Chapter 9:

At Bat is #10 for The Pennsylvania Quakers. Kente Watanabe

Percussive Maintenance: Where Do Naughty Robots Go When They Die?

“You made your turn now, wait till your next one.”

That seems to be what the captain was saying to me. I recognize that smug look on his face. You made your move now we wait. Just sit at your base like a good boy and wait to be tagged out.

I'm reminded a bit of my days going at Wharton, being among all of the Americans. growing up, I loved baseball. Always played it, always did well in it. - almost made it to the big leagues once before that rotator cuff injury. I even managed to keep my love of the game after living in America.

I place the cigarette out in the ash tray in the bathroom before stepping inside. There were at least three people there.

No good. I turned around. Need a place without witnessed. I step outside there is a guard waiting outside the bathroom. No need to alert him. I'll go to the place where no one will be. The Prayer room nearby. He looks expressionless as I turn in.

“Good News Honey, I think I found something the kids can watch. We can talk now.”

I hear the alarms go off and feel the shake of something. I head to the prayer room. A poorly lit space, empty space of books and chairs dedicated to three religions and sacred to none. No one needs the salat closet when it counts. The entire airport is a prayer room. I go in unnoticed.

Saito sent me off to Philly to get a nice Wharton MBA and a new squeaky clean CV. In my early days, I was foolish enough to express my interest in the sport. It was funny, the same people that gave us baseball seem to have forgotten it, or much like their other industries, outsource it to other countries. Seems they feel that they were too good for the sport now, outsourcing it to The Gulf of Mexico. No more actual opinions, they complained about it like consultants

When Missy chirped in her oh, too helpful voice, about that distraction going through the terminal. I knew better than to ask, but what I know now is that I have a window to act. I untuck my blue shirt with French cuffs to open my ‘pot belly’, no doubt, the captain saw that and used that to peg me for a bit of a lazy oaf.

Good

I took the pouch out of my shirt with my supply pack: knife, holster, gun, nightstick, rope, climbing gloves, and a couple gadgets. Nothing the British or Americans’ put in their spy movies, just things that would get me arrested. I put the back pack on and grab my kevlar lined blazer. Won’t make me invincible but if I'm lucky - like in Diu - I get out of a gunfight with a broken arm. I look up to the prayer room. Drop Ceilings. Always reliable.

“Based on the CCTV feed I have available, the best exits without a sniper team, or patrol are “my wife” which leads to a helicopter pad, “my friend” which leads to a service exit that takes you to the basement, or “my boss” which will take you to the monorail station. ”

Work like mine doesn’t allow for loose threads and extra baggage. I travel light. So a pocket sized assistant is the closest thing I get to a “partner.”

“That sounds fine Missy, now call my wife.”

Missy dropped her idea of a “wifey” voice. To return to Saito’s idea of a teenage girl playing office secretary.

“Hai Ken-san. A request for an extraction has been sent.”

I climbed on top of a bookshelf and used it to open a panel and climb in. And climbed to the joists. I didn't need to go far. I just needed to not be in sight of the guards. Between my mental map and Missy's schematics I knew exactly where I was. She wasn’t going to talk unless there was something important. Saves processing power. She was busy.

I remember back at UPenn, each American had a different response to my love of baseball and joining the College team. The cosmopolitans were embarrassed on my behalf. The Future expats and overseas managers stressed their love of soccer. On the other side had ones marking themselves as “salt of the earth,” they signaled their love for American football to prepare their “homegrown voice,” as though it was a political platform. “Baseball is just too slow and boring. Nothing happens and you take turns.” Consultant opinions from spectators. No one knew how to play anymore.

I looked down to the long hallway filled with shops no one’s visiting and moving platforms no one’s using. But most importantly no guards. Drop down, whatever noise I made was drowned out by the alarms. I walk briskly towards the stairwells and janitor’s closets. No need to draw attention by running. Yet.

My headphones chirped. I looked to my device. A guard about 25m away near the duty free store. Behind a wall. Cant see me, but could hear me if I'm loud.

Saito never sent me over unless I have something important to do, and it's usually something that people don't like me to do., or things I can’t be seen doing. So this isn't my first time having to evade the authorities, and I know I have a very narrow window to do it. Once I'm ready, I make my break for it. I take off my loafers so as to avoid making any footsteps, and if I need to, slide.

In the past, I would have told Missy to go plug the feed for me so the security cameras don't notice my arrival, but she likely has already taken care of that. We've done this song and dance before so many times since Jakarta `96 it's practically a commute. The sign on the door warned me that an alarm would sound. I pressed it. No alarm. Missy knows her job, and so do I.

In baseball, you don't take turns. You make them. That was my secret. That was why in Philly they used to call me “Ken the good thief.” That’s why back on the corporate league half the game is a tactical metagame of strategic deployment of Kente. What's the difference between a batter who swings and goes to the bleachers versus a batter who gets three more attempts to make it back to home? He makes his own turns. Baseball is a game about seizing the moment when it arrives and you have three seconds to act. Missed your window? “wait your turn.”

I have 3 flights of stairs and start climbing. Whatever it is that Missy set up as a distraction. It likely isn't going to last long. And I doubt captain Andrew is going to completely leave me to my own devices. He may be an arrogant man, but rightfully so. I recognized his type the moment I walked on to the platform. A man of that pedigree in education doesn't join the paratroopers, enjoy a cushy desk job in the capital. If a man of Captain Bui’s stature is willingly jumping out of Howard Hughes's wooden icon-scrawled deathtraps, Then he's someone who has fallen far or believes he has far to climb. Either way, he's a man who believes he can go up, and has the skills to do so. Men like that aren't fools, nor should I treat him as one.

I heard a buzz from Missy. Knew someone was coming. Raced to get out of sight of the door. My lungs were screaming but i held my breath.

A door on the 3rd floor opened below me. One of Cpt. Bui’s men checking the stairs. I froze and hugged the side of the wall. Narrowly missing me. Now the man had a choice: upstairs or downstairs? I helped him make it. Grabbed a coin from my pocket. Gold francs: international standard for convenient bribes. Gave it a slowball “pitch.” Man didn’t hear it until it hit the stairs below him with a loud ring. The guard pulled out his gun and raced down the stairs. I continued silently, while releasing air back into my aching lungs.

“Watanabe-Sama! Saito has a ride for you, there’s a message too…it’s kind of weird though.”

“Weird how?” I whispered.

“Like really old-fashioned. It's a radio com. Not to worry though, I can open it.”

A woman of a raspier voice than Missy’s but rivaling her exuberance rang into Kente’s Headphones.”

“Name’s Kristy Le! Saito ordered you a cab and I'm your gal! Now get to the roof."

I reached the the rooftop and whirring above me is an old military helicopter. Didn’t have to see it to know the type. Hughes Haowai 800. The workhorse of every army in The Latin Bloc. No soft hummingbird hums of a Saito Bird. This either belongs to HICE, or is loud enough to attract them. Several metal bags are tossed down.

My headset rings again.

“Hi Kirsty again, I'm not letting you on until you put all your tech in those bags.”

“Faraday Cages?”

“Something has been messing with your tech. And I don't want it messing with mine!”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I'm not. Bags or Bishop!”

I looked at the door. Any minute now the Captain’s men come climbing back up. My next turns would be whatever The captain and HICE says. Their prisoner trapped in a cage of compromises and maneuvering language.

I grabbed something heavy to prop the stairwell door. Then stuffed missy in the bag.

“Be safe, Watanabe-sama.”

I could hear the bashing at the door.

A rope ladder fell out of the helicopter, and I jumped on. Another extraction. At least it's not cold like Port Arthur.

I saw the Indochinese Troops as they break through the door. Captain Bui himself. His lackeys move around him and get into firing position. I turned to wave goodbye. No need to be a bad sport.

I knew the type. I won the round, but there is always a rematch. He agreed, from the floorlights of the rooftop, I saw the commander order his men at ease. He salutes and they walk off. “Till next time.” He no doubt muttered to himself. Planning his next move.

I make my own turns. Now it's his turn to wait for his.