Gameprey nfe-11

by Tom Clancy

  “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it,” Matt said.

  “The autocab I got was on the blink.” Andy shifted the backpack and the two suitcases he carried. “Something was wrong with the GPS system, and I ended up in an argument with the dispatcher over the amount.”

  “You?” Matt asked with wry humor. “In an argument? Say it isn’t so.” Andy had a reputation as class clown and as a bulldog for fighting for what he thought was right.

  “Hey, it was a legitimate complaint. And I won.”

  The passengers continued filing through the gantry. Matt held his ticket out and stepped inside.

  “Full flight,” Andy commented.

  “The airline overbooked the flight. A few minutes ago they were offering free tickets to anyone willing to reschedule.”

  “If they’d offered part of the ticket money back,” Andy said, “I might have been interested. I had to ask my mom for a loan to cover this trip, and you know how I hate owing her money.” His father had been killed during the South African Conflict in 2014, only a few months after Andy had been born. He’d been raised in a single-parent household, and things hadn’t always been easy. His mom operated her own veterinary clinic in Alexandria, Virginia, and Andy worked there to make extra money.

  “I know. This trip put a big dent in my savings. When it comes time for a summer job this year, I’m not going to be able to be choosy about what it is. But with everything going on in L.A., I’d rather be there than here.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” Andy glanced around the crowd as they continued moving slowly forward.

  Matt led the way onto the plane, nodding a brief hello to the young flight attendant.

  “Where are we?” Andy asked.

  Matt peered through the crowd ahead of them. Men and women filled the overhead compartments rapidly. “Row twenty-three, seats D and E.”

  Gradually the crowd thinned as people took their seats. Unfortunately, row 23, seats D and E were also occupied.

  Matt looked at the two men in the seats, taking in the suits and the external Net hookups. Commercial class received links to the Net during the flight, but it was basically a mechanical access that allowed the users to handle phone calls, e-mail, and fact gathering from databases. Information was relayed over the laptop screens like flatfilm.

  “Excuse me,” Matt said politely.

  The man on the outside edge looked up, then looked around. “Me?”

  “Yes.” Matt nodded. “I think there’s been some mistake. I’m supposed to be in seat twenty-three D.”

  “The mistake’s yours, kid,” the businessman said. “This is my seat.”

  Andy nudged around Matt. “No. You’ve got our seats. The flight was overbooked.”

  The man looked away and shook his head. “That’s not my problem.”

  Shooting the man a withering glare, Andy made a snort of disgust. “Look, my friend and I booked these seats weeks ago. Unless you can ante up and beat that, I suggest you look for another seat to steal.”

  “Stand down,” Matt said quietly, in a tone Captain Winters might have used. “Let’s see if we can get this figured out.” He glanced back and caught the young flight attendant’s eye. “We need some help.”

  The flight attendant made her way down the aisle. “How can I help you?”

  Matt quickly explained about the ticket mix-up. “We’ve really got to make this flight.”

  “Tough break,” the businessman. “But what you’re doing can’t be nearly as important as the merger I’m helping negotiate today.”

  Looking down at the man, Andy said, “I’ve got a HoloNet flash for you, buddy. If you don’t get out of that seat, the only merger you’re going to be negotiating today is my foot and your—”

  Matt started to take a step toward Andy and separate him from the man. Andy didn’t have much patience on a good day, and almost no fear at all of any physical confrontation. He went from class clown to bouncer in a nanosecond.

  “Excuse me,” a smooth voice interrupted. “Maybe I can help.”

  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 a
re 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 whit
ened, 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.