under there, or something?"

Beach Head snorted. "Why don't you find out for yourself?"

He felt her fingers working to roll his mask up his neck and past his chin. Beach Head regarded her eyes as she did this, even as her fingers stilled, and she gasped. But, it was a gasp of shock, with her eyes trained on something behind him.

He turned too late.

"Mind if we cut in, bloke?"

A punch clipped Beach Head in just the right spot, and he found himself on his back. The music was dulled; he fought to stay conscious. Laughter mocked him. He could barely make out Mainframe's voice over the radio:

"Beach Head, we've been played!"

Roxy's bloodcurdling scream informed the soldier that he needed to move… now.

Beach Head rolled to his side just in time to avoid Ripper's bayonet. Its sharp point held fast into the aged wooden floor. He grabbed the barrel and kicked.

"Bloody Hell!"

One down. Beach Head rose to his feet, weathering an onslaught of punches; there were too many to block them all. He instinctively reached for his pistol, but he reversed himself:

Civilians.

He clenched his fists and swung wide in order to gain. The onlookers egged them on.

"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight...!"

"Beach Head, do you copy?"

—oOo—

"Sci-Fi, do you still have eyes?"

"Affirmative, Mainframe, I got you two covered. You're clear to breach."

Mainframe and Airtight penetrated the rear entry of Eagle Records. They knew the layout and were able to move quickly and efficiently to the front entrance. They crouched by the doorway to the waiting area, their target within reach:

"Hello?" the target called out. "Is anybody there? I'm supposed to meet someone…."

Mainframe gave the signal, and Airtight tossed the flash grenade.

BAM!

Airtight and Mainframe stormed the room, their target lay prostrate on the floor, sobbing.

Mainframe charged in first, aiming his pistol. "It's time to drop the act, Zartan! We know you're meeting Gabor here!"

The target raised his arms in surrender. "I don't know no Zartan, man. My name is Brad."

Airtight approached, holstered his weapon, and pulled out a miniature UV lamp. "Brad, do you mind if I test something on you?"

"What's that?"

"I want to shine this light on your skin to see if it causes a violent carcinogenic metastatic reaction."

Brad blinked. "Dude... that sounds totally awesome!"

Airtight turned on the UV lamp. It had no effect on Brad, so Mainframe lowered his weapon, saying, "What are you doing here, Brad?"

"Some guys paid me to deliver a message."

"What guys?"

"I don't know, but they talked funny—like those British people. They told me to ask for Mainframe." He reached into his pocket, but stilled when Mainframe raised his pistol. "Relax, dude. The note is in my pocket."

Airtight retrieved the note in Brad's pocket, and he handed it to Mainframe.

Mainframe frowned as he read the note:

You're not the only ones who can pick up on patterns of speech inflection, Joes.

xoxo —Z

Mainframe cursed, and he pushed the button on his transceiver. "Beach Head, we've been played!" There was only static as a reply. "Beach Head, do you copy?"

Cover Girl's hurried voice broke the radio's squelch. "Mainframe! Beach Head is still in the dance club across the street, East of the main entrance. He's not responding! Hurry!"

Mainframe and Airtight burst through the front door and headed east. They saw the building and tracked the source of the panicked crowds pouring out of the exit. Sci-Fi dropped out of the sky, landing next to them, and he threw off his jetpack.

The three Joes breached the club in force. It didn't take long to find the source of all the commotion: Beach Head had just taken a chair across his back. He fell to the floor and did not move.

Mainframe led the charge. He hoisted Buzzer off his feet and suplexed him onto the hard ground, knocking the Dreaknok out cold. He heard metal clang against metal, and he looked to the source to see that Sci-Fi had just blocked Ripper's saber-bayonet with his laser rifle; the bayonet was aimed to decapitate the computer operations specialist.

Mainframe rose and drew his pistol, aiming it at the nearest Dreadnok. He froze when he met Zarana's eyes.

Zarana cocked the hammer on her pistol. "Hello, Mainframe. Got my message, did you?"

"I did." He smirked. "Are you ready to surrender?"

She smiled. "Why? We're winning."

Monkeywrench tackled Mainframe, caught unawares, and they rolled on the ground.

Zarana got a lay of room. She was one Dreadnok down, and the odds were too evenly matched for her liking. She decocked the hammer on her pistol and ignited a smoke bomb amidst the kerfuffle. She then whistled, rallying the remainder of her forces:

"Dreadnoks! We are leaving!"

Mainframe threw Monkeywrench off. He found his gun and swept the area with Sci-Fi at his back, soon to be flanked by Airtight, but the enemy was gone, save for one.

—oOo—

Beach Head bolted upright, roused by smelling salts.

Airtight held him fast by his shoulders. "Easy, Beach, although your hematoma is outside the skull, you may still have a slight concussion."

Beach Head ignored him. He noticed that they were back in the VAMP. "Gabor? Pelligrini?"

Airtight shook his head somberly in answer.

Beach Heat rose from the cot and activated the communication monitor. There was no signal. Out of range. "How long have I been out?"

"Less than thirty minutes," Cover Girl said. "Zartan was ready for us."

Beach Head clenched his jaw. "Zartan has been one step ahead of us since this whole mission started…. That is really starting to annoy me."

"We managed to capture Buzzer," Mainframe said. "I thought that might lift your spirits." He gave Beach Head a sideways nod, and they exited the VAMP where they had Buzzer handcuffed to the rear bumper.

Beach Head held out his hand. "Gun." And Sci-Fi, who had been standing guard, handed him a pistol. He screwed on the suppressor and aimed his weapon at the Dreadnok, saying, "You know how this plays out, Buzzer. Where is Zartan?"

Buzzer spat at the soldier's feet. "Blow it out your arse, Joe!"

Beach Head's eyes narrowed. "What did you say to me?"

"I said, 'blow it out your arse!'"

"What in the hell is an arse?"

"It's another word for ass," Mainframe said.

"Then why the hell didn't he just say, ass?"

"I don't know, Beach. That's just how they talk in England."

"You Joes are a right bunch of wankers—"

Beach Head pulled the trigger.

PAMF!

The bullet ricocheted off the plating next to Buzzer's ear.

Buzzer cupped his hand over that side of his face. "BLOODY HELL!"

"You will curse in proper American English, or alternatively Spanish, in my country, boy!"

"FUCK YOU!"

"That's better." Beach Head returned the weapon to its owner. "Search him."

Beach Head retired to the RV. His head pounding, he leaned against the aft wall. He shrugged off Cover Girl's helping hand. "I'm fine."

"You are not invincible," she persisted. "Now, sit down before I pull rank."

He arched an eyebrow. "Yes, ma'am." And he allowed her to guide him to the medical cot.

She removed Beach Head's balaclava and massaged his shoulders and scalp, relieved that her ministrations visibly brought him some much needed comfort. "Like Airtight said, the knot is on the outside. Lucky for you they only hit you on the head and not anywhere important, Master Sergeant."

Beach Head merely grunted.

All this time, Techrat had been regarding the soldier, curious. "Why didn't you kill him?"

Beach Head gave Techrat a sideways glance. "Come again?"

"He tried to kill you, didn't he? There's no doubt he's a bad man who deserves it. And, it's not like there was anyone around to stop you… no consequences. So, why not just kill him?"

"I don't know what country you live in, but the one I serve is a country of laws, and the people I serve with honor that, all the way up the chain of command."

Techrat pondered the words, as he had everything else up to this point. He finally rose from his seat, but forgot that he was bound to his chair. He looked to Mainframe, saying, "Uncuff me."

But, Mainframe ignored him. "Sorry, Techrat, we're busy."

"Do you want to catch Zartan, or not?"

Mainframe looked to Beach Head. After an approving nod, he unlocked Techrat's handcuffs, and gave up his seat at the communications station.

Mainframe eyed the monitor above displaying a satellite map over North America. "What are you doing, Walter?"

Techrat grinned. "Pop quiz: how are black holes detected?"

Everyone in the cabin looked in Airtight's direction. True to form, the Joe's science officer did not disappoint:

"Black holes absorb most forms radiation, including visible light, making direct observation impossible. However, their existence can be inferred by measuring their effects on surrounding systems."

"Precisely," Techrat said. He directed everyone to the monitor above his station. "Look at this satellite heat map from our failed attempt to intercept Synergy's last transmission. The algorithm is rather ingenious; it constantly hops between nodes, so even if you compromise one, you're only getting a piece of the puzzle. But, by then the handshake has already moved on. It's like plucking the strings on a guitar with an infinite number of strings. The only predictable element is the amount of bandwidth used per connection."

"How does this help us if we can't defeat the quantum encryption?" Mainframe asked.

"This isn't about quantum encryption anymore," Techrat replied. "Synergy's effect on the entire system acts like a gravity well. The closer the satellite is to the source server, the more throughput is demanded of it—that is—the harder the string is being 'plucked'. It doesn't matter how many satellites you bounce your signal off of, because the throughput is proportional with respect to distance. Therefore, geolocationality can be inferred by ranking the affected satellites in a coordinate matrix."

Beach Head nodded as he followed along. "At which point It'll be a simple matter of using vector calculus to triangulate the server's position."

Techrat stilled at Beach Head's insight. "Er… That's correct." And he smiled approvingly.

"I'm sold. Make it happen."

"You should know that since the satellites are not equidistant, there's going to be a substantial margin of error. So, don't expect pinpoint accuracy."

"You get me within five clicks, and I'll take care of the rest," Beach Head said, concluding with, "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Hammler."

"My friends call me Techrat." The two shared a knowing look.

Satisfied, Beach Head, placed his hand upon Cover Girl's in tacit gratitude, and he left the VAMP. Sci-Fi and Cross-Country had just finished searching Buzzer as ordered. "Give me some good news, men."

"Sorry, boss. Buzzer didn't have anything on him that we can track." Sci-Fi presented a tray that held the contents of Buzzer's pockets.

Beach Head lifted a curious looking scrap of paper from the lot. "What's this?"

"It's a receipt from a greasy spoon on the North side of town," Cross-Country said. "He paid cash, so it's not much of a trail."

"Still, it suggests that he and his gang could've arrived from a location even further North." Beach Head rubbed his chin. "Zartan has a big lead on us. We can't sit around waiting for Techrat to get a hit on Synergy. I'd like to at least be going in an approximate direction until we get a lock on a location." He poked his head back inside the RV, saying, "Cover Girl, It's time to roll out."

"You got a destination, Boss?"

"Negative, just a bearing: north on I-5. Techrat will navigate."