The Perfect Page 4

  I wasn’t that lucky. Like it or not, I was stuck in this surreal situation. I guess we were double dating.

  “We should get dinner before the show,” I suggested.

  Josh looked a little uncomfortable and for once didn’t say anything.

  But the women readily agreed – obviously we had to eat first. I said I would choose the restaurant. I had a place in mind, but wasn’t sure yet if I could get us a reservation on such short notice.

  Josh furrowed his brow and nodded to himself.

  As we arrived at the sporting goods store, ActiWorld, I had every intention of getting in, grabbing a few things for Josh to wear to the game, and then getting the hell out of there. The world offers few activities that I hold in less regard than shopping. Especially clothes shopping. And especially clothes shopping for someone else. And especially for someone else who is larger, stronger, better-looking and a thousand times smarter than I am, with a diamondoid frame.

  I spied the clothing section on the far side of the store and steered him toward it, and he immediately veered off in the opposite direction.

  I trailed behind while he analyzed every inch of that place. He was like a kid in a toy store. He picked up every neon, lycra, and rubber object that he passed – he held it close to his eyes, turned it in his hand, splayed his hands across the surface, smelled it, poked it, touched his tongue to it, looked at it from various angles. Maybe he was verifying what he already knew, or filling in missing details. I wasn’t really sure.

  He took in the full breadth of the store, the aisles of glowing electronics and luminous color. The Jimi Hendrix Reboot Project blasted a long crazy solo from overhead and Josh bobbed his head to the beat as he marched the corridors.

  In the tennis section, he picked up a racket, swung it a few times, studying his form in a mirror. He looked at me. “Do you play tennis, TJ?” Then a smile crept across his face and he dropped the racket in a bin and moved on.

  He stacked two fifty-pound dumbbells on his left arm and steadied them against his chest. Then with a twitch he let one slide onto the pinky of his right hand. Balancing it on the fingertip, he glanced at me and nodded to a set of five-pound weights on the floor. “Try this,” he said.

  Losing interest, he collected them with his large hands and placed them on the ground, then approached a life-size punching bag, a rubberized human torso and head mounted on a thick pole. The thing had a stern face, broad chest, and no arms. Its eyes lit up as he peered at it. “Go ahead,” it buzzed. “Give me your best shot!" Josh rubbed the sides of it several times, feeling the texture, examining the seams, shaking his head at, apparently, the lousy craftsmanship, and then smashed his fist into its face. The blinking eyes disappeared into a cavity the size and shape of a cereal bowl.

  Josh moved on, already distracted by the next aisle. I ran to the mannequin and stuck my fingers into the indented face, trying to pull it back out, but the rubber was wedged tight. I glanced around for the nearest security camera, found nothing pointed this way, and left the mangled head as-is.

  Jumping to a basketball rim 10 feet off the ground, Josh effortlessly popped his hand over it, then moved into the hunting section.

  He studied a long display case of knives. Keep moving Josh, I thought to myself. Hoisting a laser-sighted crossbow to his eyes, he slowly leveled it at me and then pointed at various others in the store. He flicked his eyes at a box of arrows, then replaced the bow on the shelf. Strolling past the gun safes, he pointed at a massive model. “One punch,” he said.

  I stared at the safe, debating whether he was serious or not. He had disappeared ahead and I hustled to catch up. Hunched close to a shelf, he grasped a small package on a hook, slid it off and read the label. “Power Pig Dominant Boar Urine,” he said. Then, with no hint of humor, added, “This gives me all kinds of crazy ideas.”

  Still bopping his head, he moved into the aisle of fishing lures and whipped his hands back and forth across them. Several stuck in his flesh and he held up his hands and jangled them. “Fluorescent,” he said.

  That’s when I saw an android weaving its way toward us in the crowd. Josh saw it too. The robot had a friendly metallic face and strode with deliberate purpose, holding something in his hand. “He’s coming for you,” Josh said.

  True enough, the robot was delivering my one o’clock: my cup o’ java, my daily Bean God delivery, one freshly made 12 oz. Americano plus blueberry muffin. I awaited his arrival. The shiny android stopped in front of me and made the iconic, trademarked sound – Laaaaaaa! – the Bean God tone, the branded experience announcing that the heavens had just opened and angels were singing.

  To the android, I said, “I meant to cancel my service this week. Can you put it on hold for the next 5 days?”

  “No problem, sir. I’ll let them know.” The robot extended the cup.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

  The machine nodded, spun and marched off, dropping the cup in a trash can. Slurp!

  Ever since Bean God launched, I’d been hooked. Bean God vans crisscrossed the city with their mechanical baristas locked inside, bolted to the floor, whipping up each drink to spec, their drones rising in waves from the vehicle’s roof to zip their orders to caffeine-depleted customers. If Bean God doesn’t find a way to get their coffee to you – hopping from machine to machine to hand-off to you – within 3 minutes of the timestamp on the cup, the drink is free.

  I watched my coffee leave the store with a tinge of regret. Turning to Josh, I said, “Enough screwing around, let’s get your clothes. I don’t like this place.”

  Josh plucked off the fishing lures, hung them on their proper hooks, and followed me to the clothing section.

  I yanked a pair of plain black soccer shorts off a clearance rack and held them near Josh to assess their fit, then tossed them at him. “Those should work.”

  A bright blue and white compression shirt was next on the rack, and I tossed that Josh-ward too without looking at him. “Those are close to our team colors,” I said.

  He pulled the shirt off his face and held it up. “Okay. It’ll be a little tight.”

  White calf-high nylon socks – check.

  Next, I pointed him toward the athletic shoes. “Let’s get you a pair of general-purpose cross trainers. What size are you?”

  “12, 18, 24, 52.5.”

  I paused, my finger over a request screen. “Again, a little slower this time.”

  Josh reached past me and tapped the numbers in. A minute later, an android brought a shoe out. “Would you like to try it on?” it asked.

  “Can I trust you?” Josh responded.

  “We don’t get many returns here,” the android replied curtly.

  “Yes, I know,” Josh said.

  “Looks like we’re all happy.” I said. “Josh, grab your stuff and let’s go.”

  Josh said he wanted to try on his shirt and see how it looked. He disappeared into a dressing room and emerged wearing the shirt, which was stretched over his frame. His pecs and biceps bulged. It was a little much.

  But Josh looked himself over and said, “I like this. It’s cool.” He grabbed a FIFA snap-back cap and put it on his head. “I think I am done.”

  He proceeded to put it all back.

  “What are you doing?”

  Turns out, he had just purchased the shirt, shoes, socks, shirt, and cap at NewSports for 20% less.

  “That’s illegal, you know.”

  “Of course I know.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “Paying more than I should is against my nature. Furthermore, the owner of this store, ActiWorld, made political contributions to Senator Malave, who tried to push that bill through to stop the advance of artificial intelligence. Even though the bill was killed, I can’t finance that kind of behavior.”

  As soon as we stepped out of the store, the package dropped out of the sky from the NewSports delivery service. We grabbed it and hustled to a wait
ing car.

  The sky was one solid swipe of the brush, a wash of watercolor blue. As I walked across the field toward Roberto, our head coach, I wished I could appreciate the outstanding weather. Days like this were special events, possible only during a thin slice of the year between the winter rainstorms and the endless stretch of spring, summer, and fall heat. A perfect day for riverside strolls, throwing dog-Frisbees, and soccer games. But the game had me worried and there was so much buzzing machinery in the air, the atmosphere was far from relaxing.

  Sport Trackers hovered in flocks over the field, launched by an army of parents who wanted to record the game. The JSX, as always, was the dominant species; it could track the ball and stay on the action. As the ball ricocheted back and forth across the field, the aerial ballet above could be almost as much fun to watch. I’d bought one of these birds myself, years ago. After pitching it into the air at dozens of Zach’s games, I’d collected hundreds of hours of soccer video I would never watch.

  Five or six cheap tag-alongs followed each JSX, and high up, a more menacing presence: the dark alpha machines suspended motionless against the blue sky. Who brought these mammoth drones with their high def telephoto cameras? They often flew off without a sound at the end of the game. Occasionally they lowered to scan the crowd and sent the rest of the flock scattering.

  They were all buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, and my muscles were contracting as tight as a tourniquet. I was getting wound up by a soccer game. My life was already at the point of no return, but I had no idea yet. Trivial stresses still bothered me.

  I greeted Coach Roberto. Quick with a joke and usually smiling, he was the kind of guy you immediately liked. Just a low-key guy who was easy to talk to. His son, Tajo, was a forward. Denny, another assistant coach, was talking to our players. The boys liked Denny, but he wasn’t the fastest on his feet... in other words, he didn’t bring a lot of insight to the coaching. Denny was a balding guy with a goofy demeanor, and he came across as something of a pushover, but he was large enough that you weren’t sure how far you would want to test his patience.

  We sent the boys onto the field to warm up. They lined up for practicing shots on goal. Our goalie, a kid everyone called Jonsy, was pretty damn good. I watched him blocking the shots and saw that he was in top form today. I relaxed a little.

  Our team, the Wayland Heat Wave, was doing okay at 6-3 for the season. We had an outside chance today.

  On the other side of the field, the Frackers were executing their pre-game drills. I watched. One player rocketed the ball into the net over and over with amazing confidence and accuracy.

  Josh had followed me to the bench, so I introduced him to Roberto and Denny. They were too busy for anything more than a handshake, so Josh was left to stand to the side, feeling sporty in his tight new shirt. He sidled up to me and pointed to the Fracker kicking the kill shots. “That’s Jake Ballard,” he said. “You don’t want to know his stats.”

  I nodded and walked away. I could tell he was going to be his usual fact-filled self. I didn’t have the time or patience. I said to Denny, “Did you know these guys have been undefeated for two years?”

  “Of course. They’re the best in the league. They stand a good chance of keeping us out of the tournament.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Josh said.

  Denny turned to Josh, eyebrows raised. He hadn’t noticed Josh join us. I saw Denny process Josh’s sarcastic jab, but he kept things friendly. “Trust me. These kids are good. Their club actually pays them.”

  The Frackers’ coach strode over and introduced himself.

  “Jazz Blake,” he said.

  I extended my hand. “TJ Marshall. Nice to meet you. Good luck today.”

  Denny and Josh shook his hand. Josh fixed him with a bored stare. I smiled.

  No return smile from Jazz. “Look guys, play hard and give your best. Let’s see how the game goes.”

  What are you supposed to say to that? Arrogant son of a bitch.

  “Sounds great, Jazz,” Josh said.

  The announcer kicked things off, his voice blasting across the field: "Welcome to today’s game, hosted by the Newton Frackers against the Wayland Heat Wave. Thank you all for coming out and supporting our teams. Let’s show good sportsmanship at today’s event. Here’s the lineup, Wayland first.”

  Jazz bestowed a brief, fake smile on us and with an air of urgency, turned from us with a half-hearted wave. With each Fracker’s name announced, their side of the stands erupted in cheers, the kind you’d expect from a cult, maybe, or some kind of dictatorship. Yeah, I was a little jealous. We had tried to rally the same enthusiasm for our players, with limited success.

  Everyone stood for the national anthem as it played crisply through the Fracker’s high-end sound system. The beginning of the anthem sounded great, but half-way through, a pair of military jets roared overhead, drowning it out. At first I thought the Frackers had somehow arranged this spectacular fly-over, then I remembered that the military was all-hands-on-deck for the “Graphene Monster,” the press’s nickname for a small environmental problem growing off the coast of Cape Cod. I watched the planes disappear over the tree line.

  The Frackers marched onto the field ready to kick our ass. Jake Ballard had a crewcut with his team’s stylized "F" buzzed into it down to the scalp. He was a hulking kid who towered over most of the other players. His parents must have raised him on real cow’s milk and powergrow synth. His shirt wasn’t washed – mud and dried blood streaked down the sides. I’m pretty sure it was blood.

  From his defensive starting position, Zach coughed and got ready.

  The Frackers took the kickoff and raced down the field, controlling the ball like they were the only ones playing. They scored their first goal in the third minute.

  The announcer came over the sound system. “Fracker goal by number 10. Jake Ballard.”

  Frackers 1, Wave 0.

  A minute later, they scored again: "Fracker goal by number 10. Jake Ballard.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” I said.

  We were only four minutes into the game. Josh kicked up a ball and tapped it with one foot, juggling it just above the ground. Roberto and Denny noticed.

  “Pretty good, Josh. You’ve played soccer.”

  “I know a thing or two.”

  We took another kickoff and this time, the results weren’t so pitiful. There was a lot of kicking, passing, heading and stealing. We held the Frackers off 10 minutes before they scored again.

  The announcer was enjoying this. “Fracker goal by number 10. Jake Ballard.”

  Josh pulled me aside, away from the other coaches. “You’re getting killed.”

  “You must be a genius to have figured that out.”

  “The only way you are going to beat this team is through better analysis. You need to know what every player on this field is doing at every moment and how that relates to every other player. To simplify our task, I calculated the total value of every Fracker to reflect their performance today. I weighted their possession time by yards advanced, pass success, value coefficients of the players they passed to, whether each play led to a goal shot, quality of the shot, and goal success. For today’s purposes, let’s take their defense and our players out of the equation.”

  I didn’t know how to respond.

  “You need my help,” Josh said.

  “No, I don’t. This isn’t a math problem. This is a grass field and a bunch of unpredictable boys doing unpredictable things. Goals depend on practice, skill, and training. Now stop interrupting.”

  “You’re not going to win this game without an edge. Every second I watch I’m collecting more data. The more I watch them, the smarter I’ll get. But we can’t wait too long to act on my observations. The window is closing.”

  “We don’t need your help.” I walked back to the benches.

  I watched the game and was proud of our boys. Those Frackers were animals, but the dynamics were beginning to shift. We hadn’t let them score in over
25 minutes. The problem is, we hadn’t scored either. There were only two minutes left in the half.

  Josh was next to me again.

  “Would you stand over there?” I snapped. “You’re bugging the shit out me.”

  Josh held up his hands and backed off. I shook my head.

  As I looked back at the field, Roberto’s son Tajo tore out of the pack and shot down the field. Behind me in the stands, the noise level started to rise. The anticipation was building. Clapping. Shouting. Closer. Yes! Tajo smashed the ball dead-on. Yes!

  It went over the goal.

  Collective groan from the Wave parents.

  The announcer piped up. “Shot... and miss by Number 10, Tajo Moncada.”

  Halftime score: Frackers 3, Wave 0.

  “Head over to the concession booth and enjoy the rest of the game,” the announcer said.

  Before the boys arrived back at the bench, I pitched my strategy for the second half to Roberto.

  “No,” Josh interrupted.

  We all turned.

  “Sorry,” Josh stated. “That’s not going to work. It’s just not.”

  I could feel my ears burning. “Have you got a better idea?”

  “Of course,” Josh said.

  My God, was there no end to this guy?

  “The Frackers are good,” Josh said. “But they’re not perfect. They have flaws and vulnerabilities screaming at us to exploit.”

  Denny regarded Josh with deep skepticism, bordering on annoyance. “Like what?”

  “They set up the ball for Jake, and he takes great shots. But the other two forwards are having an off day. They’ve taken three crap shots that missed completely. They are relying almost completely on Jake.”

  Now Roberto looked annoyed, too. “So the other guys missed their shots a few times. I don’t think we have seen enough of their game to assume Jake is carrying the whole thing.”

  “I’ve seen enough,” Josh said.

  “What do you suggest?”