Death Match

1

The score was tied all around, it was four minutes until the end of the third half, and Catie Murray was sitting literally on the edge of her seat, her fists clenched, staring into the gamesphere. All around her, arranged in concentric, nested spheres, hanging in what seemed like floodlit darkness, were the virtual “seemings” of about fifty thousand other people. Most of them were yelling with excitement, though some of them were silent and rigid with tension, and to Catie’s amazement, one of these silent ones, sitting next to her, was her brother, Hal, whom she had last noticed being silent sometime in 2009, just before he started learning to talk.

The sphere was transparent, and of full tournament size — ninety meters in diameter. Away down at what was presently the red goal “end,” seventeen people were gathered, floating just outside of the safe zone, jostling one another gently as they jockeyed for the best positions or tried to steal a little impetus from one another. They wore shorts and socks and T-shirt “tunics” in their team colors. One group of six wore a truly astonishing lime green with a blue horizontal stripe, another group white with a red chevron, a third group yellow with a pair of black circles emblazoned on each shirt, front and back, like eyes.

Five of the team wearing yellow were currently floating in front of the red “end” zone, marked out in the space by a red hexagonal gridwork of holographic lines, as the other goals were by hexes of green and yellow, at 180 degree angles to this one. The sixth player in yellow was hanging in midair not too far from the wall of the transparent sphere, holding a fluorescent orange ball, slightly smaller than a soccer ball, in both hands. As Catie watched, he let go of it. It hung in the air in front of him, wobbling only slightly. There was a sudden slight burst of pushing and shoving from the players not dressed in yellow as they boosted themselves off one another and toward the man in the end zone—

In a flash the man bent himself almost double, it seemed to Catie, planted his feet against the wall, and hit the ball with his head. Despite the best efforts of all the players of the other teams, it somehow managed to squirt straight through them, though their arms and legs flailed out in an attempt to stop it. There was a roar of satisfaction from parts of the crowd, and much waving of yellow objects, some of them resembling giant inflatable bananas. Still using the impetus from his push, the player who had made the throwback went after it as his teammates also used the curve of the nearby walls to launch themselves in various directions, but not, Catie noticed, at the ball. The other teams were left to chase that for the moment—

“Where are they going?” she whispered. Her brother didn’t say a word. Catie glanced at him, but got no response. He was sitting there tensely crouched over with his arms folded, all his attention fixed on a spot around ninety degrees around the sphere from where the team captain had taken the ball out for the throwback. In the center of the sphere, players from all three teams were now tangled up in what to Catie looked like a rugby “scrum”—a shapeless-seeming mess of people trying with all their might either to get at the ball, or to keep others away from it while passing it to another friendly team member. For a moment it was lost among them, invisible in the huddle of bodies and tangle of legs, as people strove for purchase in the near-zero gravity, trying to exploit what acceleration they had leftover from the energy of their last push against the wall, trying to exploit the others’ energy for their own uses.

Suddenly the ball emerged, flying out of the tangle at about a thirty-degree angle to Catie’s left. A couple of the players in blue freed themselves from the tangle and launched themselves after it, pushing off with their feet against the huddle of other players who were all jammed together in the middle of things. The whole tangle of men and women wavered a little backward in equal-and-opposite reaction as the first two players pushed off. Then the tangle broke up and went after them, players tightening themselves down into “cannonball” configuration to increase their spin, or to improve the results of a push against some other player. One of the players in blue, a big redheaded, long-legged, slender guy, snagged the ball in the bend of his knee, pulled his arms close to his body like a skater, and spun on his longitudinal axis — then, a second later, used the force of his spin to fling the ball away from him, straight at one of his teammates. This one batted it with the flats of both hands down out of the air and kneed it to a third. The third one boosted himself off one of the players in red and white, sending the other one spinning, and hit the ball with his chest, aiming at one of the other two goal hexes, the one glowing yellow almost directly across the sphere from him—

Except it suddenly wasn’t the goal anymore. It went dark, and 180 degrees around the sphere from it, and about forty-five degrees up, a different hex was now glowing gold. The other goals had both changed position as well.

Another mad scramble for position began, players “swimming” or cannonballing themselves through the space to get at the walls, where there would be purchase for a good hard push, or contenting themselves with a less vigorous push off other players. Here and there several players gathered together and braced to give a single teammate more mass to push against. The ball was in free fall, no one in possession for the moment, but that was about to change, for the players in yellow had so coordinated their launches that four of them were now converging on the ball from different directions. Other players in green or white were arrowing at them from the walls, folded up with arms wrapped around knees, determined to hit them and throw them off course. One got hit and caromed off toward the wall, but as he went he managed to snag the White-team player who had hit him, adding to his mass temporarily and so slowing the speed at which he was being knocked out of play. For a moment Catie watched with some amusement as the two of them struggled for the best position in which to use the other’s vector. Her attention was caught by one of the other Yellow team people, whose T-shirt read 14, as she arched her body so that a White-team forward, aiming for her, missed her by inches. Then 14 Yellow tightened down into cannonball configuration herself, first giving the forward a shove with her feet in passing that simply aided her again in the direction she had originally been going. The white forward flung arms and legs out, spreadeagling, trying to lose some speed, but the move was too late, and a moment later he went smashing into the wall.

He yelped and bounced back, clutching his knee. One of the other White team members, their captain probably, started waving her arms at one hex of the sphere, which abruptly went clear and emitted the referee, an older woman in the traditional pure white.

The ref’s whistle went, and play stopped. The spare-time clock started running in big glowing yellow digits that hung in the air in the middle of the sphere. “Injury check,” said the ref over the annunciator, “San Diego, Sanderson, number eight…”

Sanderson hung there curled up like a poked caterpillar, gasping for breath. Muttering and the occasional sarcastic shout of “Aww!” came from the crowd, some of whom were plainly not convinced of how real the injury was…and they had reason, considering the venue in which this game was being played. But the ref soared over to Sanderson, kicked just hard enough off the wall to stop herself, and braced herself against the man. The two of them floated a little farther away from the wall with spare inertia. After a moment spent studying the hand interface she pulled out of her back pocket, and checking with the computer that monitored the vectors and forces expended against the wall, the ref said into the annunciator system, “Verified simulated injury, class-two fracture—”

A great moan of annoyance went up from about a third of the spectators. “Player withdrawn,” said the ref, “Sanderson, number eight. San Diego has fallen below six men and has no replacements left. San Diego is eliminated.”

The groaning turned into active booing as the remaining San Diego team members, their faces now twisted with anger or disappointment, spreadeagled or cannonballed themselves at the walls, to adhere, not to bounce, and made their way out of the access hex into the free space outside the sphere. “Resume play,” said the ref, taking herself out through the ref-hex again, and the count-up clock froze at 00:18:33, then zipped away and minimized itself into one of the display hexes scattered around the circumference of the sphere.

“Now we’re in for it,” Hal said, squirming a little in his seat. “Two-team game…”

Catie nodded, watching intently. In the regular season, play stopped and the game went by automatic forfeit to the highest-scoring team of the three when any one team dropped below minimum permitted strength, but this (as Hal had been crowing for the better part of a week) was no longer the regular season. This was the “shoulder season” during which weaker teams got shouldered out, and the number of stronger ones slowly started to reduce, preparing for the “high season” when only the best ones would be left. Looking into the sphere now, though, Catie began to suspect that she was presently looking at at least one of the best ones — and she started to see why her brother had been getting so excited about it lately.

In a flicker the goals had rearranged themselves into two-team configuration, one at each end, but even as they were reassigned to new hexes, they changed once more, mimicking the rotation of the volume as it would have shifted were this game actually being played in an orbital facility of the classic type. The computer managing the space snagged the virtual ball and slung it back into play along the same vector it had been following when the injury clock started running.

Green and Yellow players flung themselves at it from all sides, some impacting again into a central scrum, some jockeying around the sides of this for position, estimating or guessing where the ball would come out when the forces presently slamming into it from all sides finished their initial impacts. From outside the transparent sphere, cries of “Go, Slugs! Go, Slugs!” were getting deafening.

Can’t see a thing, Catie thought. Let’s try something different—

She clenched her jaw slightly and brought up the implant’s “heads-up display” for this environment, let the DISPLAY/EXPERIENCE menu scroll down past her eyes, and blinked at the choice that read PLAYER. A secondary menu now seemed to hang in the air in front of her, listing all the remaining players. Her eyes lit on the name at the top of the list, BRICKNER. She blinked at it—

— and suddenly Catie was in the middle of that scrum, and she was sweating like a pig, and someone was elbowing her hard in the ribs and someone else’s feet were pushing down on her head, and the whole world seemed to be made up of arms and legs and torsos straining against one another, like something out of one of Michelangelo’s nightmares. But she saw the opening in the tangled sculpture of flesh, the hands of someone else in her colors who had the ball; and she could see what they couldn’t, the opening that could be exploited to get it out of there. Two of the players who had been heading in the general direction of the Green goal were still outside this tight-packed pile of people, and she saw a flash of yellow go by outside, in the free space—

Her knee came up. Someone said “Oof!”—and in the slightly larger space made by that person’s body contracting, she fisted the ball down out of the hands of the White mid-forward who’d been clutching it, caught it from underneath, and with the leg she’d used to knee the other player, she down-footed the ball, stomping it out that little window of daylight and toward the flash of yellow that had gone by.

Catie swallowed with the other’s strain as the pressure of the people got fiercer all around him — and then the nature of the pressure changed, as everybody pushed off as hard as they could, trying to make use of the group’s mass and inertia for a good push before the group fragmented and became of less use for this purpose. Daylight opened up all around, but Brickner had eyes for only one piece of it, the piece where the ball had gone, and as the press lessened up around him and the other team went after the ball, his eyes tracked and caught on one particular figure, a slender little woman in yellow who caught the ball in an elbow-bend and flung it away—

Catie felt him swallow. Bad move, she started to think, for she couldn’t see anyone there to receive. But then another yellow T-shirt flashed in from the side, someone who had managed to get right out to an in-bounds part of the sphere and get a real good push, and the husky young guy hit the ball at full stretch with paired fists, a Superman strike, and yet managed to put enough spin on it so that it missed the White semiforward who was lunging for it. The lunge was a bad one, one of those I-remember-gravity moves that probably hit all but the most experienced spat-ball players every now and then — the sure sign of a body forgetting for a moment what was going on, and expecting mass to behave as if it were still in a one-gee field instead of microgravity. Beyond that semiforward, one of the other Yellow team members, a little broad-shouldered guy with a brushcut and a feral grin, was ready and waiting. The ball ricocheted off a knee that he seemed just to have left casually waiting there, except for the brutal force he put behind the knee-strike, enough to spin him where he hung. A second later the ball flew like a bullet at the illuminated White goal hex—

A shade too late. The goals precessed again, relocating themselves two hexes along. But Catie gasped as that ball flew straight at her, at the player whose experience she was sharing, and he hit it with his head, twisting his head as he did it, she could feel the muscles strain and feel the cramp hit him a second later, but he whipped his head around nonetheless to see the ball go straight across the sphere, through miraculously empty air, right toward the new location of the White goal, and hit it well inside the boundaries—

The roar of delight and triumph was deafening. The roar of blood in Brickner’s ears just about drowned it out, though, as the computer snagged the ball again and fired it back into the sphere’s inner volume from just outside the “scoring skin.” Catie gasped, trying to sort her own breathing out from his, as the score went to 4–3–3 in South Florida’s favor, and things started to get really frantic — for now the crowd had begun to count down the last minute of play.

Mostly when you were “riding” a player virtually via feedback from their implant, in this sport or any other, just about the only thing you couldn’t tell for sure was what the players were thinking. But sometimes you didn’t have to. Running in full virtual, you could see what they saw — especially one another’s eyes — and the opponents’ thought processes, at least, showed all too clearly. Every white-uniformed person that Catie saw, in the moments that followed, as the seconds slipped past, had a face which was wearing a terrible expression, a look that said, “I don’t believe it! We’re going to lose! I don’t believe it—” But disbelief alone wasn’t enough to help them. Play went on, and the White team regained possession and attacked the Yellow goal; but there was a scattered quality to the play, the forward lost the ball to a Yellow half-forward who came arrowing in on an unexpected vector and snagged it out of the air in mid-pass, between her feet.

The White team started to lose it after that. Some of them were already foundering in their own anger or astonishment, literally forgetting what to do with themselves. In spatball, reflexes are everything, and once a player is distracted, it can take time to get them back, but time was what there was less and less of, now, as the unforgiving minute became the unforgiving half-minute, as the truth sank in that there was no way to catch up, no way at all. And all their captain’s shouting at them could only reinforce what was happening, what should have been impossible and was happening anyway. They were going to lose—

“Nineteen!” Catie shouted, in time with a lot of the people in the “stands” around her, though her brother kept still and quiet, and just watched and watched, his attention absolutely riveted on the in-sphere volume. “Eighteen! Seventeen! Sixteen!” The crowd was roaring now, those of them who were in “empathy” with Brickner, seeing what he saw, feeling the abrupt adrenalin flush as he did, a physical thing, a sudden wave of fire in the lower back, the body echoing the mind’s realization, This is it!! The White team was coming at him all at once, a desperation move, crude at best, though possibly effective enough if it reached him in time, before he had time to act.

The half-forward threw herself into a spin, shot the ball at him like an arrow from a crossbow. And a second later Brickner felt the other push in his back, one of his team-mates impacting him at exactly the right moment, offering him for that split second before they “bounced” an opposing force to push against. Brickner rolled backward hard against his buddy’s back, kneed the ball as it came to him. It flew again at the White goal—

One of the White players rocketed toward the ball in stretched-out, linear configuration, trying to get there in time, but he didn’t have enough inertia to reach it, not having been able to push off soon enough, and his progress slowed, slowed more, he was going to come up short—

The orange ball slammed into the white-lit hex, and the score froze it, half-illuminated, in the very act of precessing.

The roars were making it impossible to hear anything, and when the ball impacted just inside the goal hex, there was no hearing even the usual earsplitting hoot of the scoring alert. It seemed only a few seconds more before the injury-time clock expired, and there was another howl of alarm meant to signify the end of the game, but it was completely lost in the collective howl of the crowd, frustration on two sides, absolute triumph in the third. Suddenly the volume was occupied by a scrum of another kind, one in which George Brickner was completely buried, and deafened by his own hollers of delight and those of his teammates. The world dissolved in yellow.

Catie took a deep breath and brought the menu back, selecting GENERAL and ANNOUNCER. The familiar dulcet voice of the Flyers’ home-game announcer was saying, “…astonishing comeback from three hexes down, just one more in a series of hairsbreadth saves for South Florida Spat, but a sad moment for San Diego fans, and also for the Seattle High Flyers, after a season that began with such promise but seemed to go rapidly downhill due to injuries and player-contract issues. Again the score, the San Diego Pumas three, the Seattle High Flyers three, and the new interregional title six champions, the South Florida Spatball Association, the ‘Banana Slugs,’ five—”

Catie blinked to kill her implant. Everything went white, but before she was allowed to shut the feed down completely, a sweet female voice said, “The preceeding expericast is copyright 2025 by the World Spatball Federation. All rights reserved. Any reexperience, pipelining, or other use of this material is restricted to personal use only by international law, and unauthorized transfer of content is strictly prohibited. This is the WSF Net.”

The whiteness went away, leaving Catie looking at the far wall of the family room — the bookshelves, her dad’s easy chair, the Net computer in its low case, and the place over to one side of the last bookshelf to the right, near the corner of the room, where a crack running down from the ceiling had become apparent in the plaster last week. Her mom had been complaining about the increase in heavy traffic down the street that ran parallel to theirs. It seemed there might be something in what she’d been saying.

“Time?” she said to the clock on the wall.

“Eight fourteen P.M.”

“Oh, good,” Catie said, glancing out the window at the backyard. The sun was nearly down behind the fruit trees that mostly hid the back wall. Dimming yellow light danced and glittered through their leaves. It had been a nice day, but she hadn’t done what she’d first been tempted to, go out and have a few goals with her “casual” soccer team. Instead she had elected to stay home and get the homework done, so that she would have tomorrow and Sunday free. And then Hal had shanghaied her into watching “The Game” with him. The best-laid plans…Oh, well.

She got out of the implant chair and stretched, and was grateful she didn’t have the muscle strain right now that poor Brickner did. If he was smart, his team trainer was putting him into a hot whirlpool bath right about now. Catie stretched again, trying to get rid of a crick in her back that wasn’t really there, and glanced around. She had promised her mom that she’d clean up a little in here this evening, but Hal had sidetracked her into watching this game, and now the serious cleaning was going to have to wait until considerably later. For which I will probably catch a certain amount of grief. Oh, well…

Catie sighed and spent a minute or so moving around the family room, making a desultory attempt to pick up some of the books and magazines and dataflips that had been left lying around. When her little brother caught an interest, he caught it completely. He ate and slept and breathed it…until something more interesting came along. Right now it was spatball, and his enthusiasm had been sufficiently contagious, today, to pull her in, too.

For her own part, Catie had to admit that there was something there worth being interested in. Her own acquaintance with the game had been strictly theoretical until the last couple of weeks. Now she knew more about it than she had ever really intended to. And yet at the same time, there was no pretending that the sport wasn’t intriguing. Hybrid descendant of soccer in a spacesuit it might be, but—

“Wow, huh?”

The non sequitur had come from Hal, who was standing there now in the doorway of the family room. He apparently hadn’t bothered with the postgame show. He was breathing hard, too, which hardly came as a surprise to Catie.

“Wow, yeah,” she said. “I didn’t think they were going to make it.”

“Yeah, it was intense. But the Slugs are go for the eighth-finals!”

Catie chuckled as she watched him wipe the sweat off his forehead. “Were you ‘being’ George Brickner, too?”

“Who else?”

“There were five other people. That cute brunette you were blathering about last week, for example.”

“Oh, her.” The tone of voice was dismissive. “Day-strom. She’s okay, but she’s not as sharp as Brickner is….”

Catie raised her eyebrows at that. “A captain can’t be a team all by himself,” she said. “Isn’t that what you were saying the other day?” She grinned at him as she slipped past him, dropping into his hands some of the books and flips she had been picking up, the ones that were his. “I think it’s just a case of hero worship.”

“Not a chance!”

She went out into the hall and glanced up and down. “Mom get back from the mall yet?”

“If she did, I didn’t hear her.”

“I don’t think either of us would have heard much if she came in during the last few minutes of that,” Catie said, “whether she used the ‘outside-in’ circuit or not. That crowd was pretty worked up. Where’s Dad?”

“No idea.”

“Mmf. Probably in the studio.”

“Better leave him alone, then.”

“Absolutely.”

Catie made her way down to the kitchen. It was small for the house, but then, compared to the other houses in their little suburb of D.C., the whole house was small. This was something which Catie’s father had of late been complaining about more or less continually. He worked at home, and had been muttering about building another extension onto the house for the past year or so, since he had extended his studio two years ago and then found that what seemed like ample square footage on the plans had turned out too small. Catie turned on the cold water in the sink and let it run for a while, looking around her and wondering how they would all cope when the renovations finally started and left them with no back to the house for a couple of weeks (an image which her mother had been repeatedly invoking in an attempt to get the project put off for a few more months).

She got a tumbler down out of the cabinet and filled it, and drank thirstily. Even though Catie hadn’t actually been playing, the mind was still able to fool the body into feeling thirsty sometimes…and this was one of those times. Hal came in from the hall and got himself a glass, too, filled it. “He’s in the studio,” Hal said. “I can hear him scraping on the canvas.” Their father was a professional artist, and a quirky one — as talented with old-fashioned media, like paint, as he was with computer-“generated” art and Net-based installations, and sometimes showing what seemed an odd preference for the more archaic media simply on account of their age.

“Right,” Catie said. Her dad hadn’t been in there yet when she came home, which meant he was good for at least a few hours in there now. She would have time to get a little more of the cleaning-up done before her mom got back and before she had to “go out” herself.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, leaning back against the sink and looking out the window of the kitchen at the backyard again. The sun had now gone down behind the wall. “Brickner is the friend you’ve been telling me about? ‘The Parrot’?”

“No, Mike’s the friend — I met him on that research project for school last year, the geology thing — he was a research assistant at the Smithsonian for the summer. The Parrot is Mike’s friend; they know each other from college. I haven’t actually met George yet, but Mike says he’s going to get us together sometime in the next couple of weeks, if they have the time.”

“From the sound of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if that team doesn’t have much time for casual meetings in the next couple of weeks,” Catie said, eyeing her brother. “They’re going to have the media all over them, I bet. They’re pretty hot. They play like, I don’t know, like a bunch of astronauts.”

Hal laughed. “Yeah, they do…. Though I bet if the astronauts had known what kind of salary people would start making from this kind of thing, ten years ago, they all would have quit NASA and gone right into the majors.”

“The majors don’t seem to be the only way to go,” Catie said, “if your pet team is anything to go by.”

“No,” Hal said, “they’re kind of a special case.”

Catie laughed. “With a name like The Banana Slugs, I guess they’d have to be.”

Her brother gave her a look. “It’s just a nickname. Anyway, it’s not half as stupid as some of the team names these days.”

He had a point there. “Still,” Catie said, “they’re really good. Better than I thought they would be.”

“Why shouldn’t they be?” Hal said, getting himself another glass of water, and pausing to drink it right down. “It’s not like this is a game where you have to have a lot of money to be good at it, or have corporate sponsorship patches plastered all over you. Skill and speed and brains are everything. Doesn’t matter whether you’re big or small. If you’re quick and smart, and fairly well coordinated…that should be enough. But there’s more to it than just that.”

“A certain elegance of execution,” Catie said. “One that looks like telepathy sometimes.”

Her brother looked at her with some surprise.

“Didn’t think I could appreciate the higher aspects of the game?” Catie said mildly. “Well, that’s okay. It’s healthy for you to underestimate me.”

He poked her in the ribs…or started to. Abruptly Catie wasn’t there anymore, having neatly sidestepped him as soon as he moved. A moment later she was sitting at the kitchen table, giving him an amused look. Her own skill at soccer had not left her entirely without abilities useful for dealing with a rogue brother…. Not that Hal needed a lot of dealing with, thank heaven. Their relationship was amiable enough, generally. And the resemblance between them was strong. They could have been twins. They should have been twins, Catie sometimes thought, except that Hal was always late, and had apparently managed this stunt even as regarded his birth, turning up a year after a proper twin would have. Regardless of the delay, Hal had come out about the same height as Catie, about the same weight, blonde and blue-eyed like her; and their general build and carriage were like enough that sometimes people mistook them for one another from a distance, especially in the winter when they were bundled up. This could have been a pain, except that Catie was continually amused at being mistakenly hailed as “Hallie” by her brother’s would-be girlfriends…and it gave Catie endless ammunition to use on him later, while doing her best to make sure that he never had the chance to do the same to her. The situation was entirely satisfactory, as far as she was concerned.

“How am I supposed to discipline you if you won’t stand still?” Hal said, getting one more glass of water.

“You’re not,” Catie said. “Learn to live with your sorry fate and like it.”

Her brother made a face eloquent of his opinion of such a philosophy. “You should see yourself,” Catie said. “If only you could get stuck that way, Dad could frame you and hang you as a fake Picasso.”

“Yeah, right. So, do you want to come watch the post-game show?”

“Can’t,” Catie said. “Got a Net Force Explorers meeting tonight.”

Her brother looked at her incredulously. “You sure that’s more important?”

“Yeah. And isn’t the postgame show on right now, anyway?”

Hal rolled his eyes. “What planet have you been living on? We get twenty minutes of commercials first. But they’re interviewing Brickner. I thought you’d want to see that.”

That made Catie pause for a moment. Insight into another athlete’s head was always welcome, especially after a game like that. But after a second’s thought she shook her head. “Naah,” Catie said. “Look, save it for me, okay? Just read it over to my Net space when you’re done.”

“I can’t get into your space.”

She smiled sweetly. “Which just proves you’ve been trying to again. Without asking.”

Hal gave her a rather cheesy but completely unrepentant grin.

“One of these days,” Catie said, “you’re gonna do something on the up-and-up and then be shocked to find that it worked better than making convoluted plans and plots and sneaking around.” Then Catie grinned. “But when that happens I’ll probably expire of shock, so don’t rush, okay? Just ask the space to let you in…it’ll make an exception for once.”

“Okay.”

He sounded unusually meek. Catie started wondering what he was up to. She went over to the sink, rinsed her glass out, and opened the dishwasher.

“I’m clean! I’m clean!” the dishwasher shrilled.

“That’s more than I can say,” Catie muttered, realizing afresh how sweaty even a virtual game of spatball had left her. Her T-shirt was sticking to her. She shut the dishwasher and put the glass aside on the counter. “I thought you were supposed to empty this thing all this week.”

“I was busy—”

“Get on with it,” Catie said. “If you hurry, I won’t have to tell Mom about it when she gets back.”

“And if you hurry, I won’t have to tell her you didn’t clean up the family room.”

Catie rolled her eyes. “Blackmail,” she said. “Empty threats. I need a shower. And then I’m going to go do adult things.”

“I’ll get you your cane, O superannuated one.”

Catie smiled a crooked smile and went out, rubbing her neck, then caught herself massaging the sports injury she didn’t have, and smiled more crookedly still as she went down the hall to the bathroom.

Somewhere else entirely a meeting was taking place in a bar. It was a virtual bar, and the drink was virtual, and the customers were all wearing seemings, which well suited their purpose, in most cases, since most of them were intent on keeping their business to themselves.

Under a ceiling of blue glass, a tall, blunt-featured man with hair cut very, very short was sitting at one of the tables nearest the big central fountain, a bowl of tan, blue-veined marble. The man was dressed in an ultrablack single-all of extremely conservative cut, with a white silk jabot at the throat, and he was turning a martini glass around and around on the matte white marble of the tabletop. His face was very still, giving no indication of the turmoil of thought presently going on inside it. His mouth twitched once or twice, an expression that could have been taken for a smile, but that impression would have been very incorrect.

Outside the bar it was afternoon, or pretending to be. The light lay long and low and golden over the pedestrianized street outside, as people strolled up and down it with shopping bags and small children in tow. Something came between the afternoon light pouring through the windows and the man sitting by the fountain, blocking away the golden glint of the afternoon light on the martini glass. The man in the ultrablack single-all looked up and squinted slightly at the second man standing there.

The newcomer sat down casually enough in the other chair. The first man looked at him for a few moments. The second man was small, broad-shouldered but thick around the waist, and dressed in slikjeans and a dark blazer with a white T-shirt underneath, a look that suggested the wearer was caught among several different eras and trying to fulfil fashion imperatives from all of them. Scattered, thought the first man. Don’t know why I’m bothering—

“Thanks for coming, Darjan,” said the second man, and looked the first one casually in the face, then glanced away again.

“Don’t thank me, Heming,” said Darjan. “We have a problem.”

“Yeah, I heard the results,” Heming said.

“A big problem,” said Darjan. “We started hearing from the syndicate’s backers within about ten minutes of the win.”

“They’re just nervous, I can understand wh—”

“You can’t understand what they understand,” Darjan said, “which is that the pools projections never indicated anything like this happening, and a lot of people are going to be out a lot of money unless something’s done.”

“It’s luck,” said Heming, shrugging. “The kind of thing you can’t predict.”

Darjan laughed harshly. “With the computers you people have, with probability experts who can even get the weather right, nowadays, five days out of six, you’re telling me this kind of ‘luck’ couldn’t be predicted? You people were so sure that your prognostication algorithms were foolproof. Well, we’re about to be the fools. And the booby prize has more zeroes after it than you’re ever going to want to see. Something has to be done!”

“Look,” said Heming, starting to look alarmed for the first time, “it really is just a run of luck. It can’t last. If they—”

“You’re damned right it isn’t going to last,” said Darjan, going suddenly grim. “Accidents are going to start happening. Their luck’s run out.”

Heming looked more nervous still. “Listen,” he said. “There are ways…You wouldn’t want to ruin everything by getting too…you know…overt. If someone should suspect—”

“Suspicion we can live with,” said Darjan, pushing the martini glass away from him in disgust. “Losing one point five billion dollars or so, that we can’t live with for a second…and no one else is going to be allowed to live with it, either.”

“One point five…”

“That was the last estimate.” Darjan looked up from under those thick dark brows at Heming. “What the hell are those people doing playing at this level? They’re a local team, for God’s sake. They’re a bunch of housewives and appliance repairmen; they’re the damned Kiwanis!”

“They’re good,” said Heming, rather helplessly.

“They’re too good,” Darjan said, frowning. “And some-thing’s gonna be done about it, one way or another. Too much rides on things going the way they were planned to go at the beginning of the season. The spreads, even the casual betting spreads, are going to be disturbed. We can’t have it, Heming. The investors are going to turn their backs on us, and some of them we spent too much time and money getting hold of in the first place to lose now. So you better tell me what you have in mind…otherwise ‘overt’ is going to be the order of the day, whether you like it or not.”

Heming shook his head. “You wouldn’t want to—”

“Don’t tell me what I want. Instead tell me how you’re going to fix it. Nonovertly.”

Heming thought for a moment. “Well, some of it would be an outgrowth of how we would keep things running normally outside of the playoffs.”

Darjan considered this for a moment. “You’re going to have to ‘oil’ different people,” he said. “Higher up. The kind who’d be more likely to blow the whistle.”

“Not if the incentives are correctly applied,” said Heming, “and if they’re big enough. Everybody has their price. Just a matter of seeing how high you have to go…. And after that, because of the increased price…they’re that much more eager to keep quiet. Because if word ever gets out…” He smiled. “Scandal. Bad publicity. Lawsuits, public prosecutions, jail terms…All very messy.”

“And you can hold that over them, of course.”

“Of course. The leaks would seem to come from somewhere else, somewhere ‘respectable,’ when they came.”

The first man nodded slowly. “All right. We can try it your way first. Do you have some targets in mind?”

“Several.”

“Get on it, then. Do what you have to. But hurry up! This was the last of the preliminary bouts. The serious betting always starts at the eighth-final level. It’s started already. The whole structure of the ‘pools’ betting will start to be affected soon, if you don’t get them out of the running.”

Heming looked thoughtful for a moment. “Obviously we won’t get results until the first eighth-final game,” he said.

“That’s Monday,” Darjan said. “South Florida versus Chicago versus Toronto, if I remember correctly. Chicago was scheduled to win, when the third was going to be New Orleans.” His face set grim, and he glanced up. “Certain people,” he said, “were—are—very committed to Chicago. Believe me, you wouldn’t like to have to explain to them how their team got knocked out at the eighth-final stage by a bunch of landscape gardeners and sanitation engineers. Amateurs—”

“It won’t happen,” said Heming.

“Pray that it doesn’t,” said Darjan. “Get on it. Get in touch with me tomorrow and tell me what progress you’ve made.”

Heming went out hurriedly through the open French doors to the square, where the afternoon light was beginning to tarnish. Darjan looked after him, once more reaching around to the martini glass and beginning to turn it around and around on the white marble. Then his hand clenched slowly around the stem. A moment later there was a sharp crack as the stem of the Dartington crystal, tough as it was, gave way. This being virtual experience, there was no blood.

Elsewhere, however, Darjan thought, in reality, unless Heming gets busy, things will be very different….