Connection: Chapter 1

The twin structures of the Foust Towers stood impassive to the brutal onslaught of wind and snow whipping through the cold January night. Fifteen floors high and thirty yards apart, they were the only interruptions in the flat suburban landscape. Ten years ago, college freshmen filled the Towers with life and liquor from dusk until dawn. When Westwood College relocated further upstate, it sold the property to a local company who then resold it to a local businessman. The new manager did no managing, which translated to cheap rent and cheap neighbors. Now, with the temperature below zero and dropping, a few squares of light betrayed the nocturnal residents. Thick fresh snow capped the roofs and blurred the contours of the cars in the parking lot below. Suspended six floors up, an enclosed concrete and glass skywalk connected the two apartment buildings. Anyone watching tonight from outside would spot the lone movement, a solitary figure walking from the South Tower to the North Tower through the lit skywalk.

Robert Warren popped the Mountain Dew can and put it to his lips. The carbonated liquid burned on the way down, bringing his body back to life. He took off a glove and let his fingers feel the cool metal. Glancing outside, he took in the bleak weather and white carpet far below. Although the skywalk was not heated, it was still noticeably warmer than the sidewalk Robert had exited minutes earlier. The length of the winter was his main complaint with New York State. Otherwise, he liked the people, the prices and the pay. He went through the double glass doors into North Tower and passed the elevators and the broken vending machine. Ever since he discovered how many pounds his penchant for donuts had added to his firm waist, he started using the stairs. Taking them two at a time now and sipping his soda, he felt wide awake. He stepped over the large number nine painted on the emergency stairwell floor and entered the hallway.

He rested the can on the fire hose housing jutting off the wall and opened his studio door. Originally designed as a single dorm the room was small even by studio standards, but Robert did not need more space. A twin bed rested by the picture window, a few shelves held whatever fell off the bed. Drawers and a closet for his clothes. Short stacks of recordable CDs and DVDs littered the floor. Robert stepped through the organized chaos and removed his retro trench coat. His clothes were wrinkled, but with a night under the mattress they could be worn tomorrow. He stuck the can in the mini-fridge, laid the gloves on the desk and sat down.

The gleaming Falcon Northwest tower hummed under its custom-designed case. The intricate crimson and black exterior was stuffed with a bleeding-edge processor, expansive memory, dual graphics cards, a dual-layer recordable optical drive and massive dual hard drives. A crossover Ethernet cable snaked from its rear across the table where it plugged into a fire-red laptop. The Velocity Micro notebook sported comparable specifications inside its sleek yet heavy frame. The widescreen laptop and double liquid-crystal monitors sparked to life as Robert moved his hand over the wireless trackball. All told he had poured a cool $13,000 into the array of equipment. Robert Warren was a cyberathlete.

Booting up the machines, he grabbed a CD from its translucent case and stuck it in the laptop. He logged into the online multiplayer game under his requisite alias and was soon lost in the complex world of mercenaries and assassins. His fingers danced, communicating with other players from around the globe. His alter ego wreaked digital carnage as he traversed the map. Kill after kill piled up. After an hour, the short-lived effects of the caffeine wore off, the hands and reflexes slowed. He nodded off to sleep, his head coming to rest on the keys.