Gameprey

8

Glancing over his shoulder, Matt watched Leif Anderson stride down the aisle. Leif was dressed in a cream Armani suit that he somehow managed to bring off as casual wear.

“Who’re you?” the businessman demanded.

“Just think of me as a guy helping you out of an unwanted merger.” Leif smiled easily. “These two young men are trying to get into the wrong seats.”

The man grinned in cold triumph and opened his mouth to speak.

“You see,” Leif said, cutting him off, “they’re actually supposed to be in first class. That’s where the really important business goes on.” He looked up at Matt and Andy, then made a sweeping gesture with one arm. “Mr. Hunter, Mr. Moore, if you would be so kind as to join me.”

Matt wrapped a hand around Andy’s upper arm and pulled him along. “First class?” Matt asked.

Leif nodded. “I upgraded your tickets this morning. Evidently you didn’t get my message before you left your house.”

“No. Why would you do that? We could have flown coach.”

“True.” Leif guided them to the first row of seats in the first class section. “But I also upgraded my ticket. I was in the row behind you. Tactical planning on my part since Andy was involved. However, in light of last night’s events I thought we’d be better served by flying first class.”

At Leif’s urging, Matt took the seat nearest the window. He considered, knowing Leif — despite his father’s wealth — wasn’t one to go around flashing money. “So why first class?”

Leif smiled. “Logistics, buddy. Physically we’re miles and hours from Maj, Catie, and Megan, but we can be there virtually.” He tapped the back of the chair. “In coach you get limited access to the Net, but up here the seats are outfitted with implant scanners. Once the plane lifts, we can go online and be at the convention when it opens at ten.”

“I like the way you plan,” Andy said, toasting Leif with his soda.

Matt nodded. “It makes sense, but I’m going to pay you for the first-class upgrade.” Maybe I can get a couple summer jobs.

“No need.” Leif put his seatbelt on and snugged it tight as the flight attendant took her place at the front of the first-class section with the oxygen mask demo. “My dad’s picking up the tab. He’s also going to reimburse you guys for your tickets.”

“All right,” Andy crowed enthusiastically.

“Why?” Matt asked.

“Because Anderson Investments Multinational has put together several portfolios for clients that include stocks in game design and development corporations. You just can’t ignore the impact that industry has on the entertainment sector. If something’s rotten there, Dad said he’d feel more comfortable knowing we were looking into it.”

“He could hire a security team.”

Leif nodded. “Sure, and he probably will. But where’s he going to find a security team who knows as much as we do about games?”

Matt nodded. It made sense.

Leif went on. “He’s going to comp Maj. Megan, and Catie as well. That way the team can concentrate on the mystery at hand, rather than money.”

They sat quietly while the jet trundled out to the runway. In minutes they were airborne.

“Okay,” Leif said, leaning the seat back and flipping up the covers over the implant contacts, “time to get virtual.” He placed his head in the trough, closed his eyes, and let out a breath, gone in that very instant.

Andy followed suit immediately.

Matt hesitated. He’d never entered the Net while on a jet streaking through the air.

“Sir?”

Matt glanced up at the young flight attendant.

“Do you have any questions about the use of the on-board equipment?” she asked.

Matt gave her a grin. “So if the jet goes out of control—”

“You’ll automatically be logged off the Net,” the flight attendant replied. “Sensors from the jet are routed through the Net interfaces the airline provides. They’re very sensitive. Sometimes turbulence will cause the connections to log-off. Some passengers think that gets frustrating.”

Matt glanced around the first-class section and found that nearly everyone was logged on to the Net. He pushed his breath out and laid his head back. The brief, familiar sensation of logging on to the Net passed through him.

I don’t know why I was thinking this would be easy. Maj stared out over the convention center.

Peter Griffen’s booth was strategically placed at the heart of the cavernous convention room. Two information tables occupied each of the four sides, all of them by doors that led into the interior of the huge booth. At least, they would lead into the booth later. For now they were locked.

Advertising in the form of holoprojectors hovered in miniature over the walls, but none of them offered any information on Peter Griffen or what the new game might be. Fifteen minutes’ worth of advertising about other games Eisenhower was doing spewed through the holovids, as well as some past advertising on games that had been major hits.

Even as large as the Eisenhower booth was, the convention center still dwarfed it. No other booth was as large, but most of them had holoprojectors set up to advertise games between the booths and the high ceiling. Gaming centers pushed into the four sides of the convention made do with two-dee screens that covered the walls from floor to ceiling.

Over forty thousand convention guests roamed the broad aisles, filling them to capacity. Voices created an undercurrent of noise that never stopped and was punctuated by bleeps, buzzes, sirens, and clangs from the different games. Excitement rattled through the air around Maj, turning her anxiety up a notch.

“Hey.”

Startled, Maj took an involuntary step back, then she realized Catie had been talking to her. “Hi.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Catie said, dropping out of the flowing crowd to stand in front of her.

“I was thinking.”

“Too hard,” Catie agreed. “I can tell by the little squinkles around your eyes.”

“Those are from lack of sleep.”

Catie glanced back at the booth. “Has Peter Griffen shown up?”

Maj shook her head. “They have no idea when he’s supposed to be here.”

“You’d think this is the place he’d be.”

“Unless he’s somewhere giving an interview. Where’s Megan?”

“With Mark. They got some time on Catspaw, so they’re busy trying to get past the lethal defenses of a wrecked space station embedded in the side of an asteroid. They’re supposed to collect the ship’s journal and get clues about what really happened aboard the ship. It’s one of those mystery-tech adventure games they enjoy.”

Maj watched a guy in a wombat costume on Rollerblades weave through an applauding crowd that separated before him. The wombat waved a purple and yellow flag gleefully. Normally that would make me laugh.

Catie smiled. “I guess Wover’s got a new game out.”

“Yeah, and he seems to be pretty excited about it.”

“I’ve got to go meet with an art guy,” Catie said. “I’ll check back on you later.”

Maj nodded. “Good luck.”

Holo displays crowded each other for space on top of the various booths. The holos moved and shifted in neon colors, replications of new heroes and creatures being marketed as well as updated versions and continuations of heroes that had helped create the computer gaming phenomenon. Two ninjas in futuristic energy armor battled each other with laser swords on top of the Fujihama exhibit. Sparks leaped outward when the blades met, but died within inches of the floor or the nearest person. The razored shriek of energy fields meeting boomed like thunder from the speaker systems.

Maj studied the crowd, searching for Peter Griffen, wondering how she was supposed to see anyone in the crowd.

“You are Soljarr,” a nearby display squawked in a basso voice, “warrior-slave to the Tevvis colony. Your brain was removed from your body, then placed in an invulnerable drone so that you could help your captors fight against your own people. To disobey is to die. But there’s a way out, and a way to save your people, if you’re brave enough and clever enough to find it.”

At least three dozen people stood in line between corridors of tape at the Soljarr booth. All of them talked eagerly, pointing at the holo over the structure. The holo showed a shimmering blue-steel exo-body that moved as fluidly as water. Virulent purple blasts erupted from Soljarr’s fists, blasting through a line of squat, mechanical drones powering across an icy tundra, reducing them to flaming bits of metal and gears.

Maj kept moving, but then an uncomfortable feeling threaded down the back of her neck. She stepped from the crowd and looked behind her, studying the faces. Above them a holo displayed a giant panda with a long yellow scarf piloting a tiny biplane, zipping through the air and snagging metallic green coins resting on clouds.

Adults as well as kids and teens made up the crowd, all of them drifting by with the same sense of wonder on their faces. None of them appeared to be paying any special attention to Maj, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that she was being watched.

Matt Hunter swung his sword and blocked the slash that would have taken his head off if it had connected. The shock traveled the length of his arm and knocked him slightly off-balance. He took a step backward to recover, then lost his footing completely as the uneven hillside gave way.

The Burgundian warrior facing him shouted in savage joy and leaped forward. Taking his swordhilt in both hands, he swung hard.

On his back and unable to get to his feet quickly, held down by the armor he wore, Matt raised an arm. There won’t be any pain. I’ll just be logged off and have to listen to Andy’s insults for a week or two.

Suddenly another sword appeared, crossing under the Burgundian warrior’s and knocking the attack aside. The Burgundian snarled a curse in his native language and turned to face the newcomer.

Matt didn’t waste any time, but the fifteenth-century armor was heavy. Even with the special skills he’d uploaded from the computer program, it took time to get to his feet.

“Traitorous dog!” the Burgundian warrior shouted.

The new knight strode to face the man. His armor showed signs of prolonged battle, smudged with blood and mud, tiny green leaves from the brush stuck it. The shield he carried over one arm had a scarred fleur-de-lis or it.

“Hey,” Leif Anderson protested in a mildly amused voice, “no name-calling.” The sword seemed to come alive in his hands, sweeping forward time after time and driving the Burgundian warrior back.

Matt got to his feet, feeling the layer of perspiration covering his body under the heat of the armor. He took up his sword and set himself to meet the attack of another warrior bearing down on them.

The man was fierce and savage. His unkempt auburn beard showed under his helm and looked like a bird’s nest. A four-foot-long battle-ax whirled in his hand.

Matt parried the weapon with his sword and wondered if the battle-ax was an anachronism. Maid of Orleans wasn’t supposed to be historically accurate; it was supposed to be fun, an alternate reality of the Hundred Years’ War between France and England.

The Burgundian warrior drew back at once, whirling the battle-ax again. He thrust the haft between Matt’s legs in an attempt to trip him.

Stumbling, Matt barely kept his balance on the treacherous slope.

“You fall, you treacherous pup,” the Burgundian warned with a big grin, “and I’m going to smash you open like a turtle, and that’s a fact.”

From the corner of his eye, Matt watched Leif hammer his foe to the ground, then lost sight of him as he stepped around the attacking warrior. Lifting his left arm, Matt caught the ax blow on his shield, then cut his own sword beneath the man’s elbow.

The chain mail shirt the man wore prevented the sword from breaking skin, but the blunt trauma definitely broke some ribs. The Burgundian’s face whitened, and he let out a pained howl. But he drew the battle-ax back and stabbed at Matt’s legs again.

Anticipating the attack, Matt shifted and stomped a booted foot on the ax haft. The wood splintered with a sharp snap, taking off the lower third of the haft.

The Burgundian roared in rage and swung his weapon again. Computer-trained reflexes moved Matt into motion. His sword met the battle-ax in midstroke and broke the attack. He stepped forward and slammed his shield into the Burgundian warrior, barely able to move the larger warrior’s bulk. Then he disengaged his sword and chopped at the man’s neck.

The helmet and all it contained went spinning away in a spray of blood. The Burgundian’s headless body dropped to its knees, then flopped forward.

Matt tried not to look at it. The Net’s graphics were too real, and Maid of Orleans wasn’t really his kind of game. Shooters where vanquished enemies went up in a puff of ash or flared and disappeared in a laser burst were okay, but the realism of this game was just too much.

“Now that was disgusting.” Leif joined him, pushing up his visor to reveal a dirt-smudged face.

“Yeah.” Matt stepped over the corpse and higher onto the hill. He stared down at the warriors battling across the uneven terrain. “We’re losing.”

“Simply a matter of numbers,” Leif said. “There’s more of them than there are of us.”

“She shouldn’t have brought them here.” Matt felt bad for all the men who’d really died in the battle the game was based on.

“She felt she was doing what she’d been called to do,” Leif said.

“No one should be asked to do this.” Matt’s heart felt heavy. Warriors on horseback battled with men on foot. Most of the time the men on horseback won. The defeated were run down and battered by the armored horses, then dispatched by the mounted warriors. But sometimes the men on foot succeeded in pulling the horsemen down. It was all savagely brutal.

“Lighten up,” Leif suggested. “It’s just a game.”

“Maybe I’m just not in the mood for it.” Matt shaded his eyes against the setting sun. The clouds around it were dissolving into bloodred, as if the sunset was picking up the color from the battlefield.

“The game’s going to be a hit,” Leif promised.

Matt studied the crimson drops running down the ferrules of the sword he held. “Not with me.”

Leif flashed him a grin. “Well, I hear Wover’s got a new game coming out.”

“Defeating monsters in art deco dungeons and grabbing power coins, now there’s a game I could get into right now.” Matt shook his head. “This is too real.”

“You’ve seen worse in history class.”

Thundering hooves came up behind them.

Matt spun while Leif slammed his visor down again.

A rider pulling a small herd of unmounted battle steeds behind him spurred his horse up the steep incline, weaving through the fallen bodies of Burgundian warriors and the defenders of Compiègne. A handful of wounded survivors huddled in the bush.

The rider thundered to the top of the hill, then pulled back on the reins to make his horse rear dramatically. The riderless horses he was leading shied a bit, then stood quietly. Andy flipped his visor up to reveal a broad grin. “Hey, guys. Want to upgrade your transportation?”

“Having a good time, Andy?” Leif asked.

“Out of the three games we visited before this one?” Andy asked. “No comparison. This game is a blast.” He stood in the stirrups. “Chaos and carnage, it just doesn’t get any better than this.” He paused. “Except zombies. They could have used a few zombies.”

“Except we’re looking for a dragon,” Matt said. “This game appears to be historically accurate.”

“Historically based,” Leif said. “The game options also let you win the Hundred Years’ War if you play correctly. The battle we’re in now is the one where Joan got captured and imprisoned till she was burned at the stake as a heretic.”

Matt surveyed the battlefield again, his attention drawn by the hoarse shouts of desperate men. Ragged pennants fluttered in the lackluster breeze, marking groups of survivors taking refuge in each other’s defense.

Suddenly a new phalanx of Burgundian horsemen exploded from the woods to the left. The attackers swept through the irregular line of defenders with lances, breaking through the perimeter easily. Foot soldiers charged after the horsemen, and archers picked out targets.

“Man,” Andy declared, “I can’t just sit here and watch this, and I’m not logging off until I know those people are safe.”

“They aren’t safe,” Leif said. “Back in May of 1429, they were routed and driven back toward Compiègne. Only the guy in charge of the city lifted the drawbridge before they could make it inside. Joan was one of the warriors caught outside. The Burgundians slaughtered and captured the rest.”

“We have to watch that?” Andy griped. His horse stomped its feet impatiently, rocking from side to side and snorting. “What fun is that?”

Leif grinned and slapped his visor down. He took the reins for one of the horses Andy was leading and stepped into the stirrup. “None. So let’s see if we can do something about it. Coming, Matt?”

Matt watched the tide of armed horsemen lunging across the battlefield. He wanted to log off and continue the search for the dragon, but the game held him captive. He couldn’t sit by and do nothing.

“We’ve been good about searching through the other games,” Leif reasoned. “It won’t hurt if we take a few minutes out and enjoy this scenario. We’re still hours from Los Angeles. They’ll let us know if there’s an emergency.”

“You’re right.” Matt took the reins for the other horse and mounted.

“If we go out with a win here,” Leif said, “maybe coming up empty in the other demos won’t feel so bad.”

Silently Matt didn’t see how that was going to happen. Even after only the few minutes he’d been fighting in the demo, his arms felt like lead from carrying the heavy shield and sword. He spurred his horse and galloped down the hill after his two friends.

The strained sounds of a horn blowing retreat cut through the hoarse shouts of men. Pockets of activity erupted into sudden motion. Desperate men, fueled by fear and anger, surged toward each other and fought against the Burgundians.

Matt remained low over the saddle pommel, the sword trailing at his right side. A Burgundian warrior engaged a wounded man on foot a short distance ahead. Despite his reluctance about playing the game, Matt guided his horse on an intercept course.

Trained for battle, the warhorse didn’t hesitate about smashing into the Burgundian and his mount. The other animal staggered and tried to regain its footing. The warrior yanked on the reins and spun in the saddle. “Hey,” he said to Matt, “no fair attacking from behind like that.” The words didn’t carry a Burgundian accent.

Knowing the warrior was being played by someone else who’d joined the demo online, Matt felt a little better. He lashed out with his foot and unseated the Burgundian, who yelled frantically as he thudded painfully to the ground.

“My thanks,” the rescued warrior said, standing on failing legs. Blood streaked his face, cutting into the lines of fatigue.

Matt offered a hand. “Mount up.”

The man wrapped his hand around Matt’s wrists and smiled his thanks. Together, they swung him up behind the saddle. The big warhorse took the extra weight without problem.

Matt turned the horse and spurred it toward Compiègne. The town had a stone wall around it, sealing it from the battlefield. Archers lined the ramparts and arrows filled the air as the retreating forces and their Burgundian pursuers raced toward it.

The man wrapped an arm around Matt’s stomach and held tight. Then he started cheering. “Joan! Joan!”

Heart beating rapidly in spite of the fact that he could log off the game at any time, Matt glanced to the right and saw a large contingent of warriors sweeping into line with them.

Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans, rode at the head of the group. She wore a man’s armor and carried a man’s sword, but her head was bared, leaving her open to attack but immediately recognizable to her own warriors. Short cropped brown hair swirled around a beautiful face.

She leaned out and seized a standard from a nearby rider. “Here!” she roared to the warriors who halted uncertainly around her. She plunged the staff into the ground, leaving the flag fluttering near her face. “We make a stand here to break those Burgundian traitors and allow those on foot a chance to make the town!”

Hoarse shouts, not all of them in support of the move, filled the immediate vicinity.

Andy suddenly appeared beside the warrior maid, his blade bared and a crooked grin on his face. He lifted his sword. “For Joan!” he shouted. “For France!”

Matt shook his head, amazed at Andy’s capacity for gaming.

“For France!” Joan yelled.

“Stop,” the warrior behind Matt urged. “We must help.”

Matt drew in his reins, feeling the horse gasping for air. He turned, looking back at the horde of Burgundian warriors riding hard for them.

“You ready for this?”

Matt glanced at Leif, who’d ridden up beside him. “Yeah.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Leif said. “After last night, I’d understand.”

Matt shook his head, speaking over the rising thunder of the approaching horses’ hooves. “You know what’s weird?”

“What?”

“I zipped into Maj’s room in holoform, knowing I couldn’t be hurt, and it was frustrating standing there without being able to do anything. But if I’d been there for real, I don’t know what I’d have done.”

“Yeah, you do,” Leif said. “You’d have done what you could. That’s what you’re made of, Matt. Everything in you is bred for the heat of the moment. You’re at your best when the pressure is on, when things are clearest for you.” He grinned laconically. “Most of us are. But don’t second-guess yourself about what you’d have done or not done.”

“I keep thinking about it.”

“That’s natural. Bet you think a lot about flight-sims you’ve had trouble mastering, too. You’ll get past it.”

Matt looked at Andy, who was engaged in animated conversation with Joan of Arc as the skirmish line was set up. The warrior maid organized her warriors, taking advantage of the high ground. Men who still had spears lined up in the forefront.

Matt watched the retreating warriors running desperately before their attackers. “We’re not going to win this battle, are we?”

“Nope.” Leif grinned. “At least, not if the game is historically accurate. Joan gets taken here by the Burgundian soldiers after she gets locked out of Compiègne by Guillaume de Flavy, the guy commanding the town. The Burgundians sell her to the English, who keep her imprisoned for the next fourteen months, then burn her at the stake for being a heretic. But how often do you get the chance to fight alongside Joan of Arc?”

Matt took in a deep breath, then pushed it out.

“Andy’s hooked on playing the hero,” Leif said as they watched their friend riding up and down the skirmish line encouraging the troops. “Maybe it’s because his dad never made it out of South Africa, and maybe it’s because he got to spend that time in veeyar with that sim of his dad fighting in that war. And maybe guys like him are just born that way.”

“So what is it for you?”

Leif laughed. “Me? I’m just here for a good time.” The line of Burgundian warriors was less than a hundred yards away. The first of the warriors on foot reached the skirmish line, hurrying through it and heading for the town behind them.

The man behind Matt slid off the horse and unlimbered his crossbow, fitting a short, ugly quarrel into the groove.

“Attention!” Joan of Arc’s voice rang out clearly across the battlefield. She lifted her sword, then dropped it to point forward. “Charge!” She rode her horse forward, leading the mounted spearmen.

Andy rode at her side, a spear held level.

Shedding his reluctance, Matt spurred his horse forward and readied himself to meet the attack. He hacked aside the spear that thrust at his chest, then managed a backhanded blow that caught his adversary in the head. Matt didn’t think he’d injured the man, but he was successful in unseating him.

Dust clouded around him, obscuring the view. Matt pulled his horse around, gently enough that he didn’t tear the animal’s mouth. The horse trembled as its muscles bunched and it sought footing as clods tore free under its iron-shod hooves.

Matt breathed in deeply, smelling the stench of sweating horses and men, wet leather, and the dry dust that covered the battlefield. He lifted his sword and charged again.