by Mike Ashley
ACCESS DENIED.
Nervy of it. Oh well. He tried a “4,” then a “3” and a “2.” Same result in each case. Finally he settled for a “1.”
RANDOM DEATH. YOUR OPPONENT IS:
There was a ten-second pause before the name “JEFFREY HIGHPORT” appeared. Then, SELECT THREE WEAPONS, followed by a menu of about two dozen choices.
Billy was going to like this game. There was no accompanying instructional booklet. Therefore he had no idea of how the weapons had to be used or what his opponent was armed with. That was a neat touch. He’d have to feel his way along, learn by doing.
He selected “Impenetrable Umbrella,” “Evasive Action,” and “Heat-Sensitive Laser.” One offensive weapon, one defensive, one that could go either way. A good mix.
OPPONENT HAS INGESTED A MIND-ALTERING CHEMICAL THAT GIVES GREAT DETERMINATION BUT DIMINISHED MOTOR ABILITY. HIS VEHICLE IS PURSUING AT A HIGH RATE OF SPEED AND WILL IMPACT YOU IN X SECONDS. YOUR RESPONSE:
An elementary trap, unworthy of Billy’s abilities. The Umbrella would be something they’d let him use only once, otherwise he could hide behind it indefinitely and the game would stalemate. If he activated it too early, his opponent would likely just go around it and his defenses would be seriously compromised. The trick would be to set the Umbrella at a time when the pursuing vehicle’s momentum would carry it to destruction. For now, just slow it up.
He typed: “Heat-Sensitive Laser.”
x = 30. VEHICLE PARTIALLY DISABLED, IMPACT IN X SECONDS. SINGLE TRAJECTORY MISSILE LAUNCHED. YOUR RESPONSE:
So far, so good: 30 seconds would have been plenty of time to avoid the Umbrella. He’d scored a hit with the laser, and his opponent’s coordination was impaired because of the drug. Assuming they’d started with roughly equal weaponry, it was time to seize the advantage.
“None.”
x = 35. MISSILE WIDE OF TARGET. VEHICLE SELF-REPAIRING. IMPACT IN X SECONDS. YOUR RESPONSE:
Billy had him now. The self-repair feature would have been a defensive weapon. The guy would probably have only one more. It was time to suck him in for the kill.
“Evasive Action.”
x = 10. VEHICLE IGNITING AFTERBURNER. IMPACT IN X SECONDS. YOUR RESPONSE:
Since there was no way of telling whether they were operating on clock time, Billy punched in his response immediately.
“Impenetrable Umbrella.”
x = 3. IMPACT, VEHICLE DESTROYED. OPPONENT NEUTRALIZED. YOU WIN, BILLY SAMPSON.
And then the screen went blank. No return to the original menu, no further instructions, nothing. Billy tried every technique he could think of, but was unable to coax a response from the machine. He even turned the PC off and started from scratch. Still nothing.
What the hell? This wasn’t fair. It was an interesting game, sure. But he hadn’t paid $59.95 for something that conked out at Level 1. By the time he went to bed. Billy had composed in his mind a very nasty letter to the people at Personal Computer Odysseys.
The second disk arrived the following day. It was waiting when he got home from school.
So the game was played on sequential diskettes. Very interesting. Perhaps the last one would reactivate the first, so that someone else could play. That would be O.K.
He put the game away. He’d play it later. Build up his anticipation first.
After dinner his father said, “Billy, can I talk to you seriously for a couple of minutes?”
“Sure, Dad.”
Here it came again. How he was wasting his time with that silly computer, how his schoolwork was suffering etc. He’d learned to let it in one ear and out the other without really listening.
They settled themselves in the living room.
“Now Son,” his father began, “in a couple of months, you’ll be getting your driver’s license. I guess you know what a responsibility that’s going to be.”
“I sure do, Dad.” This didn’t look so bad after all.
“Billy, I don’t know if you drink. Do you drink, Son?”
“I have a beer now and then. You know, with the guys.”
“Well, thank you for being honest. I don’t condemn it, of course. I like the occasional cocktail myself, as you will have observed. But there’s one thing I’d like you to promise me.”
“What’s that, Dad?”
“Your mother and I have talked it over. We’d like you to promise that, after you get your license, if you’ve ever had one beer too many, you’ll call us. And we’ll come bring you home. It doesn’t matter what time it is. Just call before you drive. We’d rather you got us out of bed than take the chance of . . . well, of something like this.”
Billy’s father handed him the afternoon paper. On the front page was a three-column photo. The crumpled remains of an unidentifiable car.
“Such a young fella, too,” Billy’s father said. “Just a year older than yourself. Will you promise us, Son?”
“Sure, Dad. No problem.” He didn’t drink that much, anyway.
“Thank you. We appreciate it.”
Billy gave the story accompanying the photo a quick scan: “Jeffrey Highport, 17, of Crozet, was killed yesterday evening when he lost control of his vehicle and struck a concrete bridge abutment on Interstate 64, Police said the youth was returning home from a party in Charlottesville at which there had been some drinking, although it was not immediately . . .”
Then he stopped and looked again at the name. He stared at it. Jeffrey Highport.
Very slowly, he set the newspaper down on the sofa. His mouth was suddenly dry. He ran his tongue over his lips.
“What is it, Son?” his father asked.
“Uh, that’s a terrible story, Dad. You won’t have to worry about that with me. No, uh, not me.”
Billy got up, went to his room, and closed the door.
No.
It was a coincidence. It had to be. There was no way . . .
For an hour he sat on his bed, turning the new floppy disk over and over in his hand, wondering what to do. It was a coincidence. Those kinds of things happened all the time. Guy goes fishing, catches a big bass, opens it up, and there’s the wedding ring he dropped in the lake twenty years earlier. It happens.
No, it doesn’t. Not like this. There was only one explanation. Billy Sampson had somehow caused the death of a local teenager he’d never even met. It was insane, but there it was. Jeffrey was indisputably dead.
He thought about it some more, slowly realized that he was wrong. There was another possibility. That was that Jeffrey had always been going to die. He had always been going to be drinking, his car had always been going to crash, on that specific day. And what the game had done was to open a window somewhere that gave Billy a fleeting glimpse of the future.
In that case he bore no responsibility. Except to try to use what he had discovered for some positive purpose.
There was only one thing to do, of course, despite all of the agonizing. Not one person in a thousand would have done any differently. He booted up the PC and activated the new diskette.
WELCOME BACK, MR. SAMPSON. DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE THE GAME OF MAGICAL DEATH?
He hit “Return.”
The familiar menu appeared. Billy felt that he now understood the rules, but he tried “1,” “3,” “4,” and “5” anyway. Unsurprisingly, access was denied. The game was consistent. He entered a “2.”
MULTIPLE DEATH. YOUR OPPONENTS ARE:
Pause.
ROBERT ARCHER, BELINDA ARCHER, SALLY ARCHER, COOKIE ARCHER. SELECT FOUR WEAPONS.
The menu was entirely different this round. Billy examined it, searching for a pattern. The first time, he’d selected casually and had won with his play. As he moved to higher levels, the game was apt to be less forgiving. He’d need more than proper timing; appropriate firepower would be essential.
He made his choice.
OPPONENTS ARE BARRICADED IN FORTRESS PREPARING POISON GAS. GAS IS IRRESISTIBLE WHEN COMPLETED. YOU HAVE 15 MINUTES. YOUR RESPONSE:
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This time he was expected to make the first move. He thought about it. After ten minutes he decided that they’d figure him to be setting up a diversion. So he fired his best shot first.
“Fire Arrow.”
OPPONENT FAILED TO RAISE PROTECTIVE SHUTTERS IN TIME. FORTRESS ON FIRE. SPRINKLERS ACTIVATED. YOUR RESPONSE:
“Horse.”
OPPONENT ATTACK WITH CROSSBOW INEFFECTIVE. POISON GAS EXPLOSION BEFORE FIRE EXTINGUISHED. FORTRESS DESTROYED. YOUR RESPONSE:
That should have been it. The gas had blown up, he was at a safe distance, it ought to be over. What was wrong?
Of course. He typed quickly.
“Armor.”
Assuming the gas itself wasn’t counted, the opponents had used three of their four weapons. Leaving them one. That wouldn’t matter unless there was someone to use it.
SURVIVING ARCHER’S SPEAR NEUTRALIZED BY ARMOR. YOUR RESPONSE:
“Hand Ax.”
ALL OPPONENTS NEUTRALIZED. YOU WIN, BILLY SAMPSON.
The screen went blank. This time, Billy didn’t attempt to revive it. He went to bed, where he tossed and turned, succumbing to nightmares whenever he drifted off.
The third diskette showed up on Saturday. Billy had spent the previous two days in bed in his room, dreading its arrival. He’d gone home sick from school the day he heard about the Archer family. They had lived in the Belmont section of town, Robert and Belinda and their two daughters. Robert worked for the phone company. The night Billy was playing Level 2 of the game, the gas main in the Archers’s house ruptured. Enough gas eventually accumulated that the stove’s pilot light ignited it. Three members of the family burned to death in their home. The fourth, Sally, was the older sister, and her bedroom was farthest from the site of the explosion. She jumped from her second-story window before the flames got to her. When she landed, she pitched forward and hit her head on a stone. The blow split her skull and killed her.
At seven in the evening, Billy’s father came into his room.
“Son,” he said, “I know how poorly you’ve been feeling, but do you think you could get along without your mother and me for a couple of hours? There’s this durn cocktail party. At David’s over on High Street. And, well, it’s important to the business that we be there. Think you’ll be O.K.?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“Thanks. I’ll make it up to you.”
In truth, Billy wasn’t unhappy that his parents were going out. He couldn’t tell them what was happening. They’d immediately phone the university clinic and make an appointment with the head of Psychiatry. Despite being sick with fear, Billy knew that he would proceed to Level 3. It was probably best done alone.
WE MEET AGAIN, MR. SAMPSON, the screen said this time. ARE YOU SURE YOU WISH TO CONTINUE WITH THE GAME OF MAGICAL DEATH?
Billy hesitated, but only for a moment, before firmly striking the “Return” key. Then he entered “3.” This time there was no pause by the machine.
INTERPERSONAL DEATH. YOU ARE DEFENDING: MR. AND MRS. WILLIAM SAMPSON. SELECT TWO WEAPONS.
Oh God. They’d changed the rules on him. And he could make only two choices out of twenty-four.
The sweat ran off him. Was he in real time and was the clock running? He couldn’t guess. He studied the menu, his brain a maze of rapidly shifting deductive-logic circuits.
Then he had it. It was simple. This time he had one big advantage. He knew where his parents were. Given that, there weren’t so many possibilities. Or were there? Car wreck, poisoned canapes, acts of God? No. He’d stick with his original conclusion. He chose.
DEFENDANTS ARE ACCOSTED BY GANG OF STREET TOUGHS ARMED WITH KNIVES. YOUR RESPONSE:
Piece of cake. The game was forcing him to make the initial response for the second time in a row, but he’d anticipated that as well as the nature of the threat. One weapon was all he really needed. He typed the words without hesitation.
“Black and white.”
STREET TOUGHS DISPERSED BY POLICE CRUISER. DEFENDANTS UNHARMED. YOU WIN, BILLY SAMPSON.
Blank screen.
Billy chucked the diskette into the wastebasket. He was finished being sick, too. He was on top of things now. The best.
Half an hour later he had to endure his parents’ recounting of their harrowing experience. He feigned wide-eyed interest and profound relief that they’d come through it all unscathed. That night he slept like the dead.
The fourth diskette came with the next mail. Billy was ready for it. The game was a challenge once again. He raced through dinner, even eating his salad, then hurried to his room.
“My son, the computer genius,” Billy’s father said sarcastically to his mother. “No time for us common folk.”
But by then Billy was staring at the latest screen.
DO YOU WISH TO ENGAGE ME IN THE GAME OF MAGICAL DEATH, MR. SAMPSON?
He hit “Return,” then spent a long time contemplating the Level menu. Level 4 was “Creator Death.” What did that mean? Surely he wasn’t gaming with God. The Creator of the game, then? That must be it. The message had said: “Do you wish to engage me . . .”
And what could the outcome be? His own life wouldn’t be on the line; Personal Death was level 5. If it was the Creator’s life, what would happen if that were lost? Was it the end of the game?
Billy considered typing in “Abort.” But he just wasn’t sure what would happen then. It might mean that he’d never be allowed to play again. And in spite of everything, he didn’t want the game to end. He punched “4.”
CREATOR DEATH. SELECT 6 WEAPONS.
That was it. No indication of who was fighting whom for what. The menu was the usual length, but six selections meant that some very complex action sequences were possible. Billy chose carefully, hoping to mislead the game as to his intentions. When he finished, the machine typed, YOUR RESPONSE:
All right, that was fair. If the Creator was indeed fighting for its life, it deserved to be able to maximize its chances. So it was making the first move, but demanding that Billy respond before he knew what that move was.
Billy reasoned that in his first move at the two previous levels, he’d taken his best shot. The game might thus reason that he’d try to trick it by doing that a third time. But then it would reason that he knew that and would keep his good stuff in reserve. Finally, at this level of complexity, it would have to assume that Billy would double back once more and end up where he’d started, taking the big step after all. Primary defense would thus be activated at once. So Billy used one of his lesser weapons.
“Air Strike.”
AIRCRAFT DESTROYED BY HEAT SEEKING MISSILES. YOUR RESPONSE:
He’d been wrong. The game had precisely anticipated his first move, using neither more nor less than it needed to counter. It would now attack, thinking that Billy wouldn’t expect so logical a move.
“Land Mines.”
ASSAULT TANKS LOST IN MINEFIELD. YOUR RESPONSE:
They were neck and neck. This was the moment, Billy knew. He knew it suddenly and with perfect clarity. He knew that the game was going to make a secondary move of some kind. It was time to blast away. He passed up “Indestructible Shield” and typed: “10-Megaton Thermonuclear Device.”
ELECTROMAGNETIC SCATTERING INSUFFICIENT DETERRENT TO THERMONUCLEAR BOMB. COMMAND HQ DESTROYED. YOU WIN, BILLY SAMPSON. THANK YOU FOR PLAYING THE GAME. GOOD-BYE AND GOOD LUCK.
Once again the blank screen.
He’d done it.
The story was on the front page of the afternoon paper. An earthquake had rocked Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula. A savage one. Homer had been particularly hard hit. Much of it was now rubble. There was no telling how many lives had been lost, or what the true extent of property damage was.
Billy was stunned. He knew without doubt who one of the casualties was. The Creator had been playing for keeps.
Yet, even more surprising was the arrival of the fifth diskette in the afternoon mail. Billy hadn’t expected that. He’d thought that if the Creator lost
at Level 4, there would never be a Level 5.
Now he was looking at the Level menu. It had come up without an opening message. It was either “5” or “Abort.” There were no other choices left.
“Personal Death.” What did that mean? His death? Or the death of some unknown number of persons. How would the battle be fought? If he won, was there a reward? There must be. The stakes were too high to think otherwise. What could be worth his life? The permanent gift of future sight? The screen offered no help.
His finger hovered over the key-board. Life or death? Life and death? Whose? It dropped onto the “5.”
The message came up.
AN INCURABLE PLAGUE THREATENS ALL HUMAN LIFE ON THE PLANET, NO TREATMENT POSSIBLE. The message faded. EITHER “A” OR “B” NEUTRALIZES THE THREAT AND SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETES THE GAME. Fade. ENTER “A” OR “B” TO TERMINATE THE GAME. YOUR RESPONSE:
A fifty-fifty chance. No clues.
Billy Sampson began to scream. He screamed and screamed and could not stop. He stared at the message and screamed.
Billy’s father rushed into the room, grabbed Billy around the shoulders, shook him.
“Son,” he said, “what is it? What is it?”
Billy continued to scream.
Billy’s father looked at the computer screen.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, and punched “A.”
Along the Carenage, in the city of St. George’s, Grenada, an island nation occupied by foreign powers, the first child, a girl, age seven, went into convulsions.
Tom Holt
I’ve written so many introductions to new stories by the ever reliable Tom Holt (b. 1961) in my anthologies over the last decade that I can’t think of anything new to say. For that matter the author of over thirty books from Lucia in Wartime (1985) to In Your Dreams (2004) hardly needs any introduction.
I ARRIVE AT THE docks half an hour late. How anyone is supposed to know this escapes me, because there is no clock in the dockyards; in fact, there aren’t any clocks in the whole of Ap’Escatoy, apart from the one-handed old wreck in the bell-tower, which stopped twenty-seven years ago and hasn’t run since. But the way everyone looks at me tells me, with absolute precision, that I’m late, and that my default has been noticed.