"Got it," says Bud Coggins, clutching the steering wheel and wondering if the new-car smell in his lungs was from the Aerostar upholstery or VR generated.
"We will see everything you see via our remote console. Do you have any questions?"
"Great. Why is the game called Ruby?"
"That will become clear as the game scenario progresses. You may start your engine now."
Bud Coggins had fired up the engine. The car simulator revved up nicely, vibrating comfortably when he left it in neutral.
"You may exit the warehouse."
Coggins released the brake, pumping the gas. There was a bump, and the warehouse surroundings fell behind the van, which seemed to be actually moving.
"That was one hell of a bump," he said aloud. "It felt like I came off the rollers."
"Sorry. Must be a bug in the software controlling the multiaccess motion-simulator seat. Is the helmet still functioning?"
"Yep. Good thing it's padded. Think I banged it on the roof."
"You are going to Dorchester."
Bud turned left onto Morrissey Boulevard, and the soft voice inside the VR helmet kept him busy with questions while impressing upon him the need to avoid jostling the delicate VR gear packed in the back of the van.
"Drive as if the cars around you are real, Bud. Avoid reckless driving. Do not call attention to yourself. "
"Gotcha. "
Bud Coggins enjoyed the high-adrenaline sensations of driving through virtual Boston traffic. The other drivers were honking and cursing at him without any justifiable reason, just as they would in real life.
"People kept staring at me," he remarked at one point.
"Ignore them. Trust no one. "
"Is that important to the game?"
"People stare at other drivers. It's simply part of the natural feel we've given Ruby."
At one point Coggins lowered his window and stuck his hand out. The cold air blew through his fingers just as it would in true expressway traffic.
"Amazing," he had said over and over again. "I am fully, totally, absolutely immersed in virtual reality."
BUD COGGINS was still thinking that as he crept through the simulated underground parking garage of the University of Massachusetts, stalking a Presidential assassin who could be anybody with only a .38 revolver.
"Bud, the concrete posts are color coded. You are looking for the yellow-orange section."
"It's just ahead," said Bud, voice tightening in anticipation.
An elevator door slid open, and Coggins whirled in time to see the too-obvious figure of a Secret Service agent carrying a MAC-11.
The agent saw him, but was too slow. Coggins lifted, sighted and fired once. The agent went down, his weapon unfired.
"I got him. I got him!"
"Don't shout. It will attract others. Remember all real-world scenarios have been programmed in."
"Right, right," said Bud Coggins, stepping over the body and marveling at the metallic scent of blood that tickled his nostrils.
"Take his belt radio, " the voice in the helmet instructed.
"That will help me track the renegade Secret Service guys, right?"
"Their quarry is your quarry. It is important that you find the assassin before they do."
Kneeling, Coggins stripped the corpse of the radio set and put it on, following the instructions of the helmet voice. There was a port in the helmet for the Secret Service earphone jack. It fit perfectly. The body felt so real Bud wondered if one of the technicians hadn't lain down on the warehouse floor to play dead Secret Service agent.
When he arose, Bud could hear realistic-sounding radio conversation.
"Suspect spotted on roof of Science Center."
"Roger. Seal off all entrances and exits."
"Did you hear that?" Coggins asked the voice.
"Yes. Go to the Science Center," the VR-helmet voice said.
Coggins searched the signs until he found one that pointed the way. He rode the elevator up two floors and got off.
And stepped right into an ambush.
There were two Secret Service agents crouching before double doors signaling to one another as if about to kick in the doors.
They heard the sound of the elevator door open, started turning-and Bud Coggins got off two shots a fraction of a second apart.
Both agents went down, painting the door with their blood.
"Looks like they had the suspect cornered behind those doors," Bud muttered. There was a sign that said Herbert Lipke Auditorium.
"It's an auditorium. Shit. I have only three shots left and I have to track the suspect in a theater."
"You are allowed to acquire any weapons you find along the way," the helmet voice instructed.
"Good," said Coggins, picking up a fallen Delta Elite automatic. With a weapon in each hand, he eased one of the double doors open.
The theater was dark. The seats appeared empty. Three bays of red-covered seats sloped down toward the stage at a steep angle, backed by a horseshoe-shaped pinewood backstop.
Hunkering low, Bud Coggins began to move down one aisle, sweeping his pistol muzzles from side to side. If anything moved in these deep shadows, he was going to get it before it got him.
The curving ranks of seats fell behind with every step. All were empty. He was holding in his breath so that if he had to fire he could exhale with the shot, the way the pros did it. Coggins had picked up a lot of pointers over his stellar career of playing electronic games.
The voice in his helmet was quiet now. He could hear tense breathing, and knowing it wasn't his own, realized that the control technician was just as excited as he was.
This was a great game. Still couldn't figure out why it was called Ruby. Then again, he never understood why Tetris was called Tetris.
The doors on either side of the stage blew open under the hard shoulders of sunglassed men with guns.
Flashlights blazed and a voice cried, "Freeze! Don't move! Secret Service! Don't move!"
Coggins dropped to one knee, waiting. Had they seen him?
And the agents converged on a man who had been sitting in the front row, waiting in sinister silence.
The man stood up. His back was to the seat rows. He was short and slight and might have been some harmless professor of astronomy waiting to expound on the top quark.
The Secret Service agents treated him like a coiled asp.
"Keep your hands where they are!"
"I'm not resisting!" the man shouted suddenly. "I'm not resisting arrest!"
A human wave, they converged on him, threw him to the floor and cuffed him. He submitted without a struggle.
"You are under arrest for attempting to assassinate the President of the United States," an out-of-breath Secret Service agent said.
"I didn't assassinate anybody," the man said in a nervous voice. "I'm a patsy."
When they hauled him to his feet again, someone hit the lights. Everybody got a good look at the assassin then. Except Bud.
"Holy shit!" an agent exploded. "He's wearing one of our countersniper windbreakers."
"I don't recognize him," another said.
"He's not from the Boston office," said a third.
"Still, this guy looks vaguely familiar," a fourth agent said.
"We'll sort it out later. Let's get him out of here."
They spun the handcuffed prisoner around and marched him roughly up the aisle.
Bud Coggins ducked behind the pine barrier and watched the knot of men approach, their captive stumbling before them, his pasty face sweaty and drained of blood.
"Did I fail?" he whispered into his helmet.
"No. Do you see the man's face?"
"Yes."
"Does he look familiar to you?"
"Yeah. Yeah, he does! But I can't place him."
"Then here is a clue. The name of the game is Ruby. You are Ruby, Bud Coggins. Do you understand now? You are Ruby."