by SM Reine
Trying to ignore the hurt in his eyes, she stepped back and made herself smile. At the curb, Burt opened the limo door and cleared his throat.
“Stay out of trouble, team,” she said.
Then, before she made a total spectacle of herself, she ducked into the car. Burt closed the door behind her, and the tinted glass hid the tissue she used to blot her tears. Internationally famous gaming stars didn’t cry.
Much.
Aran Cole slid on the fake glasses with the dark frames, and turned to face his friend, Bix Chowney. The flickering fluorescent light in Bix’s old garage cast a sickly glow over everything, but Aran was fond of the place; lumpy couch, faint mildew smell, and all.
It was the closest thing he had to a home. All he needed was a place to sleep, a hotplate, and power for his sim-system. The Viper was installed in the corner, hidden under a tarp when he wasn’t gaming.
“How do I look?” he asked.
Bix tilted his head, the light giving his blond hair a greenish cast. “Boring, and respectable. That’s freaky, man. How’d you do that?”
“It’s all in the attitude. I just imagine I’m a geeklet from a nice, suburban family, and presto! No more slacker gamer.”
He’d also re-dyed his hair to its underlying black, removing the blue streak, and had changed into the one button-down shirt he owned. His other shirts were all logo tees featuring obscure bands or gamer jokes, and he needed to project a more upper-class persona. At least until he passed through SimCon’s registration.
“You making fun of me?” Bix punched his shoulder, hard enough to make it count.
“Hey—not my fault you’re all well-adjusted and middle class. But you’re not a geeklet.”
Bix wanted to be edgy, but befriending Aran was the nearest he got. Not that Aran would recommend his particular lifestyle. Even Bix didn’t know about Aran’s other existence as the prime hacker known as BlackWing. He could find the exploits in any game, slipping in between the cracks in the code. Sadly, selling game hacks on the gray market wasn’t making him rich. In fact, it was barely enough to survive on.
He needed enough cash to get his own apartment instead of couching it at Bix’s and living off high-jolt soda and packaged ramen.
Aran’s folks would feed him, grudgingly. Even though he was eighteen now, he still had a room at home. It stayed empty, though—just a place to store his stuff. That house held too much history and not enough forgiveness. Not even close. Unsaid words piled up like knives until he felt he was being sliced alive by their sharp edges.
He swigged the last of his super-caffeinated drink. The carbonation stung his throat and nose, but he needed the boost. It was way too early for him to be awake.
“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing his bag, a brown messenger pouch he’d liberated from his older brother.
Bix followed him out of the garage, carefully locking up. Aran had an extra key, though he’d resorted to climbing through the back window a couple times to keep Bix’s parents from seeing him. He didn’t think the Chowneys would approve of Aran squatting in their old garage. Not that they ever used it, with the fancy new construction they’d built out front to house their grav-cars.
The metro stop was six blocks away. Aran hunched his shoulders against the February drizzle and let Bix babble on about how excited he was to go to SimCon. It was the first time their city had hosted the gaming convention, and the nerds and geeks were completely turbo.
“Can you believe VirtuMax is finally unveiling the FullD system?” Bix’s voice rose with enthusiasm. “It’s been years since they announced the project. I hope it’s as prime as they claim.”
“Me too.”
Despite the nonchalance he projected, Aran was excited—though not for the same reasons. He was burning to see VirtuMax unveil their long-delayed FullD system and try the immersive new game that came with it: Feyland. If he could get a head-start on cracking the programming, he’d be set. Make enough cash to move someplace where the sun actually shone in the winter.
Maybe he’d buy one of those old-style camping vans, figure out a way to install his gaming systems, and travel around, following the warmth and the cons.
But first, he had a game to hack.
“Spark Jaxley will be at the debut.” Bix grinned. “I hope we can get close enough to touch her.”
Practically every gamer in the world was in love with the celebrity simmer—guys and girls alike. She was cute, sure, but Aran would bet that most people never realized—the way he, as a true hacker, did—that her gaming skills were flawless.
Which probably meant she was a class A diva.
“You can ask her out,” Aran said as they headed down the dingy steps of the subway station. “Guy like you, how could she refuse?”
“Shut it,” Bix said. “At least we’ll get to see her play.”
In the stink and whoosh of the tunnels, Bix passed his wrist, with its embedded chip, over the gate scanner. Aran dumped a handful of grubby coins into the machine. If Bix weren’t with him, he would have jumped the gate, but he was playing it straight today. No thrill of eluding the security guys and dashing onto the train at the last second.
It was a quiet ride down to the convention center, though the train filled the closer they got. Half the passengers were dressed for a day at the office. The rest were obviously on their way to SimCon, flaunting their gamer garb and inner freaks. Aran concentrated on relaxing, sinking deeper into his character of regular-gamer-geek.
“Do you think the plan will work?” Bix asked as the train pulled into the downtown station.
“Of course.” Aran hoped.
They went along with the flow of people headed out of the station and toward the gleaming glass and steel complex housing the convention center. Once inside the main building, they were hit with the smell of industrial carpet and the babble of excited fans.
“Volunteers, over there.” Bix pointed at the sign, then cut across the crowd.
Aran followed, rubbing his thumb over the chip glued on the inside of his wrist. As long as no one took a close look, he’d pass.
“Slow down,” he said, tapping Bix’s shoulder.
“Sorry.”
Bix fell back, fidgeting with the edge of his coat. They joined the queue at the volunteer check-in table, and Aran pushed his friend ahead. Best to let the genuine guy go first. The lady in front of them was wearing sparkly wings. She had to take them off and let the security guard on duty inspect them to prove they weren’t wired as transmitters or something. Finally approved, she grabbed her badge with a loud snort of annoyance and stomped off, wings glittering.
Aran swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and nudged Bix forward. Show time.
CHAPTER TWO
Aran made himself breathe regularly, despite the sudden speeding of his heartbeat. It wasn’t as if he’d get arrested if this didn’t work—but he’d certainly be kicked to the curb. He didn’t have the cash for a ticket, and he wouldn’t pass any kind of background check. This was his only chance to get into SimCon.
The man at the volunteer check-in table was thin and pale, with a silver stud piercing his left eyebrow. He looked up at Bix with a disinterested expression.
“Name?”
“Bix Chowney. And my friend, Aran Cole.”
“Scan.”
Bix passed his wrist over the scanner, which chirped acknowledgement. The man at the table flipped through his alphabetized box, then handed Bix his volunteer badge. It was attached to a bright red lanyard with VirtuMax printed up and down the entire length, leaving no doubt about who was the biggest sponsor at SimCon.
“Here’s your registration packet. Gofer Central is down the hall. Next.”
With what he hoped was a casual expression, Aran passed his wrist over the scanner. The machine remained silent.
“Not again,” Aran said, putting frustration behind the words. “That’s the third time this week.”
He made a show of pulling back his cuff and inspecting hi
s wrist, letting the man at the table see the glint of the chip.
“Seriously?” Bix said. “I thought you had that replaced.”
He hit the right blend of exasperation and nerves, and Aran swallowed back a smile.
“Yeah, well, my mom’s been too busy.” Aran waved his arm over the scanner again, with the same lack of result.
“Spell your last name,” the man said in a bored voice.
Aran did, and kept himself from looking at Bix in triumph when the man gave him his badge and packet.
“Keep your badge visible at all times,” the man told them. “Both of you, head to Gofer Central. Down that hall, second door on the left. Next.” He looked past them, their names and features already forgotten.
Turning away from the table, Aran let a grin cross his face. That had gone more smoothly than he’d hoped.
“We did it! We got you in.” Bix was smiling like a fool.
“You were good back there,” Aran said. “Ever think of becoming an actor?”
“Not with pros like you showing how it’s done. I never would have guessed that was a fake ch—”
“Hey, don’t shout it to the whole con.”
Not that wearing a fake wrist-chip was illegal. People who couldn’t afford the real thing sometimes put on dud chips for show, but duping the authorities by pretending to be legitimate was a road to trouble. The longer Aran could avoid official notice, the better.
He had his badge now, which would give him access to almost everywhere in the conference. Gofers were the lowest level of con volunteer, and as a result nobody looked at them too closely.
Which was exactly how he wanted it.
Gofer Central was impossible to miss. The big hand-lettered sign was their first clue, along with the volunteers darting in and out of the room. Just inside the door stood a dark-haired girl wearing glasses and holding a tablet. Her badge read Matila—VC.
“Hi,” she said when Aran and Bix stepped over the threshold. “I’m Matila, the volunteer coordinator. Badges, please.”
They held them up and she scanned them with her tablet. A check mark appeared by their names.
“Welcome to SimCon, guys. Ever volunteered at a gaming convention before?”
“Nope,” Aran said, while Bix shook his head.
“Okay,” she said. “Check your packets—you’ll have specific duties assigned, based on the questionnaire you filled out when you applied to volunteer. Since this is the first time for both of you, the jobs will probably be boring, but hey, they’re a necessary part of keeping the con running. You’re expected to put your hours in every day. Other than that, have fun, try to get some sleep, and don’t forget to shower now and then.”
“Do we get shirts?” Bix asked.
“Over there.” The coordinator waved at a long table at one side of the room. “If you need anything else, let me know.”
“Thanks,” Aran said, as he and Bix headed into the controlled chaos of Gofer Central.
A dozen volunteers flurried through the room, all wearing the black and silver SimCon shirt, with volunteer blazoned across the back.
On the opposite side from the T-shirts, another long table held snacks and drinks, primarily of the salty, sugary, fatty, and caffeinated variety. The bulletin board beside it was plastered with signs and flyers and notes pertaining to every aspect of SimCon.
“Shirts first,” Aran said, steering them over to the table.
A blue-haired girl found their sizes and checked them off her list. “You can change in the bathroom next door,” she said, then winked at Aran. “Or right here in front of me. I don’t mind.”
Bix cleared his throat, and Aran jabbed him in the side with his elbow.
“Come on,” Aran said. “Two seconds of showing your manly chest isn’t going to scar you for life.”
“It might scar me, though,” a nearby volunteer called.
“Close your eyes, weenie,” the T-shirt girl said.
While she was distracted, Bix whipped off his shirt and donned the SimCon tee. Aran unbuttoned his “geeklet” shirt, aware he was gathering a few appreciative stares. For half a second he considered going into the other room, but it seemed a foolish waste of time. He was in good shape; not that he was planning to make a strip show of himself. With quick, efficient motions he changed, then bowed at the smattering of applause.
“Show off,” Bix said, with no hint of jealousy. “You have too many muscles. I should steal back that kung-fu game.”
“Like you ever played it.” Aran pulled his schedule out of his packet. “Where are you assigned?”
It would be a problem if he and Bix were working the same area, but otherwise he’d be able to finesse his way through. His most important goal here was to get as close as possible to a FullD system, and he was confident he would. Sometimes hacking life was easier than cracking game code.
Bix glanced at his schedule. “I’m checking badges at the main exhibition hall. You?”
“Doing set up in the theater,” Aran said.
His real assignment was helping calibrate projectors in the presentation rooms. He’d hit the theater first, then come up with some plausible excuse when he showed up late for his actual job.
“Sweet! Maybe you’ll see Spark Jaxley. Wanna trade?”
“I doubt I’ll see her. And you get to check out where all the best swag is in the Expo Hall. See you back here in two hours.”
“Right.” Bix tipped up his chin in farewell and went out the door.
Aran folded his map of the convention center and stuck it in his back pocket. He had the place memorized, down to the stairwells and fire exits. Even the janitorial closets. It was always good to know where to go for extra cover. He headed down the corridors to the theater, practicing his “I’m completely official here” stride.
A beefy security guard stood in front of the main theater doors, arms folded. Aran flashed his badge and papers at the man. “Tech support.”
Without a word, the guard let him in.
The theater smelled of anticipation, and a blend of hairspray and scorched dust from the hot stage lights. The house was dim, the stage illuminated by a spotlight and a screen glowing with the VirtuMax logo in silver and red. Aran paused behind the rows of empty seats and watched as three guys carried a FullD system to the center of the stage.
“Pull the spot a little more left,” a man at the front of the theater called. “Get that rig up front, guys.”
The beam hit the gaming system and it shone, chrome details and polished magenta fittings sparking under the spotlight. The sim chair seat was cushioned in black synth-leather, and even the cables leading out from the system looked high end; thick and substantial, in straight lines instead of the usual noodle of cords.
Time for him to get to work. Hovering too long in the shadows would make him look suspicious. Aran strode down the aisle, heading for the man he guessed was the stage manager.
“Hey,” he said. “They sent me to help with tech set-up.”
The man squinted at his badge. “Aran, is it? Know your way around sim equip?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve rebuilt and upgraded my Viper a dozen times.”
His system was fully overclocked at this point, modded into a machine capable of things the designers had never planned for. He’d put too many hours and too much cash into the system, but it had been worth it.
Now, though, the imminent release of the FullD changed everything. Bix would let him use the system he’d pre-ordered—and there were always the sim-cafes—but Aran couldn’t afford to wait until official launch day to start playing.
Having SimCon here, in his own town, made it easier to get the jump on finding the inevitable hacks and exploits in the programming. Whoever was first to market with the Feyland cheats would make a pile of money. Aran intended to be that person.
After that, well, he’d like to go clean. He’d wash the hacker slime off, brush up his honest gaming skills, and maybe even get good enough for the tournament cir
cuit.
“Right,” the stage manager said. “Talk to PJ over there—he’ll put you to work.”
Five minutes later, Aran was taping wires to the floor with black gaffer’s tape. He started back at the VGA/mixing board, shadowed in the wings. On hands and knees, he worked his way up to the gleaming sim-system. Sort of like a worshipper approaching a shrine, which was both true and ironic.
The rip of tape blended with the other sounds of set-up, oddly relaxing despite the jangle in his blood. This close to the system, he smelled the newness of it—fresh plas-metal and enamel paint, and all tempting. He laid the last piece of tape, then stood.
Damn, he wanted to try it out. Slowly, he ran his palm over the soft synth-leather of the chair. Envy coiled in the pit of his stomach, spiced with fierce yearning.
“Nice, isn’t it?” a clear, female voice said.
Aran jerked his hand back as if he’d been caught snitching candy. He looked up to see the famous, magenta-haired figure of Spark Jaxley striding onto stage. She was geared up in a suit straight from one of the sim games: molded and shiny, and showing off her curves.
Aran’s mouth went dry, and he was glad of his mixed heritage, the dusky skin that hid the flush he felt warming his cheeks. He’d laughed at Bix’s fanboy moments, but standing there, with the real live Spark Jaxley in front of him, Aran had to admit he understood the attraction.
Spark didn’t drop her smile, though a possessive jolt ran through her at the sight of the guy standing next to her FullD.
“Ah, yeah,” he said. “This is the first model I’ve seen in person. It’s prime.”
She kept walking, coming right into his personal space, close enough to read his badge. He didn’t back off, just gave her a half smile in return. His eyes were slightly tilted, as if one of his parents was Asian, and he was good looking, despite the clunky black glasses obscuring half his face.
“I can’t wait to see you play,” he said.
There was the usual admiration in his voice—she was tired of being adored by people who didn’t even know her—but there was sincerity, too. He really did want to see her show off the system.