Mako (The Mako Saga: Book 1) (5 page)

Traditional monitors and speakers were also obsolete, as all visual information was relayed to the gamer via a set of military-style goggles which were worn at all times. Through their lenses, the wearer received an insanely realistic, three-dimensional view of the environments around him or her; in addition to a digital Heads-Up Display, or HUD, offering night vision and thermal views, weapons selections, and map screens among others—all accessible from the firearm controls. Attached to the goggles were earplugs for sound, and a thin, fiber optic microphone for inter-player communications; though the bulk of the group’s pre-game and post-game chatter still took place on the monitors via web conferencing.

As revolutionary as
Mako Assault’s
interface was, it actually paled in comparison to the overall sophistication of the gameplay itself—a major point of sale with Lee and the others. After all, techno-geeky bells and whistles like 3D goggles and military-inspired weapons were all fine and good—for a time—but like any other fancy new toy, they tended to lose their luster after months of usage. At the end of the day, the gameplay had to be first-rate if it was to hold the group’s attention, and it was here that
Mako
Assault
obliterated the competition.

Intricately weaving together the crucial aspects of the shooter, close quarter combat, vehicular and flight simulator, and role-player genres,
Mako
had managed to mesh each of them together in such a breathtakingly comprehensive way that it preserved all the key elements of what had historically defined each one without sacrificing any of the details that made them unique. In years past, many flight simulators had been hailed by actual pilots for their authenticity, while shooters and role-players alike had drawn critical praise for their realism. Even certain branches of the military had figured out that specialized video games could be used as instructional tools for teaching recruits the basic principles of everything from urban warfare to shooting technique. However, no one in the history of the industry had ever managed to successfully put them all together into one comprehensive title. Many had tried—every one failing miserably, in large part because of the widely held belief that a game of this magnitude simply could not be written. From a programming standpoint, it was just too great a task, even with the ever-evolving world of today’s technology. And yet somehow, PGC had done it.

Centering on a brilliant new form of artificial intelligence (the intricacies of which still baffled most non-Phoenix programmers around the world), each element of
Assault
brought with it the level of richness, detail, and scope that drove fans wild for more. To fly a fighter, one quite literally learned to fly a fighter. To fire a long-range rifle shot, skills such as target estimation and weather compensation had to be learned. Mission planning required the rigorous study of intel documents, recon reports, and estimated casualty projections; and even then unforeseen variables were almost always in play, and never the same one twice. Even those who fancied themselves computer hackers were forced to master an entirely alien form of code were they to have success in that role.

Equally as addicting as its physical gameplay were the rich details and storylines that comprised the
Mako
universe. At its core,
Assault
revolved around an intergalactic civil war between two rival worlds; the peaceful civilization of Aura and its power-hungry arch-rival, Alystier—a stringently militaristic society hellbent on the total destruction of the Auran way of life. Serving as enlisted soldiers in the Auran Star Corps, or ASC for short, each squadron (also referred to as a team or clan) was comprised of five members; all comprehensively trained in every aspect of ground and aerial warfare, in addition to a Military Occupational Specialty (specialized skill-sets which each player was free to select from personal preference).

Because of their successes in the field, Lee’s clan had quickly risen through the ranks to become one of the premier squadrons in the fleet, a point which had resulted in their eventual assignment to the ASC’s flagship—the AS-Praetorian. This was an honor he in particular had been exceptionally proud of. Virtual or not, only the very best gained assignment to this grand carrier ship; and even then there were no guarantees.

Still, while the vast majority of
Mako’s
story revolved around the militaristic nature of its primary arc, what separated it from other games of this kind was the significant amount of emphasis it placed on character relationships. Granted,
MA
hadn’t been the first to integrate a heavy role-playing theme into its makeup, but the degree to which this game did so was unparalleled. Ultimately, many of the decisions its players made throughout the course of the game had a direct impact on how the overall arc played out; and until one reached its conclusion, it was all but impossible to know how everything would unfold.

When describing it to his non-gamer friends, Lee had often likened
Mako Assault
to “a really deep novel that you have to play out to see how it ends.” A classic example of this was the E-23 mission whereby Link—acting on what was deemed to be reliable intel regarding a potential spy threat at a peace summit—had mistakenly assassinated an Alystierian diplomat, and was brought up on charges by the Auran High Command. While he was eventually cleared of any wrongdoing, had he been found guilty, Link’s character would’ve been dishonorably discharged and thrown in prison, effectively ending his tenure with their squad. But as fate would have it, Link had defied the retreat order during a previous mission and in doing so, saved the life of the group’s commanding officer. Thus, it was a widely held belief that the Colonel’s testimony on Link’s behalf had swayed the tribunal’s decision in his favor. Had he not made that very spontaneous choice, some four missions earlier, odds were good that Link would’ve been ousted from the game after E-23.

Combine all of this with industry-redefining graphics, lifelike sound, and a retail price so low that even the average broke college kid could afford it, and what resulted was the single highest-grossing title of all time and what most industry trades now referred to as “The Holy Grail of Gaming.”

****

As the upload meter for the E-42 file crept past 48% with the updated topographical map, intel reports, and standard requisitions forms for the weapons, tactical gear, and resources they’d need after environmental touchdown, Lee swiveled to the side of his desk and pulled out the latest addition to his gaming arsenal, and perhaps his favorite gaming accessory of all time—the Phoenix Gaming Company’s 3.0 series Flight Deck accessory package.

Featuring a fully integrated flight stick, right-handed throttle control, and foot pedals for tail fin and flap control, the FD-3 took
Mako’s
flight element to an entirely new level; and while it was by no means a necessary piece to play, in Lee’s mind it had made all the difference.

Sitting back in his chair, Lee grabbed the goggles from his desk, fit them at-the-ready over his forehead, and positioned the earplugs and mic for use just in time to see the progress bar peak past 98% before washing into an image of an empty briefing room.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite Cheeseburger in Paradise,” the familiar rasp of a woman’s voice quipped through his earplugs.

Glancing up to the lower flatscreen, Lee’s gaze locked on the olive complected face of a young woman smiling back at him—her sea-green eyes peering brightly through the long brunette strands which rested delicately on her cheeks beneath the curved bill of the faded blue New York Yankees ballcap which, in all the years he’d known her, she’d rarely ever been without.

“What’s up, bar wench?” he said with a playful jab.

“Uh huh,” she smirked. “I’ll remember that little crack the next time you expect to run a tab in my place.”

Lee’s lips thinned into a wry smile of his own. “Good to see you too, Mac.”

Chapter 4: Mac

Evelyn Twilah McKinsey, or “Mac” as she was more commonly known, was a 30-year-old bar manager from Tallahassee. She’d met Lee, Danny and the others when the four began frequenting the Pourhouse, the hole-in-the-wall basement bar that her family had owned since its opening in the mid-1970s. Upon meeting her, they instantly took a liking to her sassy charm, striking good looks, and razor-sharp wit, though it didn’t take them long to learn that she wasn’t one to be trifled with. While they themselves adored her hard-charging, take-no-crap attitude, that wasn’t necessarily the case for a number of the Pourhouse’s other clientele, particularly those of the male persuasion who felt that their fraternity ties and frat-tastic charms made them the proverbial kings of their campus domain. Per Mac’s philosophy, everyone was entitled to lay it on the line and make a play to meet someone new; it’s the bar scene way. However, if you got shot down, you should smile, take your medicine, and walk away. What you did
not
do was stand there and continue being obnoxious with another paying customer.

Most people respected this unwritten rule of the house, but not everyone. On those rare occasions when a demonstration was necessary, Mac’s favorite tool of choice was typically the bar’s PA system, which she happily used for the sole purpose of public humiliation as security escorted the customer in question off the premises—most times to the thunderous applause and obligatory chants of “
awkwaaaaarrrrdddd!
” from everyone else around.

Initially, the group’s dealings with her were no different from any other bartender/regular relationship, filled with all the usual small-talk repartee of the sort. However it didn’t take long for the five to realize that they had far more in common than a love of Florida State athletics and oatmeal stout beer. Music, sports, literature tastes, philosophies about life, a fascination with other cultures—it was all there, but above all else, they quickly discovered that Mac was devoutly loyal to those she called friends, a quality that each of them deeply admired.

The daughter of two native New Yorkers and the youngest sibling to three older brothers, Mac had worn somewhat of a tomboy chip on her shoulder for as long as anyone could remember. Be it with her love of sports (which she played throughout high school), her taste in music (centering predominantly on British punk and hard rock), or her choice of wardrobe (typically a ratty pair of jeans, a distressed leather jacket, and her father’s faded blue Yankees cap), she always ran with the guys. She’d even picked up video gaming at an early age when her parents had bought the kids one of the early Nintendo systems for Christmas, and never one to be outdone by her brothers, she picked up a controller and taught herself to play.

In short, Mac had always been one of the boys, and anyone who didn’t believe so needed look no further than her name itself. Much to the chagrin of her parents, who were ecstatic upon receiving the news that they’d finally have a girl in the house, she detested both her first and middle names. To her, “Evelyn” sounded like an old lady’s name—synonymous with pink hair curlers, Amway makeup, and denture cream. As the cheese factor went, however, it paled in comparison to the absurdly gaudy “Twilah.” That delightful little stamp on her birth certificate had come courtesy of Mac’s flower-child Mom, and some crap, hippie poet she’d loved since her college days in the late 60s. God only knew what psychedelic wonders had inspired it too.

Still, for all the venom she’d spewed over the names her parents had been so very fond of, Mac always loved her last name and its Scottish heritage—a fact that endeared her to Hamish particularly. So somewhere around age 13, once everyone had given up on the notion of her accepting something even remotely more ladylike, the name “Mac” was born, and that is what had stuck.

Throughout high school, when she wasn’t on the track or the softball diamond, Mac was usually spotted running with the rough crowd, sneaking the occasional cigarette and skipping school to party at any place with an open liquor cabinet. However, a few short years and a series of questionable judgment calls later—one of which landed her an overnight stay in the Leon County Jail for underage drinking and disorderly conduct—she began to pull her life together, and by the time she reached college, she’d actually morphed into a quasi-responsible young adult. Whereas in high school her preference would have been to skip class in favor of a dorm-room kegger, she’d become a dedicated student who spent the bulk of her time either studying for her marketing courses, which were geared when possible toward the music industry, or working extra shifts at the bar to help pay for them.

She never completely lost her “bad girl” edge, though; and while Lee and the others always loved that about her, in many ways it made her an outcast with a lot of the girls her age, not that she ever really cared. At a time in life when nightclubs, Cosmopolitans, and fraternity guys were supposed to be all the rage, Mac preferred the comfort of a worn barstool, a dartboard, and an ice-cold draft beer with friends.

Even still, beyond the sports, the bar and her overall love of a good time, if there was anything Mac loved, it was music, and while her early tastes would forever be rooted in rock, they expanded considerably in college when she began interning at a local radio station conglomerate as part of her degree. Soon after, artists like Chopin, Frank Sinatra, Otis Redding, and Daft Punk began to appear in her collection alongside Ozzy, Queensrÿche, and The Clash. Much to Lee’s satisfaction, she’d even developed a mild taste for southern rock, a genre he’d practically been raised on, but one she’d historically had little tolerance for.

“Mullet rock for hillbillies in pickups,” she’d called it.

That all changed on one fateful afternoon when Lee, running a few minutes early for their lunch date, arrived at Mac’s apartment just in time to catch the Queen of Metal herself—appropriately dressed in frayed jeans and a Black Sabbath t-shirt—perched high atop a mound of laundry and crooning passionately into a detergent scoop with the lyrics of “Please Call Home” by The Allman Brothers Band.