Gameprey (2000)

by Clancy, Tom - Net Force Explorers 11

  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?”
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br />   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.

  9

  By the time Maj reached the Eisenhower booth, the crowd was already a dozen deep.

  Without fanfare, a young man in a crisp white suit, white turtleneck instead of a shirt and tie, stepped up onto the nearest table and faced the crowd. Immediately the holos around the Eisenhower booth altered, carrying the image of the young man.

  He was clean-shaven and athletic looking, no more than twenty or twenty-one. His black hair was worn long enough to hold the hint of
curls. A little-boy smile turned his lips, and he looked at the crowd as if amazed. “I didn’t expect this.” His amplified voice filled the nearby convention area. He looked up at the hidden speakers. “Or that.”

  The crowd laughed.

  The young man gazed out at them, his sea-green eyes filled with obvious wonderment. “In fact, I didn’t expect any of this.” He cleared his throat. “My name is Peter Griffen, and I want to introduce you to my game.”

  Maj studied Peter, trying to imagine him on the back of a dragon. It wasn’t hard at all.

  Time passed in a whirling maelstrom of cleaving blades, hoarse shouts of pain, and thudding horses’ hooves. Matt didn’t know how much time actually passed, but it couldn’t have been more than a handful of minutes. He felt winded, bone-tired, but the uploaded reflexes kept him in the game.

  The Burgundian line broke, shattered into pockets.

  Joan of Arc rode to the top of a nearby hill. “Sound the retreat,” she ordered in a loud voice. The man at her side unlimbered a horn and blew the notes.

  Immediately the defenders broke from the conflict, riding their flagging mounts toward the town.

  Matt took a moment to watch, seeing the two groups disengage as the Burgundian commander tried to get control over his men. Then he put spurs to his horse and rode after the retreating warriors. Dust coated his lips and the inside of his mouth, making it hard to swallow. His teeth ground grit and his lungs burned.

  The defenders wound through the trees and scrub brush, staying with the dirt road that led to Compiègne. The incline grew steeper as they neared the town.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Matt saw that the Burgundians had recovered more quickly than he’d thought they would. Dozens of dead and wounded from both sides lay under dust clouds in their wake. The drawbridge was set into the high town wall. Even as he watched, another wave of arrows sped from the wall, looking like long, skinny birds with folded wings.