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The Patriot Zone
Waylon organized his teaching materials in a small multipurpose room at the shooting range. Alphonso loved that the room had a glass wall. Range customers could wander around the retail space and see that lessons were being given. The big Armenian called it a value added service.
Waylon admired the man's business sense.
Unlike the Concealed Handgun License classes he occasionally taught, these sessions were a low tech affair. His bag held everything he'd need for the class. He had two hard rubber pistols, one modeled after a revolver and the other a semi-auto, a plastic pill organizer full of various types of ammunition—all decommissioned, some handy information posters he could hang up, booklets for the students, a first aid kit, and other odds and ends.
He wanted to look professional, especially for older clients, but Waylon had learned to never wear his better clothing when teaching. There would always be a student or two who thought that lubricating a hand gun was like basting a turkey. He would invariably get splattered with tiny blotches of gun oil. He wasn't blessed with domestic skills, and had no idea how to keep them from staining his clothes.
The lady who requested private tutoring arrived in a cloud of perfume and hairspray. Waylon quickly determined that she wasn't as nervous as had been claimed. He suspected that she was looking for a leg up on her group of friends, but it didn't matter to him. A lesson was a lesson.
It was a quick session and several ladies arrived early, giving his student a knowing look. The course the ladies were taking consisted of two hours of class time, and an hour of range time. The ladies were an attentive bunch. He'd learned in his brief time as an instructor that women were easier to teach. They didn't have many preconceptions about what was right or wrong, as far as firearms went. On the range, they were a little more skittish about the loud noises. They could also be nervous about the strength required to control their weapons, but overall they were better shots than the men who took the introductory classes. It was his guess that this was because they didn't have a lifetime of bad habits from playground adventures or video games.
After the class was over, Waylon signed the ladies certifications of course completion while Alphonso talked to them about the different pistols he sold. Alphonso loved the ladies' classes. He was passionate about women and minorities taking full advantage of their gun rights. It was part personal crusade and part smart businessman.
On the drive back to campus, Waylon was juggling his schedule in his head. Alphonso told him that he was going to have to take over the concealed handgun license classes from the hospitalized instructor. The classes would be the Saturday and Sunday after the fall semester ended. It was an hour's drive to Seymour, Texas, where the class was meeting at a small range. He'd driven through Seymour, but had never stopped. Alphonso said the range was small, but well lit and clean the last time he'd been there.
Seymour didn't have more than three thousand residents, but a local church had organized the event so he was guaranteed to have a full group. The majority of the students were signed up for the first time CHL license class on Saturday, with a few members going for their renewals on Sunday. Alphonso said church groups taking gun classes was a new thing that was sweeping the region. Good business, he'd concluded. At seventy-five bucks a head for the ten hour Saturday class, and thirty-five for the four hour Sunday class, Waylon heartily agreed.
Waylon shut the engine off and sat in the dorm parking lot trying to work loose the thought that was lurking in the back of his brain.
He needed to get the truck fixed before he took any extended road trips. I am a moron, he said to himself as he rested his forehead on the steering wheel.
"Barry, you guys could fix my truck, couldn't you?"
"Yes."
"That's what I thought," Waylon sighed. "This new reality is going to take some getting used to. It's like having a magician in my pocket."
"Would you like us to make repairs now?"
Waylon considered it, "Let's hold off. We don't want to do anything that draws any undue attention. I'll rent one of the garage spaces after finals and we can do the big repairs then. Now, if you guys could do something about my starter motor before then, I'd be grateful."
Finals Week, December
Waylon had reached an easy accommodation with the AIs, but he'd been so busy in the rush toward finals that he hadn't had a great deal of time to talk with them. He was also worried that he'd be caught talking to 'himself.' Living with a roommate did not help matters.
Leon's reaction to the news of the illicit camera, when he returned after that first weekend, was highly entertaining. Aside from the outburst of anger, which Waylon agreed with, Leon grew increasingly paranoid. Waylon returned to the room one afternoon and found his roommate balanced with one leg on his bed, the other on his desk, while trying to peer into the ceiling's heating duct with a flashlight.
The entire dorm floor was frustrated by the lack of news from the university, but at least Waylon had the AIs who told him when he was under surveillance.
The tricked out multifunction phone had become his favorite tool. The AIs were eager research assistants and preparing for finals had been remarkably stress-free. Penelope, the Communications AI, took it as a personal mission to deal with the spam that arrived in his inbox on a daily basis. She had even requested permission to launch a counter attack, which Waylon had only briefly considered. It was tempting though. A bonus ability he'd discovered was that the AIs took amazing class notes.
Waylon's final's schedule worked out nicely. He was finished with his last class by midweek. After his exam, he walked through campus eager to get on with his plans. There was considerable noise around the dorms as students were departing for the break. His dorm was one of only two that would remain open while the university shut down between semesters. A skeleton staff would be on hand, and one of the dining halls would serve a limited meal schedule.
He checked his phone to see if he had any updates from Alphonso. The list for the weekend CHL classes had been firmed up. He would have eighteen students the first day, and six the second day. Alphonso had received all the deposits, and Waylon would collect the balance during class. After expenses, he'd cut Alphonso in for his share and walk away with a nice chunk of change.
Garage on Fifth Street
Mr. Newberg handed Waylon his change and a key for the garage.
"Since the day's almost over, I'll run your time through next Thursday. Any questions?" the man asked.
"Can I work nights?"
"You paid for all twenty-four hours of the day. The police do a regular patrol through the area so they might stop and talk if you've got the door to your garage open. Can't say you'll be doing that very often with these cold temperatures.
"If I'm around feel free to ask me any questions, but I get out of here at 5:30 sharp. My wife won't let me come home any earlier, and I'm partial to her cooking."
"Thanks, Mr. Newberg. I'm going to get right to it."
"Before you go," Mr. Newberg caught his attention, "let me give you some directions to that junkyard so you can pick up your airbag replacement."
Waylon took the directions and thanked the man again.
He drove around to the garage stall. The stall had cinderblock walls, powerful lights suspended by chains from the ceiling, and a rear exit that led out to an alley. It came with a basic set of tools, jack stands, an engine hoist, and a number of other items that Waylon knew he wouldn't need.
"There are no surveillance devices," Chief, the Security AI, announced.
Waylon nodded and opened the manual he'd purchased that detailed a complete breakdown of his truck model. The AIs had been disappointed at his purchase, insisting that he didn't need the book. They had processed every manual and part catalogue in the auto store while Waylon browsed. Sure, he could have viewed the manual on his tablet, but Waylon felt that he needed to contribute to the effort. It also wouldn't hurt to have it lying around if Mr. Newberg came by to chat.
The plan was to complete mechanical repairs first, and save the cosmetic fixes for last. They didn't actually need the garage for the week, or at all really, but Waylon didn't want anybody getting curious about overnight, junk heap to shiny new truck, makeovers. Thirty-five dollars for the week's rental was a bargain for a truck that his alien friends were going to completely overhaul.
"What about the airbag, Waylon?" Barry asked.
"Good question. I guess we better go pick it up," Waylon said. He didn't want to spend the money, but questions would be asked if he didn't. "Besides, I think you'll like where we're going."
West of Town
Waylon checked the hand-drawn map Mr. Newberg had given him. This was farm country, with the occasional house scattered here and there. He wasn't far from the river, and there were some rocky outcrops in the area. The junk yard had to be around somewhere. He spotted a row of old cars stacked four high, and then another, and another after that. There had to be a mile of rusting hulks lining what would have been good pasture land. From what he could see, he doubted there was a car on the property that had been produced after 1975. Waylon noticed the 'for sale' sign as he turned into the business's entrance. The office was an old Fort Worth city, grime covered transit bus with a large section cut from one side. The front counter was a piece of plywood sitting on two sawhorses in front of the cutout.
"Waylon, we like this place."
He figured they would, and wondered what the AIs could come up with unleashed on this much recyclable mass.
With a start, he realized that the roof over the improvised countertop was the side of the bus that had been cut out, complete with bus windows for skylights. He couldn't see into the dark interior of the bus, but he thought he could hear someone shuffling around.
"Hello?" he called.
A figure emerged, wearing coveralls that might have been blue once. The older man with a scraggly beard blinked at him. He looked to be perpetually grease stained. The man turned and spat a stream of tobacco juice to the ground. Steam rose from the stinking mess in the cold December air.
Waylon resisted the urge to look down at his feet to see what he was standing in.
"Whut cain I dew fer yeh?" the man's accent was thick and nearly incomprehensible.
"Good afternoon. Mr. Newberg in town says you have a driver's side airbag that will fit my truck."
The grease blackened face was split by a smile, "Well, I surely do. Wait there a second young fella."
Waylon tried not to grin at the man's suddenly improved English.
The man returned from the bowels of the bus with a cardboard box. Nodding at Waylon's truck, "Had yerself a fender bender?"
"Yes, sir. Slid off a gravel road and hit a tree."
"That'll do her. Now don't go messing around with this thing. Can yeh install it safely?"
"I've got a manual that explains the steps, and Mr. Newberg said he'd help if I needed it."
"Yup, Al would know what to do," the man acknowledged. "Be sure to disconnect the battery and fuses, no surprises that way. I think I agreed to eighty dollars on the phone with that old swindler."
Waylon handed the money to the man, "I'm sorry, I never caught your name?"
"Well, they call me Jacob ... Newberg," he winked at Waylon as he scrawled a receipt. "Al's my civilized brother."
Waylon folded the receipt and put it away, "You're trying to sell the place?"
Jacob cackled, "Hell, I been trying to sell this place for years. I put up a new sign every now and then. We get a few nibbles, but they say the ground's contaminated and want environmental impact statements or some such nonsense. I ain't paying for 'em. I'll grant that it would take a fair bit to clean up this place. There's oil on the ground, rust and whatnot that comes from old cars. You interested?"
"Little beyond my means I think," Waylon replied.
"Well, if yew run across anybody 'nterested in twelve hundred acres of prime Texas countryside, lemme know."
Waylon glanced at the stacks of rusted cars, waist high weeds and small trash trees that grew between the rows, "I'll keep an ear open. Thanks for the part. It's really going to help."
"It was my pleasure, and tell that brother of mine to invite me fer supper."
Waylon waved and promised he'd pass the message along.
The airbag installation went smoothly. Thanks to the manual, and a little extragalactic help, he had the airbag replaced and the ugly gap in his steering wheel was no longer.
Early Saturday Morning
The truck was running smoothly, better than it ever had, and Waylon was enjoying a pleasant winter drive along US 82, headed toward the town of Seymour.
When Waylon closed the hood at the garage on Friday afternoon, there hadn't been a speck of grease or road dust anywhere to be seen in the engine bay. The AIs had done a bumper-to-bumper remake of the truck. Originally, they had wanted to replace the internal combustion engine, but Waylon insisted that the truck remain as stock as possible. He allowed them to tweak it as long as another human couldn't take it apart and discover anything—unusual. "Within the design limitations," the AIs promised improved fuel mileage, and they had some interesting ideas for reclaiming hydrocarbons.
"Have you reconsidered?" Barry asked, interrupting his thoughts.
"I'm still thinking about it," Waylon replied.
One subject the AIs would not let go of was a series of biological corrections they wanted their host to accept. Waylon was more than a little hesitant. He'd put them off by insisting that they study the matter thoroughly before he allowed them to do anything to his biological makeup. He understood that the AIs were concerned about his 'alarming fragility, ' as they put it. His mother's sudden death also weighed heavily on his thoughts.
Waylon had reluctantly allowed them to send an advanced capability probe to the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. Advanced meant that it had one of the low-order AIs at the controls. Its mission was to vacuum up all the information it could acquire from the various medical schools and libraries that were clustered in the area.
With the collected information, the AIs built what they called a 'virtual Waylon, ' and then ran simulation after simulation on it. They had taken a very liberal interpretation on data gathering. Waylon was a little worried when he learned that the AIs had co-opted a significant portion of the campus population's phones and portable music devices. Somehow, they used the devices to record medical data to further strengthen their understanding of human physiology.
The corrections the AIs planned wouldn't make him super human. He'd just be a little bit better, all over. Waylon sighed, he didn't know why he was being so reluctant. If you couldn't trust a group of alien super intelligences living in your skull, who could you trust?
The shooting range in the small town of Seymour was interesting. It has once been a bowling alley, but with only six lanes. It was long and narrow, but would more than suit his needs. Waylon setup his laptop and tested the projector that Alphonso loaned him. PowerPoint presentations got a bad rap, but there really wasn't anything better, that he knew of, for organizing a ten hour class.
The students arrived promptly and things got underway. Ten hours makes for a long day stuck in a classroom. The reward, or the challenge for some, would be the proficiency test at the end of the day. For a change, the lunch break was a very welcome surprise. The church group had organized it and Waylon ate very well. To keep the monotony from overwhelming the students, Waylon put breaks in throughout the day. He'd always take time for questions, but it was usually the question period at the end that was the widest ranging.
"What do you carry?" one of the men asked.
It was a question he always got, and Waylon was careful about how he answered. "I'll tell you, but remember that you need to decide what works best for you. I carry a lightly modified Glock 36. It's a single stack .45. I like it for the caliber and because it's lightweight."
"What do you mean by lightly modified?" another student asked.
"I've changed the sights, it has a lighter trigger group, and I carry it with an aftermarket magazine that gives me an extra round and an improved grip. Let's not get sidetracked. If you're interested I can show you on the range, but remember – you need to find the gun that works best for you."
It was a pretty good group. There was only one student that he wasn't going to pass after the proficiency test, and those issues could probably be corrected with extra practice. He couldn't make any guarantees, some people just weren't trainable.
He was glad to make it back to Levall and secured his weapon at the range. Alphonso was busy with customers, but that was fine by Waylon as he didn't feel particularly sociable.
The NTSU campus was doing a fine imitation of a ghost town. The parking lots were nearly bare and the normal hustle and bustle was absent. All the place needed was a dusting of snow to complete the scene. In his room, Waylon made a sandwich. He had bought a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter in case he missed any meals while the dining hall was operating on a reduced schedule.
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