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The little muted television has the Braves game on, west coast, Padres.
His father asks “How long?”
“A few weeks. I broke through the feedback. I practiced in my dorm at first and when that wasn't enough I found a forest I could launch from. There's no difference, it works exactly the same.”
“How high do you go?”
“A few thousand feet, based on the stadium.”
“You could use an altimeter. How’d you navigate?”
“I thought we'd get one while I’m here. I left everything there, I followed the highway until I could see Hartsfield-Jackson.”
“At that height, you might have shown on radar. You’d show up like a bird, but still.”
The wrinkle shows. “I thought about that, and as soon as I did I had this certainty that radar wouldn't be a problem.”
“Like whatever surrounds you absorbs it?”
“Must be.”
His father says “If it can absorb radar. . . could it do that with other forms of electromagnetic radiation?”
“I hadn't considered that, but why would it stop at radar?”
They watch the game until it goes to commercial, and his father asks “You left your phone?”
Andrew nods. “I know it's a Librem, but I thought it might still somehow give the wrong kind of data point. It seemed like what you would tell me to do.”
His father frowns.
“I have warned you about the government spying on people, but I don't want you to be afraid of men in suits. I imagine that's why you came here to get an altimeter and why you only brought a compass and a watch and I don't want it to be because I made you live in fear.”
Andrew says, “Well, you did. Isn't that prudent?”
“I don't know anymore.”
Andrew knocks and opens his brother's door, who doesn't hear him until he says “Hey, sup, man.”
Michael double-takes, eyes passing quickly between Andrew and the television. “What’s up! Braves at Padres, they blew it bottom ninth. How’s practice?”
“Done ‘til August.”
“That’s right. We’re about to be watching you play on TV. You just get here?”
“Yeah, I’ve been talking to dad.”
“He watching the game?” asks Michael.
“We had it on, but he went to bed.”
2 AM. Top 14. Bottom 14. 15, 16, Top 17, crushed to center, Bottom 17, double, sac to advance the runner, sac to score, groundout to go to Top 18. Michael groans, “What the fuck.” 19, 20, 4 AM, Michael's drifting, Andrew's lost in it. Top 21, single, single, double to clear the bases. Padres go 1-2-3. Michael mumbles a cheer and slumps over. Andrew prods him to get into bed then goes to his old bedroom. He lies down and looks up, staring into the formless void of the ceiling.
He runs before sunrise.
When his father is up, the two go to breakfast and then drive to a warehouse in Marietta. It is clean and gray, nothing indicative of its contents besides a small sign on a brown metal door that says AQUINO SURPLUS. The interior is what Andrew would have expected even if he hadn’t seen it in the field, fluorescent lighting, concrete floor. A long counter in an L runs down an entire wall of the building and continues down part of the next. Parts of the counter have glass cases of items, the rest is burnished wood. James walks to the counter and shakes the hand of the man standing at it. Grandfatherly and stout, white-bearded, smiling.
“Andrew, this is Jan. Jan, my son Andrew.”
They shake hands and Jan says “You've got that Gators shirt on, you play football for them?”
“I do, well, this'll be my first year.”
Jan says “You sure are built for it.”
Andrew shrugs, “You served with my dad?”
Jan says “Not exactly, but we met on base. I was in Pensacola for I don't even remember why.”
James cuts in, “Jan was a chop, a supply officer on a nuclear sub.”
Jan points proudly to a flag on the wall, Navy in navy, with a symbol in gold Andrew finds vaguely familiar and now assumes must be for submarines and USS SPRINGFIELD in large gold letters. “You'd be hittin' your noggin, fit me and my son just fine.”
Andrew laughs, more out of courtesy, “Real cramped, right? I'm going to look around.”
Another figure is at a different part of the long counter, and when Andrew sees him the resemblance with Jan is immediate.
“Hey, I'm looking for an altimeter.”
The man claps his hands, “Andrew Black, going skydiving?”
Andrew should be used to this, his pause is enough for the man to notice.
“I went to Florida, still a big fan. I'm Nick, I heard you talking to my dad.”
“Oh, sure. When were you at UF? Your dad mentioned you were in the Navy.”
Nick says "Well before your time. I graduated in ‘05, and I was already in when 7/7 happened."
“What’d you do in the Navy? Chop like your dad?”
Nick shakes his head, “I was in the SEALs."
“Wow. What was that like?”
Nick says “Hard, but worth it. Spent time in Afghanistan, then when I came home I did work with the National Guard in Texas in the Second Feral Hog Campaign.” Reminiscent of Jan, Nick points back, to a pair of tusks mounted on a plaque.
“SEALs hunt dire hogs?”
Nick nods, “After Mansour was installed we got out of Afghanistan and I had the option to stay in the States and do that, so I took it. That's a lot of what the military has been doing for decades, it's what I was doing before I was deployed to Afghanistan. Up in Canada helping with dire grizzlies and polar bears.”
“Damn. What did you use to hunt them?”
Nick grins, “Grenade launchers and special jeeps we called 'Warthogs' built around M61s, those are very heavy, typically aircraft-mounted machine guns. Anyway, you need an altimeter?”
“Yeah, ah, I saw watches online that measure altitude?”
They check out and leave, Andrew carrying the watch-altimeter. His father is in a good mood. “Was good to talk to Jan. He served a long time, he saw a lot of the world on those boats.”
“I can't imagine, can't imagine being stuck in one of those. Any mistake and you're dead.”
James says “Subs are safe, none lost in a long time.”
“Wouldn't want to be the first. His son was in Afghanistan in between hunting dire grizzlies and dire hogs, what am I doing? I could do that, I have done that. I'm bulletproof and I can fly and I'm spending my time playing football and hovering around Gainesville and using flying to get out of driving.”
James is shaking his head, “It isn't that simple, Andrew.”
“I could be saving lives, dad.”
James sighs. “Yes, you would be able to save lives if you served in the military. But the military has fifty years of experience hunting dire fauna, and where a country wants US expertise but can’t directly ask for it, they just hire an American Private Hunting Corporation full of former soldiers. It’s an ongoing problem but there’s an existing solution and while you would be better in single instances PHCs are a multibillion-dollar industry with organizations in almost every country. They cover far more ground than you could. As for war, today? We’re out of Afghanistan, if you joined, you wouldn’t be protecting people, you would be helping belligerents because that’s what we are. Almost everywhere the US has soldiers right now is in defiance of the will of the peoples of those nations who do not want us there. Look at Afghanistan, the UK justified their coalition because of 7/7 and we helped install a genocidal tyrant who makes Uday Hussein look peaceful and nobody cares because they can’t use it for politicking. You already know what really helps people Andrew, and it’s money. Maybe it sounds circuitous, maybe you wonder why you should pay for bulldozers when you can move debris yourself, or why a country should have to hire a PHC when you can kill a bear. But I’ve said all of this before and it’s true even now that you can fly. You can’t be everywhere at once. Look at your Uncle Don and how much money he made, how much he’s still making today, and Andrew, as good as he was, you’re better, you’ll make even more. You could pay for a dozen PHC teams, you could pay for construction crews to operate around the clock, if you had the money. So if you want to help the world, it could very well be that the quantifiably best use of your many talents is for you to play your hardest, get the best contract and endorsements you can and use that money to change the world. Then in the offseason you could help directly. You can’t feel a comparative and arbitrary pressure because of what other people choose to do with their strengths in their lives. Would you make a good surgeon?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“How about a chemical engineer, or geneticist, or theoretical physicist? Do you think if you dove into those fields, you'd be good at them?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
James says “And those fields have been responsible for technology that has improved the lives of billions. Genetics research will define this century as the population of individuals like us, those with the UQ-Marker, increases. As the Marker becomes more prevalent and better understood, humanity will experience a paradigmatic shift in healthcare that will do far more than what any one person could do. You would be a superb physician, and I’m sure a scientist if you set your heart to it, and it’s true, you would be the perfect soldier. But are any of those the perfect Andrew? Or do you think it’s something else? When the world finally knows that people like you exist there will be a cacophony of demands that you pledge your service for the greater good, for free. Some of those who advocate that, most even, will be genuine in their belief that you should do good, but please, and I know you'll remember all of this, but remember this the most: the loudest voices will be there artificially, because those will be the people who want you under their control for their own purposes. The government most among them. Think about this, we could sell our house, move to a one-story with two bedrooms, donate all of our spare income to charity, and you could do the same, keeping only enough to live. Is that what you want? Are you obligated to just because you could?”
Andrew says “You're taking an extreme position to make the idea sound less appealing.”
James says "You're right. This is what I'm trying to say: you can enjoy your life and the fruits of your labor while still helping people, and what’s best for your life, what is the best use of your abilities, is something you must determine for yourself, and that might take a long time. So be patient, Andrew, because you are more intelligent than anyone who would specifically seek to tell you, to order you, what to do. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do, and I know whatever it is, it’ll be right.”
Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling.
It is the first Friday of August and the first day of camp. He runs and showers and walks to Heavener. Devaris waits outside, he greets him with a "Sup, Drew."
“Yo.”
“This is my last year.” Devaris shakes his head. “When my dad got drafted by KC players only had to be three years out. I should already be getting paid.”
Andrew remembers talking with his father about the rule. Devaris keeps talking, “You should too. But we’re here instead. Danny will probably go in the first round and you’re going to make him look like a fucking kid. You know how long I’ve waited for a guy who can keep up with me? God damn, am I glad to have a receiver who actually knows—” Devaris stops, seeing other players nearing them.
“What are you saying, D?” asks Marques.
“I’m saying I’m ready for this season to start so we can win every fucking game.”
"Hell yeah man, that's right." says Marques.
The energy is in every player, it's in the chatter of the hall. Soon.
Miller gives the welcome.
Andrew stands at the twenty in the indoor facility, the warehouse containing a full football field. One long side has a dozen overhead doors, each large enough for a truck. The other long side is solid metal covered in padding well up the walls, then above the padding hang celebratory banners. One short wall is padded, the other is windows, through which Andrew sees the conditioning center. He’s in full gear, almost entirely school-provided. Blue Nikes, white socks, orange shorts, a blue practice jersey with the number 27 on both sides and BLACK on the back and a solid orange helmet. Another practice field is just outside the facility, he sees players in white jerseys moving sleds.
Devaris is jumping in the end zone with FLORIDA and he shouts at Andrew. “You ready to run those jets?”
Andrew shouts back, “Are you going to throw it far enough?”
He makes short jumps to a count of ten, then bounces foot to foot to a count of twenty. “Just say when.”
He runs. In the field he sees figures turning to watch as the ball leaves Devaris’ hand and moves into its rise. He quickly checks back and is on the intercept, now running without looking. He turns, catches, and in a moment is on the A of the GATORS end zone.
“Holy shit.” says a voice from the catwalk, loud enough for Andrew to hear as he drops the ball out of habit.
Practice blurs. Practice, class, practice, Emilia, flight, practice.
Gameday.
He goes on a light run before dawn.
To the lockers and the first pre-game huddle. Gear on, lacing up his cleats. Another huddle, then marching through the tunnel.
Andrew stands ready.
Eighty thousand voices roar.
Eyes lock on the goal.
Andrew is in the recliner of his locker bay. Devaris is in the bay beside him, he says “One down.”
Andrew says “Fourteen to go.”
They’re at a party, music loud from the floor above where Devaris is the center of attention, figures surrounding him. Andrew is on a couch, Emilia beside him, baseball on the TV. Braves at Cards.
Adam Wainwright has a one-hitter through 8. “Imagine if he’d been a Brave.” says Andrew.
“What do you mean?” asks Emilia.
“So this guy pitching, he plays for the Cardinals, but he was drafted by the Braves, who he’s starting against. He was traded when he was still in the minors, and now it’s an all-time what-if for Braves fans.”
“Are you a Braves fan?”
“Kinda split. My dad is from Missouri and my uncle, his brother, played for the Cardinals, spent his entire career with them. But my mom is from Georgia and all her side are Braves fans.”
“Do you like baseball more than football?”
Andrew laughs. “Absolutely.”
“Did you play?”
“Yeah. My brother still does, he’ll probably play baseball here next year.”
“Why are you playing football?”
Andrew grins at her. “What you saw today is why.”
She laughs and puts a hand on his neck.
Even in the game he was thinking of her, waiting for this moment. He says “He pensado en ti todo el día.”
She smiles, “Eras magnífico.”
“Estoy más feliz de estar aquí contigo.”
Happier here, with you. He kisses her.
The game ends. Andrew watches Yadi and Waino hug near the mound.
She’s asking about his classes when he sees it, then he feels it. “Did you feel that?”
Her hand is still on his neck. “Feel what?”
A pulse.
A tumultuous wave he felt pass over his entire sense of the field, and now something lingers, a distant pressure. He throws out his sight, over the city and east, over the ocean, seeing nothing until with sharp apprehension he realizes it must come from another continent.
“Andrew. Andrew. I can feel your heartbeat.” says Emilia, her hand pleasant on his chest. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Andrew says “Yeah, ah, nothing. It’s fine.”
Something has affected the field so greatly he felt it the world away.
Someone.
Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling. Emilia sleeps beside him.
His phone vibrates, a text from Devaris.
Check this shit out RIGHT NOW
A twitter link, another link in the tweet. The live feed from a helicopter, a banner running across the screen: INEXPLICABLE DISASTER ONGOING IN GERMANY
He sits up.
Even for the resolution of his phone and the distance of the helicopter he can see the destruction. A massive ring is cut into a city, miles across. He sees buildings with perfect slices through them, others that have fallen. He sees how the ground has shifted, where buildings that were spared the spectral scalpel have instead sunk down.
He sees the center.
A sphere of debris, half-buried, tearing through buildings and ground. Throwing great masses of earth and concrete hundreds of feet into the sky. Growing larger. He stands, walking to the living room, flipping through the channels. Same show on every station.
He calls his father who answers without a ring. “Andrew.”
“You’re watching this?”
“Yes.”
“I think I felt it start. I didn’t know what it was.”
His father says “We always knew.”
He’s stuck.
The sphere continues its terrible churn. The camera shows cars piled at the edge of the great ring—an invisible barrier. The camera focuses on a group of people on either side. Emilia rouses, she looks at his empty spot on the bed, then gets up, standing at the end of the hall.
“Andrew? What are you watching?”
He says nothing. She walks to him and looks at the television. “Oh my God, what is this?”
He says nothing. Her arms wrap around him.
People try to push through the barrier and fail. Their skin passes but their clothing hangs. One strips, the camera pulling back for their modesty, but close enough to show flesh-colored pixels make it to the other side. More follow. The sphere continues until it reaches the barrier. It seizes and falls, sand filling the crater and raising dunes and billowing out as the barrier disappears, covering buildings and streets beyond the ring.
Andrew slowly lowers himself to the floor.
He leans forward, almost prostrate, hands on his head.