Gameprey

7

“My dad would love this stuff,” Megan O’Malley announced.

Still feeling the effects of sleep-deprivation due to a long bout of insomnia during the night, Maj glanced at her friend with a little irritation. Megan didn’t get the hint, and Maj assumed that maybe it was because the morning sunlight streaming through the window made her squint and took some of the effect away. They sat in Catie’s hotel room at the Bessel Mid-Town, Maj still in bed and Megan at the small desk. Catie was in the shower.

“I’m serious,” Megan went on. “You’ve got mystery and danger against an interesting background. It’s an adventure.” Her dad was R. F. O’Malley, one of the hottest mystery writers in publishing.

“Sometimes,” Maj croaked in a sleep-filled voice, “adventures are better in fiction instead of happening to real people.”

“Like you would ever pass up the opportunity,” Megan retorted. “I know you’re planning on canvassing the convention downstairs as soon as you can.” Megan was already prepared to meet the day. Her brown hair was pulled back the way she wore it for her martial arts meets, and her hazel eyes gleamed.

“Catie blabbed.”

Megan shrugged. “We talked. You were asleep. And have I ever had the chance to tell you how cute you are when you sleep? Especially the whole open-mouthed snoring thing?”

“Don’t even go there.” Maj glanced at the time/date stamp on the holo playing high on the opposite wall. The cartoon channel was on, showing a popular Japanimation series Catie was currently hooked on. Her artistic interests were varied. It was 9:15 A.M. Maj figured she’d gotten maybe four hours of sleep. “The convention officially opens at ten.”

“I know,” Megan said. “I passed a number of people out in the halls downstairs who were setting up last-minute details to their booths. It’s a madhouse.”

Someone knocked on the door.

Apprehension instantly filled Maj, and she hated that it did. How long is it going to be before I feel safe away from home again?

Megan smiled. “I ordered room service, breakfast for three.” She uncoiled from the seat behind the desk and slipped her Universal Credit Card from the small purse she carried. “On me. I wanted to splurge this morning.”

“You could have warned me. I look as if I could be declared a federal disaster area.”

“Then breakfast in bed wouldn’t have been a surprise.” Megan walked to the door. “Besides, it’s probably a maid, and what’s she going to care?” She opened the door and a handsome young man in an immaculate hotel uniform pushed a service cart into the room. He uncovered the breakfast buffet scattered on the various platters, swiped Megan’s Universal Credit Card through the portable reader, and smiled at Maj.

Maj smiled back weakly, wishing she could turn invisible.

The handsome young man left.

“Or maybe it won’t be a maid,” Megan said. “There is an up side to this. He’s going to think you were Catie.”

“Who’s going to think she was Catie?” Catie stood in the bathroom doorway, her hair turbaned in a white towel. She wore pink and charcoal striped pedal-pushers and a white sweater with the sleeves pushed up to mid-forearm.

“Room service,” Megan declared, waving toward the service tray.

“Room service is going to think Maj was me?” Catie asked, glancing at her friend. “Should I care?”

“He was really cute,” Megan answered.

Catie studied Maj more closely. “Is character assassination a crime in this state?”

“My dad makes a living at it,” Megan said.

Maj mock-glared at them both. “When my sense of humor returns, you’ll be the first to know.” She scooted over to the edge of the bed and sat within reach of the service tray.

Megan handed her a plate with French toast on it. Catie sat on the bed beside her and started helping herself.

“Wow,” Catie said, “this must have been expensive.”

“It was,” Megan admitted.

“We could have eaten at the buffet downstairs.”

“I thought maybe we’d take a little time to ourselves this morning.” Megan buttered a piece of toast and added peach jelly. “Besides, there was no telling who might be watching.”

The statement was delivered with a light tone, but it seemed to chill the room temperature to Maj.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that,” Megan said.

“I’ll deal,” Maj said.

Catie used the remote control and switched the holo display from the cartoon channel to HoloNet news. “Local channel,” she explained. “They’re supposed to be doing special coverage on the gaming convention. I figured we’d take a look.”

Conversation dropped to a minimum of cursory courtesy as dishes and condiments were negotiated over and passed around. Maj found herself becoming totally immersed in the stories being unveiled on HoloNet. Evidently the media service hadn’t spared any effort to totally cover the event. Stories slid by in three-dee, concentrating on games in development and about to be released, on creators, on designers, and on publishing houses old and new.

Gaming was big business, and the corporate sector was heavily invested in it.

“There was one hiccup in Bessel Mid-Town Hotel’s accommodations for the gaming convention,” a young blond reporter said.

She stood beside a display currently outside the main entrance to the convention hall. Holo images of games moved behind her. Garishly colored creatures culled from mythologies and imagination warred behind her. Other games featured high-tech hardware modeled on current military gunships and naval batteries. The series favorites were also represented, showing action sequences from best-selling shooters, adventure games, and role-playing games.

“Last night the fourth and fifth floors of the hotel were evacuated after someone activated the fire alarms,” the reporter continued. “The police believe it’s the work of a prankster, or one of the hotel guests burning off a little nervous energy before opening day.”

“That’s good,” Catie said.

“Yeah,” Megan said, “but it also covers the people who were responsible for the break-in.”

“No one was hurt,” the reporter went on, “but a number of people were inconvenienced. Detective John Holmes of the Los Angeles Police Department went on to say that while the convention may draw more than its share of fun-lovers, there will be no tolerance for anyone who breaks the law.”

A quick newsbyte flashed on Detective Holmes from the previous night. He smiled easily for the camera. “I like games as much as the next guy, but there’s a certain amount of courtesy that needs to be observed at events like this.”

The scene cut back to the reporter, who wore a smile. “I talked to Detective Holmes myself, and he made a believer out of me. If anyone steps outside the lines at the convention, they’ll probably find themselves—”

An image of a pig-snouted biker from a popular shooter series superimposed itself over the reporter along with the text: YOU’RE BUSTED, SNOWFLAKE!

“So plan on having a good time if you attend the convention,” the reporter said, “but stop there or the LAPD will stop you…dead in your tracks.”

The holo cut to commercial, introducing a new game by Prism Productions called Power Corps 4. It showed a man in a cape and mask battling alien invaders with power rays streaming from his eyes, promising larger worlds than ever before and more playing time for single-player games.

Maj recognized it as one of the games Andy Moore liked to play. More commercials in the form of news rolled, brief bytes of information designed to intrigue and entrance.

“In some circles,” the blond reporter said when she returned, “Peter Griffen needs no introduction. But until lately, those circles have been small and included predominantly producers, designers, and publishers of computer games and graphics. But after this convention, a lot of folks are betting Griffen is going to be a landmark name.”

The holo changed, showing a file image of Griffen. It was a profile shot of him staring at a virtual tank where computer graphics were written for games without exposing them to the open Net. He was young and earnest, athletically trim. His dark hair was just long enough to hold the promise of wavy curls. He wore slacks and a shirt with the top buttons unfastened, his tie hanging around his neck.

“We tried to get an interview with Peter Griffen,” the reporter continued. “However, we’ve met with no success. Griffen remains a mystery man.” She flashed a million-dollar grin and lowered her voice. “And that’s something reporters just hate, so be prepared to hear a lot about Peter Griffen if his product meets all the build-up Eisenhower Productions, his publisher, promises.”

Her interest piqued, Maj abandoned her efforts on the waffle. She studied the still picture. Why is Griffen so reluctant to seize the limelight if he has the chance? Exposure translated quickly into profit. Even in profile, though, Griffen looked familiar, as if she’d seen him before. Her hand leaped out for the remote control Catie had laid aside. She punched the Copy mode.

The holo moved on, picking up more bytes from one of the new designers hoping to break into the market with a strat-sim based on the Civil War. The game featured a few twists, though, including the invention of the atomic bomb in 1830. Nuclear-ravaged zombies in Union blue and Confederate gray lurched across radioactive wastelands.

Across the service tray and the dwindling breakfast, Megan watched her keenly. “Did you see something we missed?”

“I’m not sure,” Maj said, “but I know I want to get a better look at Peter Griffen.”

“You think he’s the dragonrider?” Catie asked.

Maj tapped the remote control, bringing up the copied still picture on the holo. Peter Griffen’s image filled the holo field. “He could be.”

“At any rate,” Catie went on, “he’s cute. Definitely worth meeting.”

Maj made a face at her friend. She knew Catie was only teasing. But she couldn’t shake the dread that filled her. If Peter Griffen is the dragonrider, what does he know about last night’s events? Is he guilty? Or is he in danger?

Matt Hunter stood among the passengers boarding the one o’clock flight out of Dulles International Airport, trying desperately to hold back a yawn. He wore jeans and a red and black pullover under a light jacket. He held a carry-on in one hand and a backpack over his shoulder.

Passengers continued feeding into the jet.

“Hey.”

Turning, Matt spotted Andy Moore trotting up. Andy’s blond hair looked more rumpled than usual, but his blue eyes were alert. He wore jeans and a T-shirt featuring Captain Alpha, a hero from the popular superhero online game, Power Corps.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it,” Matt said.

“The autocab I got was on the blink.” Andy shifted the backpack and the two suitcases he carried. “Something was wrong with the GPS system, and I ended up in an argument with the dispatcher over the amount.”

“You?” Matt asked with wry humor. “In an argument? Say it isn’t so.” Andy had a reputation as class clown and as a bulldog for fighting for what he thought was right.

“Hey, it was a legitimate complaint. And I won.”

The passengers continued filing through the gantry. Matt held his ticket out and stepped inside.

“Full flight,” Andy commented.

“The airline overbooked the flight. A few minutes ago they were offering free tickets to anyone willing to reschedule.”

“If they’d offered part of the ticket money back,” Andy said, “I might have been interested. I had to ask my mom for a loan to cover this trip, and you know how I hate owing her money.” His father had been killed during the South African Conflict in 2014, only a few months after Andy had been born. He’d been raised in a single-parent household, and things hadn’t always been easy. His mom operated her own veterinary clinic in Alexandria, Virginia, and Andy worked there to make extra money.

“I know. This trip put a big dent in my savings. When it comes time for a summer job this year, I’m not going to be able to be choosy about what it is. But with everything going on in L.A., I’d rather be there than here.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Andy glanced around the crowd as they continued moving slowly forward.

Matt led the way onto the plane, nodding a brief hello to the young flight attendant.

“Where are we?” Andy asked.

Matt peered through the crowd ahead of them. Men and women filled the overhead compartments rapidly. “Row twenty-three, seats D and E.”

Gradually the crowd thinned as people took their seats. Unfortunately, row 23, seats D and E were also occupied.

Matt looked at the two men in the seats, taking in the suits and the external Net hookups. Commercial class received links to the Net during the flight, but it was basically a mechanical access that allowed the users to handle phone calls, e-mail, and fact gathering from databases. Information was relayed over the laptop screens like flatfilm.

“Excuse me,” Matt said politely.

The man on the outside edge looked up, then looked around. “Me?”

“Yes.” Matt nodded. “I think there’s been some mistake. I’m supposed to be in seat twenty-three D.”

“The mistake’s yours, kid,” the businessman said. “This is my seat.”

Andy nudged around Matt. “No. You’ve got our seats. The flight was overbooked.”

The man looked away and shook his head. “That’s not my problem.”

Shooting the man a withering glare, Andy made a snort of disgust. “Look, my friend and I booked these seats weeks ago. Unless you can ante up and beat that, I suggest you look for another seat to steal.”

“Stand down,” Matt said quietly, in a tone Captain Winters might have used. “Let’s see if we can get this figured out.” He glanced back and caught the young flight attendant’s eye. “We need some help.”

The flight attendant made her way down the aisle. “How can I help you?”

Matt quickly explained about the ticket mix-up. “We’ve really got to make this flight.”

“Tough break,” the businessman. “But what you’re doing can’t be nearly as important as the merger I’m helping negotiate today.”

Looking down at the man, Andy said, “I’ve got a HoloNet flash for you, buddy. If you don’t get out of that seat, the only merger you’re going to be negotiating today is my foot and your—”

Matt started to take a step toward Andy and separate him from the man. Andy didn’t have much patience on a good day, and almost no fear at all of any physical confrontation. He went from class clown to bouncer in a nanosecond.

“Excuse me,” a smooth voice interrupted. “Maybe I can help.”