by Tom Clancy
"You're in my world now," Alan Slaney replied. "And you should be honored that I chose you."
"You've gone off the deep end, Slaney." That was definitely Joe Brodsky speaking, not the polished Graf von Esbach. "I'm out of here."
He concentrated for a moment, obviously giving computer orders. Then his eyes went wide. "You-" Slaney raised his hand again, but von Esbach/Brodsky proved remarkably spry, dropping to hug the ground as the lightning bolt crackled over him.
"There will be no leave-takings," Alan's voice took on a deeper, more oracular tone. "You entered this world through my portal. And you will embark on a new existence here."
Megan was scarcely listening. She was busy trying to bail out of this sim-and the program kept coming back "permission denied."
"We're not on the Net!" P. J.'s voice was a hoarse whisper in her ear.
Those couches in the salle-they must have been hooked up to a stand-alone system, Megan thought. "It really is Alan's world. We're stuck in here-"
She looked down at the blackened form of Colonel Vojak.
And Walt Jaeckel might really be dead!
Megan wanted to recoil in horror as Alan stretched out a pleading hand to her. "Why do you shrink back from me? Don't you realize the boon I offer you? You'll be my queen."
"But you'll be our god, is that it?" She had to force the first words past a dry throat. But the more she spoke, the angrier she became.
"I've created a place where you'll never age. Remember what Burton-who was a fencer as well as a poet- wrote in the Kasidah. 'Hardly we learn to wield the blade before the wrist grows stiff and cold.' That will never happen with us."
"As long as no one pulls the plug on the computers where you're playing out this fantasy," she shot back.
The expression on Slaney's face didn't change, but the air seemed to get about ten degrees colder. No, there was a change. Faintly, then stronger and stronger, radiance began streaming from Alan's face, from his hands-it even seemed to seep through his clothes from the skin beneath, turning the heavy gray garments to a glowing white.
"You called me a god, foolish woman," Slaney said in a rolling voice. "In the bounds of this universe, that's true enough. Let all kneel to me!"
All around them the surviving nonrole-playing characters fell to their knees. The players with free will glanced at each other-and then the silence was shattered by the crash of a pair of matched Colts.
The heavy slugs from P. J.'s pistols didn't even seem to disturb the folds of Alan's clothing. Megan wasn't sure if they were disintegrated on contact, or if they just passed through.
"Damn," P. J. said as his guns ran empty, "I knew I should have sprung for some silver bullets."
The rage on Slaney's glowing face was a fearsome thing to see. He turned on P. J., both arms raised.
"Those sweat stains don't help the godlike image," Megan called, edging back toward the stairs.
Slaney halted in mid-gesture, peering under his arms.
"Made ya look!" Megan called over her shoulder.
She'd already grabbed P. J. by the arm as she plunged down the stairs.
From the way he was sagging, David should have fallen from the windowsill. But he seemed to be caught somehow. He was gasping in pain, scratching fruitlessly at something in the darkness. "My leg!" he said hoarsely. "Caught my leg!"
Leif dashed over, intent on helping his friend. But when he tried to reach through the window, his hand encountered a rough, splintery barrier. He pushed against it gently, and David almost toppled over on top of him.
The other boy cried out again in pain when Leif reached out with both hands to grab him. "It hit me again."
"Hang on to my shoulder," Leif ordered. More carefully this time, he pushed at the invisible barrier.
No, not invisible. Just well camouflaged. It was a huge sheet of plywood, larger than the window opening and painted black. The bottom gave when he pushed against it, but there was more resistance the higher Leif reached.
"Nasty," he muttered. Then he said to David. "You want to get in or out?"
"Out-unless you know what just slammed into me," David replied.
"It's a deadfall-a simple but very effective mantrap," Leif said. "Just a big-ass sheet of three-quarter-inch ply- board with a couple of hinges along the top end. Pull the free end up until it's parallel with the floor, prop it up with a piece of black-painted two by four, and the trap is set. The whole thing is invisible in the dark. When you started coming through the window, you banged into the prop, which fell. Then the sheet swung down, to smash into you."
" 'Smash' is right," David groaned. "Now I know how the fly feels when the swatter comes swooping down."
"So?" Leif repeated. "Out or in?"
David leaned heavily on his shoulder for a moment, silent in thought. "In," he Anally said. "Can't get any worse. And it's not as though I'll be able to run for it if things do get worse."
"Brace yourself against me," Leif warned. He pushed against the hinged sheet of plywood, loosening it from David's leg. "If I keep holding this out of your way, can you swing your other leg up and around?"
"I can try," David said.
It was a slow, painful business, but David managed to turn round on the window ledge and slide down inside. Leif could hear the hiss of pain as his friend shook up his injured leg on landing.
Some of the pressure against Leif's hands suddenly lessened. "I've got it from down here." David said. "Do you have enough space to get in?"
Leif succeeded in squeezing through-at the cost of a couple of splinter-scratches. Once inside he and David let the deadfall swing flat against the wall. As Leif knelt over him, David leaned back against the wall. "Go on," he whispered. "I'll be no help-except for calling in the backup."
"Backup?" Leif echoed stupidly.
"Trying to get into this building may not be the most legal thing I've ever done," David said grimly. "But death traps aren't legal either, dammit. This is a case for the cops-and Net Force. I think Captain Winters will listen when I tell him where I am and what just happened to me."
Leif could hear his friend fumbling in the darkness. "I've got my wallet-phone," David reported. "And the captain's number is programmed in. Leif-go! Right now you're the only one who can keep Slaney from doing something stupid!"
That thought hit Leif almost as hard as the deadfall had hit David. He scrambled up in desperate haste, then forced himself to move slowly, deliberately. He pulled out a small pocket flashlight, checking for trip wires or other unpleasant surprises Slaney might have set up along the way.
He was lucky, or maybe the deadfall hadn't been Slaney's brainstorm. Anyway, Leif made it into the hallway without further incident. He walked down a hall and a flight of stairs. To his left, shadows deepened into the large open space that was the salle. Across the way was a closed door-but he could see a strip of light underneath.
Leif crept across the corridor and tested the knob. Unlocked. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the knob and threw the door open. He almost recoiled at the sheer bizarreness of the sight inside. Nine of the computer- link training couches were occupied. Eight of the occupants seemed to be under some sort of terrible tension-they twitched and jerked as if they were fighting to regain consciousness-but failing.
The tenth couch had just about been gutted. Circuitry and wiring had been pulled out from under the upholstery-and attached to Alan Slaney.
The handsome young man had taken off his shirt. Electrical leads had been taped to various points around his torso, to his neck, and to his head. The spots he'd shaved in his hair gave him a particularly unnerving appearance. He looked like the villain of a low-budget horror-holo, just escaped from electroshock therapy.
"It's over, Slaney," Leif told him, coming forward. "I know what's going on. Net Force is on its way-"
Slaney seemed only half-aware of him. Alan flung out his empty hand as if he were hurling something at Leif. When nothing happened, then Alan began to pay more attention.
"Keep back," he slurred. "Can't stop me." Lurching to the wall, he yanked one of a pair of crossed swords from its place.
That was not a fencing blade, but the real thing. Leif recognized an Austrian dueling saber when he saw one. He stopped his advance, casting a quick glance to the wall at his right. A pair of straight-bladed sabers hung there as decoration. Leif darted over, pulling one free.
The sword made a solid weight in his hand. Wilkinson steel, an old cavalry blade.
Alan brought up his saber in the en garde position. "Allezr he called, mocking Leif with the starting command from his disastrous duel against the French master.
But Alan didn't take the prissy position of the French saber school. He took the in-your-face stance of a Spanish sabreur, hand on hip-and point aimed right at Leif's eyes.
Leif stayed with the more modern Hungarian guard- offensive-defensive-but his fist, too, rested on his hip. His point kept moving, evading any attempt Alan made to establish contact between their blades.
Sneering, Alan put his own point out. Leif smashed his blade against his opponent's, trying to beat Alan's blade out of line and get a cut at his wrist. Twice, and then a third time, Leif pressed this attack, forcing Alan to take a couple of steps away to put his point back in position.
Finally Slaney got annoyed. He parried, throwing a cut to Leif's face.
Now Leif had to shift quickly to the defensive.
This isn't like that virtual duel I had back in Latvinia. Alan isn't going for a wounding cut to show me who is boss, Leif thought. He's going for a slice to the face or throat that will end this little duel-permanently.
But Leif had learned a few new tricks, thanks to his Latvinian adventures. He parried Alan's blade and threw the attack back at him.
Alan made a circular parry on the right side of his body and lashed back with a cut to the top of the head. Leif brought his point up, to deflect the head cut, then slashed backward, managing to land a slice on Alan's sword arm.
Not enough to stop him, Leif quickly realized. But maybe I can goad him into a mistake.
"First blood," he said with a smile.
Alan surged forward furiously, only to be brought up like a dog pulling against a leash. The wires attached to his body kept him tethered to the computer-link couch.
"Damn you!" Alan shouted. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you all!"
Megan nearly broke her virtual neck tumbling down the stone stairs with P. J. in tow. But their painful-if unorthodox-exit threw off Alan's aim with the thunderbolt. Still, as she sprawled on the floor below, Megan knew she had little chance of dodging the next blast.
But Alan didn't throw one. Instead, he flung himself to the side, nearly scaring the fertilizer out of poor Sergei, who stumbled back as Alan pawed at the empty air. Slaney paid no attention to the Russian boy. Instead, he swung away, assuming the en garde position-except he had no sword.
He perfectly pantomimed a series of feints, followed by a retreat and a ferocious attack. Megan and P. J. rose warily to their feet as the macabre exhibition went on.
Then Alan flinched, and a splotch of red appeared against the radiance of his garments, as if…
"He's been pinked!" Megan yelled in disbelief. "He's fighting somebody out there in the real world, and he's programmed his system to mirror real world movement and appearance!"
But Megan's outburst had an unintended side effect.
Alan's distracted eyes suddenly regained their focus on the virtual world as he hurtled toward the top of the stairs. "Damn you! Til kill you!" he shrieked. 'Til kill you all!"
Was that aimed at me? Leif wondered. Or is it aimed at the people trapped in veeyar? What if he tries to dis- corporate them now? He thought their fight had kept Alan from concentrating on his horrible project. Now he had to make sure he kept up that distraction.
He threw himself forward, making a feinting attack, a high cut at Alan's left cheek. When Slaney responded with a parry, Leif went in low, wrapping as many wires as he could catch around his blade as if they were so many strands of spaghetti. With a twist of his wrist, he tore the electrodes free of Alan's body.
Inside Alan's veeyar kingdom the trapped players were nearly hammered to their knees by Alan Slaney's scream. Megan forced herself to look at him. Leprous gray spots appeared in the would-be god's shining glory. Skittering, formless blobs of energy flew off from his body, seemingly at random.
One of them hit a nonrole-playing character, frying him where he cowered. The real people in the sim milled in confusion. Alan was between them and the stairway- their only exit from this floor. Blobs of death flew all around them, but they were more afraid of trying to get past Slaney and perhaps calling his attention to them than they were of the flying energy.
P. J. grabbed Megan's arm-hard. "Now would be a good time to come up with some brilliant programming," he said. "Looks like he's weakened and distracted. If you could maybe crack his system-"
"I'll try," she said dubiously. "Do me a favor-if you can, make sure I don't get zapped while Fm wrestling with the computer."
She closed her eyes, calling up every computer command she'd ever heard of, trying to see just how much control she could wrest from the system….
The good news, Leif hoped, was that right now Alan couldn't go through with his insane plan to disembody himself and the people trapped on the computer-link couches.
The bad news was that Alan, one of the best fencers anybody had ever seen, was frothing-at-the-mouth mad- and now he was free to come after Leif, sword in hand. Slaney launched a set of multiple moulinets, his blade lashing back and forth around Leif's body, the sword whistling as if it were hungry for blood.
All Leif could do was retreat, frantically parrying, trying to get out of the way of Alan's slashing attack.
Alan's next move really surprised him. Instead of a slash, Slaney tried a thrust. Leif's parry was an instant too slow. Steel slithered against steel as Alan's blade rode along Leif's, almost deflected away… almost. The tip dug in just below Leif's left shoulder joint, where the pectoral muscles help hold the arm in place.
Leif staggered back. Must have caught in my shirt, he thought. Then came the pain… and the warm, trickling sensation along his arm. Good hit, he thought grimly. A bleeder.
Worse, he had absolutely no way to stop the flow of blood at this moment. Leif's left hand couldn't reach the wound. Just trying to move his arm sent a red-hot spike of pain through his shoulder. His arm hung uselessly at his side. And if he stopped long enough to try and to stem the flow with his sword hand, he'd be dead.
Leif knew he couldn't last much longer. That wasn't just blood he was losing. His speed and strength were draining away in the crimson tide. It was just a question of what would happen first-whether he'd faint or get caught against the wall that loomed perilously close behind him. Either way, Alan was going to kill him.
Wheezing, trying not to scream with the pain of the movement, Leif managed to tuck his left hand into the waist of his jeans. His shirtsleeve was already sodden, and he could feel the wet stain spreading across his chest.
Alan was tiring, too, after his burst of manic energy. He drew back on guard, his blade down and slightly to the side-a direct invitation for Leif to return the favor with a lunge of his own.
It was tempting-a chance to attack, maybe Leif's last. But that would be playing Alan's game. And the consequences, Leif was sure, would be fatal.
He slammed into action, running on pure adrenalin and muscle memory. Leif started with a modern move- pure Hungarian saber technique. Crossing over in front of his opponent, he stepped in, beat Slaney's blade down, and then flung himself into a running attack. But it wasn't a fleche. Rather, it was the ancient fencing move that preceded the lunge-the passata.
As he flashed past Slaney, Leif recovered from smashing down on Alan's saber, bringing his own blade up and around, swinging from the wrist.
The stroke caught Alan in the throat, a deep slice ending under the hinge of his jaw. Alan turned,
staring at Leif, clapping a hand to his neck.
It was already too late. That slash had opened the carotid artery. Blood spurted from between Alan's fingers. His swing round turned into a spiral fall as he dropped lifeless to the floor.
Leif staggered as his adrenalin rush faded. He could see Slaney lying there, one spot in focus while the rest of the world blurred and darkened. His saber suddenly seemed too heavy for his fingers to hold. It clattered to the floor. Then Leif's knees began to give way.
Hope David gets help here quickly, he thought as he dropped. I'll feel really stupid if I managed to stop this guy, only to bleed to death….
Megan struggled to consciousness, her body quivering from exhaustion. The struggle to defeat Alan's crazy programming left her feeling as through she had literally wrung out her brain. She forced herself up on the computer couch with a shaky arm, fearing she'd have to confront the mad genius.
Instead, she found Alan lying facedown in a rapidly growing red pool. Blood, it looked like. And beyond him, toppling like a chopped-down tree, was Leif Anderson.
It took her overstrained brain a moment to connect the bloodstained saber falling from Leif's hand with the body on the floor. Then she saw the horrible red splotch smearing half of Leif's shirt as he fell.
Leif wondered if he were hallucinating when Megan suddenly appeared, grabbing him with quivering hands. "You fought Alan to save me," she said, sounding as woozy as Leif felt. "You-you-"
Abruptly she seemed to snap into focus, becoming the Megan he knew only too well. "You idiotr she yelled at him. "I knew you never liked Alan-" "With good reason," he panted.
Megan paid no attention. "So you insist on playing with swords, and getting stuckTestosterone poisoning.
As she spoke, she managed to pull Leif into a sitting position-surprisingly gently. "Coming here alone-"
"Didn't," Leif replied. "David's with me. He got hurt in the office."
Megan glared at him as she tore at his shirt, revealing the wound. "You got David hurt, too?"