FILTERS 8

MUNICH

The little muted television has the Braves game on, west coast, Padres.

His father asks "How long?"

"A few weeks. I broke through the feedback. I practiced in my dorm at first and when that wasn't enough I found a forest I could launch from. There's no difference, it works exactly the same."

"How high do you go?"

"My guess is a few thousand feet, based on the apparent size of the stadium."

His father says "You could use an altimeter. How did you navigate here?"

"I thought we'd get one while I'm here. I left everything there, I followed the highway until I could see Hartsfield-Jackson."

"What about radar?"

The wrinkle shows, "I thought about that, and as soon as I did I had this certainty that radar wouldn't be a problem."

"What, like whatever surrounds you absorbs it?"

"Must be."

His father says "If it can absorb radar. . . could it do that with other forms of electromagnetic radiation?"

"I hadn't considered that. Maybe."

They watch the game until it goes to commercial, and his father asks "You left your phone?"

"Yeah. I know it's Librem, but I thought it might still somehow give the wrong kind of data point. It seemed like what you would tell me to do."

His father frowns.

"I have warned you about the government spying on people, but I don't want you to be afraid of men in suits, Andrew. I imagine that's why you came here to get an altimeter and why you only brought a compass and a watch and I don't want it to be because I made you live in fear."

Andrew says, "Well, you did, dad. Isn't that prudent?"

"I don't know anymore."

Andrew knocks and opens his brother's door, who doesn't hear him until he says "Hey, sup man." Michael glances and double-takes, his eyes going quickly between Andrew and the game. "Oh shit! What's up? Braves at Padres, just into extras. They fucking blew it bottom ninth. How's training?"

"Done til August."

Michael says "That's right. Man we're about to be watching you play on TV. You just get here?"

"Yeah, I've been talking to dad."

"He watching the game too?" asks Michael.

"Yeah, we had it on, but he went to bed."

2 AM. Top 14. Bottom 14. 15, 16, Top 17, crushed to center, Bottom 17, double, popout sac, popout sac to score, groundout to go to Top 18. Michael groans, "What the fuck." 19, 20, 4 AM, Michael's drifting, Andrew's lost in it. Top 21, single, single, double to clear the bases. Padres go 1-2-3. Michael mumbles a cheer and slumps over. Andrew prods him to get into bed then goes to his old bedroom. He lies down and looks up, staring into the formless void of the ceiling.

He runs before sunrise.

When his father is up, the two go to breakfast and then drive to a warehouse in Marietta. It is clean and gray, nothing indicative of its contents besides a small sign on a brown metal door that says AQUINO SURPLUS. The interior is like Andrew expects, fluorescent lighting, concrete floor. A long counter in an L runs down an entire wall of the building and continues down part of the next. Parts of the counter have glass displays filled with items, the rest is burnished wood. James walks to the counter and shakes the hand of the man standing at it. Grandfatherly, stout, white-bearded, smiling.

"Andrew, this is Jan. Jan, my son Andrew." They shake hands and Jan says "You've got that Gators shirt on, you play football for them?"

"Yeah, well this'll be my first year."

Jan says "You sure are built for it."

Andrew shrugs, "You served with my dad?"

Jan says "Not exactly, but we met on base. I was in Pensacola for I don't even remember why."

James cuts in, "Jan was a chop, a supply officer on a nuclear sub." Jan points proudly to a flag on the wall, Navy in navy, with a symbol in gold Andrew vaguely recognizes and now assumes must be for submarines and USS SPRINGFIELD in large gold letters. "You'd be hittin' your skull, fit me and my son just fine."

Andrew laughs, more out of courtesy, "Yeah, real cramped, right? I'm going to look around."

Another figure is in the shop, and when Andrew sees him the resemblance is strong. Same build, same face with fewer wrinkles and same beard, though black.

"Hey, I'm looking for an altimeter."

The man grins and claps his hands, "Andrew Black, going skydiving?"

Andrew should be used to this by now, his pause is enough for the man to notice.

"I went to Florida, still a big fan. I'm Nick, I heard you talking to my dad."

"When were you at UF? He mentioned you served in the military."

Nick says "Well before your time. I graduated in 05, I was already in when 7/7 happened."

"Your dad said you were also on subs?"

Nick gives a "sort-of" shaking nod. "Sometimes. I was in the SEALs."

"Wow. What was that like?"

Nick says "Hard, but worth it. Spent time in Afghanistan, then when I came home I did work with the National Guard in Texas in the second feral hog campaign." again reminiscent of Jan, Nick points back, to a pair of tusks mounted on a plaque.

"SEALs hunt dire hogs?"

Nick nods, "After Mansour was installed we got out of Afghanistan and I had the option to stay in the States and do that, so I took it. That's a lot of what the military has been doing for decades, it's what I was doing before I was deployed to Afghanistan. Up in Canada helping with dire grizzlies and polar bears."

"Jesus. What did you use to hunt them?"

Nick grins, "Grenade launchers and special jeeps we called 'Warthogs' built around M61s, those are very heavy, typically aircraft-mounted machine guns. Anyway, you need an altimeter?"

"Yeah, ah, I saw watches online that measure altitude?"

They check out and leave, Andrew carrying the watch-altimeter. His father is in a good mood.

"Was good to talk to Jan. He served a long time, he saw a lot of the world on those boats."

"Yeah, I can't imagine, can't imagine being stuck in one of those. Any mistake and you're dead."

James says "Subs are safe, none lost in a long time."

"Wouldn't want to be the first. That guy's son was in Afghanistan in between hunting dire grizzlies and dire hogs, what am I doing? I could do that, I have done that. I'm bulletproof and I can fly and I'm spending my time playing football and hovering around Gainesville and using flight to get out of driving."

James is shaking his head, "It isn't that simple, Andrew."

"I could be saving lives, dad."

His father sighs. "Yes, you would be able to save lives if you served in the military. But first of all, the military has about fifty years of experience hunting dire fauna, and where a country wants US expertise but can't directly ask for it, they just hire an American Private Hunting Corporation full of former soldiers. It's an ongoing issue but it's not one without an existing solution and while you would be better in single instances PHCs are a multi-billion dollar industry with people in almost every country and they cover far more ground than you could. As for war, today? We're out of Afghanistan. If you joined, you wouldn't be protecting people, you would be helping belligerents, because that's what we are. Almost everywhere the United States has soldiers right now is in defiance of the sovereignty of those nations and aggressing upon the will of the peoples of those nations who do not want us there. Look at Afghanistan, the United Kingdom justified their coalition because of 7/7 and we helped ultimately install a genocidal tyrant who makes Saddam Hussein look peaceful and nobody cares because they can't use it for politicking. You already know what really helps people, Andrew, and it's economic assistance, especially in rebuilding after disasters. Maybe it sounds circuitous, maybe you wonder why you should pay for bulldozers when you can move debris yourself, or why a country should hire a PHC when you can handle a bear yourself. But I've said all of this before and it's true even now that you can fly. You can't be everywhere at once. You could pay for dozens of PHC teams, you could pay for construction crews to operate around the clock in multiple countries, if you had the money. So if you want to help the world, it could very well be that the quantifiably best use of your many talents is for you to play your hardest, get a major contract and major endorsements and put that money into a charitable organization that can hire enough people and donate enough money to be felt everywhere. Then in the offseason you could help directly. But you should not feel a comparative and arbitrary pressure because of what other people choose to do with their strengths in their lives. Would you make a good surgeon?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"How about a chemical engineer, or geneticist, or theoretical physicist? Do you think if you dove into those fields, you'd be good at them?"

"Not particularly."

His father says "Yet those fields have been responsible for technology that has improved the lives of billions. Genetics research will define this century as the population of individuals like us, those with the UQ-Marker, increases. As the Marker becomes more prevalent and better understood, humanity will experience a paradigmatic shift in health that will do far more than what any one person could do. It's true, you would be the perfect soldier. But is the perfect Andrew a soldier? Or do you think it's something else? When the world finally knows that people like you exist there will be a cacophony of demands that you pledge your service for the greater good, for free. Some who will advocate that, most, will be genuine in their belief that you should do good, but please, and I know you'll remember all of this, but remember this the most: the loudest voices will be there artificially, because those will be the people who want you under their control for their own purposes. Think about this, we could sell our house, move to a one-story with two bedrooms, donate all of our spare income to charity, and you could do the same, keeping only enough to live. Is that what you want? Are you obligated to just because you could?"

Andrew says "You're taking an extreme position to make the idea sound less appealing."

James says "You're right. This is what I'm trying to say: you can enjoy your life and the fruits of your labor while still helping people, and what is best for your life, what is the best use of your abilities, is something you must determine for yourself, and that might take a long time. So be patient, Andrew, because you are more intelligent than anyone who would specifically seek you out to tell you what to do. When the time comes, you will know, and I know that you will make whatever decision is right for you."

Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling.

It is the first Friday of August and the first day of camp. He runs and showers and walks to Heavener. He meets Devaris along the way, who greets him with a "Sup, Drew."

"Yo."

The quarterback says "This is my last year. When my dad got drafted by Kansas City players only had to be three years out of school. I should already be out there getting paid."

Andrew remembers the conversation with his father about the rule. "Yeah my dad's talked about that."

"You should too. But we're here instead. Faars is probably going in the first round and you're going to go out there and make him look like a fucking kid. You know how long I've waited for a guy who can keep up with me? God damn, I am glad to have a receiver who actually fucking knows–" Devaris looks at the other players now approaching them.

"'What're you saying D?" asks Marques.

"I'm saying I'm ready for this fucking season to start so we can win every fucking game."

"Hell yeah man, that's right." says Marques.

The energy is in every player, it's in the chatter of the hall.

Soon.

Miller gives the welcome.

Andrew stands at the twenty in the indoor facility, the football field-containing warehouse. Hanging below the roof is a catwalk that runs along every wall. One long side has a dozen roller doors, each metal and glass, large enough for a truck to pass through. The other long side is solid metal covered in blue padding well up the walls and above the padding hang celebratory banners. One shorter wall is also covered in padding and the other short wall is windows, through which Andrew can see the conditioning center. Practice hasn't quite begun, but he's in gear, almost entirely school-provided: blue Nikes, white socks, orange shorts, a blue practice jersey with the number 27 on both sides and BLACK on the back and a solid orange helmet. Another practice field sits just outside the facility and he can see players in white jerseys placing sleds.

Devaris is jumping in the end zone with FLORIDA text and he shouts at Andrew, "You ready to run those jets?"

"Are you going to throw it far enough?"

Andrew is making short jumps to a count of ten and bouncing foot to foot to a count of twenty.

"Just say when."

He runs. In the field he sees figures turning to watch as the ball leaves Devaris' hand and moves into its rise. He makes a quick glance back and is on the intercept, continuing without looking, he turns, catches, and in a moment is on the A of the GATORS end zone.

"Holy shit." says someone on the catwalk, loud enough for Andrew to hear as he drops the ball out of habit.

Practice blurs. Practice, class, practice, Emilia, flight, practice.

Gameday.

Light run before dawn. In the lockers, first pre-game huddle. Gear on, lacing up his cleats. Last pre-game huddle. Marching through the tunnel.

Andrew stands ready.

Eighty thousand voices roar.

Eyes lock on the goal.

Andrew is sitting in the recliner of his locker bay.

Devaris is in the bay beside his. He says "One down."

Andrew says "Fourteen to go."

They're at someone's house, music loud from the floor above where Devaris the center of attention, figures surrounding him. Andrew is on a couch in the basement, baseball game on, Emilia beside him.

Braves at Cards.

Adam Wainwright has a one-hitter through 8. "Imagine if he'd been a Brave." Andrew says.

"What do you mean?" asks Emilia.

"This guy pitching was drafted by the Braves, who traded him to the Cardinals when he was still in the minors. It's still a sore spot for Braves fans."

"Are you a Braves fan?"

"Kinda split. My dad is from Missouri and my uncle, his brother, spent his entire career with the Cardinals. But my mom is from Georgia, and all of her side are Braves fans."

"I see. Do you like baseball more than football?"

Andrew laughs, "Absolutely."

"Did you play baseball?"

"Yeah. My brother still does, he'll probably play baseball here next year."

"Why don't you play?"

Andrew grins at her, "What you saw today is why."

She laughs and kisses him.

Even in the game he was waiting for this moment.

He says "Hoy te pensé mucho."

She smiles, "Eras magnífico."

"Estoy más feliz de estar aquí contigo."

Happier here, with you.

She kisses him again.

The game ends.

She's asking about his classes when he sees it, then he feels it.

"Did you feel that?"

Her hand is still on his neck. "Feel what?"

A pulse.

A tumultuous wave he saw propagate across his entire sense of the field. He felt it as it passed, now there's something from whence it came. A distant pressure. His mind racing, he throws himself into the field, over the city and east, until he's far over the ocean and he realizes with sharp apprehension that this pressure must originate on another continent.

"Andrew. Andrew. I can feel your heartbeat," says Emilia, her hand pleasant on his chest. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Andrew says "Yeah, ah, nothing. It's fine."

Something has just affected the field so greatly that he felt it the world away.

Someone.

Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling. Emilia is asleep beside him.

His phone vibrates, a text from Devaris.

Check this shit out RIGHT NOW

A Twitter link and another link in the tweet. The live camera feed from a helicopter, a banner running across the screen: INEXPLICABLE DISASTER ONGOING IN GERMANY

He sits up.

Even for the resolution of his phone and the distance of the helicopter, he can see the devastation. A massive ring is cut into a city, many miles across. He sees buildings that have perfect slices through them, he sees buildings that have fallen. He sees how the ground has obviously shifted, where buildings that were spared the spectral scalpel have instead sunk down.

He sees the center.

A sphere of debris, half-buried, tearing through buildings and ground. Throwing great masses of rock and earth and concrete hundreds of feet into the sky. Growing larger.

He stands and goes to the living room. He flips through the channels.

Same show on every station.

He calls his father who answers without a ring. "Andrew."

"You're watching this?"

"Yes."

"I think I felt it start. I didn't know what it was."

His father says "We always knew."

He's stuck standing.

The sphere continues its terrible churn. The camera shows cars piled at the edge of the great ring–it is a barrier, and the camera now focuses on a group of people on either side. Emilia is up and walks into the bathroom. Then she's standing at the end of the hall.

"Andrew? What are you watching?"

He says nothing. She comes to him and looks at the screen.

"Oh my God, what is this?"

He says nothing. He feels her arms wrap around him.

The camera shows people trying to push through the barrier and failing, their skin passes, but their clothing hangs. One strips nude, and the camera pulls back for their modesty, enough to show flesh-colored pixels make it to the other side. More follow.

The sphere continues until it reaches the barrier. It seizes and falls, sand filling the crater and raising dunes, and some billowing out as the barrier disappears, covering buildings and streets beyond the ring.

Andrew slowly lowers himself to the floor.

He leans forward, almost prostrate, hands on his head.