Chapter 10
The night lights of Manhattan played tricks on Markman's tired eyes as he stared through the oval window on the aging seven-sixty-seven. An endless pattern of yellow-white dots blanketed the darkened landscape. The big plane lumbered sluggishly and unexpectedly to the left as it chased the invisible radio wave that pointed it to the green lights bordering the destination runway. There was the dull thud of big tires on a hardened surface and the hesitant whine of reversing jet engines as the fragile nose gear settled. In only a few short hours, Markman had become an unheralded participant of the Big City.
A rental car had already been reserved, a new Lincoln Towncar. David Julian was apparently quite successful as an arms merchant. The glamorous rental agent pushed at her flowing blond hair and provided directions to the Ambassador Hotel without having been asked. She smiled a narrow, pink-lipstick smile that was friendlier than necessary. Markman returned one encumbered by fatigue.
The late-evening city was dressed in neon and fluorescence. Electric make-up hid the dark corners and less desirable niches that were all too familiar. Markman knew the dirty, out-of-the-way places were there in the shadows, visited by the dealers of darkness. They were always close by, ready to bite if the right, unsuspecting prey happened along.
At the hotel, a sharply-cut desk clerk with black, slicked-back hair was enthusiastically helpful, despite the lateness of the hour. He waved his manicured hand and directed a uniformed bellhop with instructions that were completely unnecessary, and the bellhop responded by nodding eagerly as though he were hearing them for the very first time.
The hotel room was too large and too sterile. Picture windows looked down over the city, and up at a few of the lavish towers of the corporate warlords. Soft lights displayed fine architecture and modish decor. Markman dropped his leather jacket on a polished wooden chair by the door and headed for the center of the spacious living area, where a large, inviting, snow-white sofa encircled a round, glass coffee table atop thick, white carpet. Door chimes interrupted him.
At the front door, a hotel clerk stood waiting with a push-cart bearing champagne.
"Complimentary, from the house," The man gave an artificial smile. He pushed his cargo inside the room and paused uncomfortably. Markman made the tip and was rid of him. Champagne was of little interest, but there was a card by the ice holder. Inside it, large, gold, italic printing scrawled, ‘Welcome,' across the right-hand page. On the left there was a handwritten note in aqua-blue ink, handwriting he recognized.
Scott, Sleep quickly. Tomorrow you must win the Virtual Death. And, by the way, wear a suit. You'll find them in the master closet. Personally, I prefer the deep blue. –Rogers
Finally, he made it to the soft, cloudlike expanse of couch. He dropped the card on the glass top and collapsed into the embrace of smooth, white pillows. From the corner of the one eye not buried in softness, he could make out the interior of the card as it lay open on the crystal table. The handwritten note had vanished. ‘Welcome,' now stood alone. Too tired to be impressed, he slipped quickly into a merciful sleep.
Morning was marked by the same impersonal chime that had brought the wasted champagne the night before. Complimentary breakfast for one. Small portions of everything possible. Markman showered and begrudgingly put on the blue suit, finding it somewhat unnerving that it fit so well. There was no place for a belt on the trousers; no hanger for the Glock's belt holster. But, the small two-shot fit deeply into the right-hand pocket. Several ties hung on a rack in the walk-in closet, and there they remained.
The taxi ride to the convention center revealed a city very different from that of the previous evening. Throngs of people moved hurriedly along in every direction, crossing where they should not, reading papers as they did so. Protected species, thought Markman. Packed traffic moved with excruciating tedium, like a daily evacuation from a business district disaster, one that never ended. Fortunately, the gruff-looking driver knew all the tricks, sections of sidewalk actually intended for cars, parking garages that allowed him to skip payment because he was only planning to exit at the other end, and narrow alleyways where the importance of the garbage pickup schedule was finely understood. With mastered artistry, the driver carved his way through the persistent flow of neurotic civilization.
At the convention center, there was no wait. A simple display of fake driver's license compared against a long list of alphabetically arranged computer printouts confirmed the reservation for Mr. David Julian. Markman pushed open one of the large, swinging doors at the entrance and was enveloped by voluminous crowd noise in a place that dazzled him.
The hall was immense and crowded with people and displays. It was at least as big as a football field, and the high ceiling was covered with advertising banners. Through the crowd to the far right, several people were fencing competitively. This was not a firearms convention as he had first thought, but rather a weapons consortium of major proportions. Every possible tool created by man either to offend or defend was represented with great diversity, blades; knives; short swords; long swords; samurai, Excalibur replicas, razor-edged, polished steel that had been folded and heated hundreds of times to produce a tone, hardness, and strength that was supernatural. There were grips of every imaginable style: steel-wound, pearl, precious stone, shielded, cuffed, all produced in polished beauty by artists of deliberate eccentricity.
Somewhere beyond the room's center, over the heads of the crowd, Markman could just make out a portion of a twirling staff. It whirred like an airplane blade, moving and banking at the hands of some unseen martial artist. For Markman, this was like the best amusement park imaginable, for he had been raised as a weapons master in a land where such things were considered a necessity to life, and an art form of the heart.
There was something else, a tension in the air. There were other true masters here. Like an animal's instinct to danger, he could sense them. They were individuals to be encountered carefully. They would control the area around themselves, and two together could conflict, unless there was mutual respect, or unless they were of the Tao. Then harmony only.
Markman moved among the exhibits, absorbing the different weapon styles and the way they reflected the personality of their makers. At occasional exhibits, a wrinkled old craftsman standing behind his creations would stare at him with surprise, having recognized the knowledge behind the young, deep eyes. The Zen-men, Markman's youthful nickname for the wiser elders. There were two kinds of masters after all: the ones who had mastered their weapon or skill, and those who had mastered themselves.
Markman worked his way through the crowd toward the center of the hall where a long line had formed. There the target objective stood waiting to be beaten. It was an odd-looking amusement; a circular section of slightly raised floor six feet in diameter with a blue and green plastic fence-like structure around it that seemed to include an antenna array. Large advertising letters were embedded into it. They read, "VIRTUAL DEATH 3D". A pretty, middle-aged, blond lady wearing a short-skirted suit that made her look like a flight attendant was opening a small gate to allow one person at a time inside to play. A blue and black contoured helmet was carefully fitted over the participant's head. Video displays were mounted within obtuse protrusions at the face.
The right hand of the current player was guided to an odd-looking gun. The device was small, dull green, and shaped like a mini-machine gun. A large overhead video screen located just outside the combat area was pointed down at the waiting spectators so that they could see what the player saw, though in a less exotic two-dimensional display. The entire line of waiting hopefuls stood gawking upward as the next game commenced.
Oddly, there were as many adults in line as there were younger people, and as Markman maneuvered his way through the human traffic, the reason became apparent. A large sign mounted to the right of the game area offered a substantial reward to the player eighteen years or older who, at the end of the day, had survived the longest i
n the land of the virtual. For those of younger age, the top twenty would receive expensive leather jackets embellished in such a way as to brag for the wearer and advertise for the company.
The overhead monitor screen flashed to life. The large, elegantly-printed word, "VIRTUAL,” glimmered then slowly faded. The computer image of a large, circular, tan-colored room panned into view. Blue, waist-high blocks were scattered around it, amid dark columns that reached upward to the artificial ceiling. The player's computer hand, arm, and weapon were visible in the foreground. The game began
Within the electronic fence the inept teenage boy began to shift left and right, bracing for attack. It came quickly. To his left, an alien, brown computer figure emerged from behind a column and fired its weapon. A narrow beam of blue light drew a hot line across the imaginary room, barely missing the poorly-prepared player. He jerked around awkwardly and returned fire, missing his assailant badly. The aggressor's second shot caught him in the right shoulder, causing a burst of brilliant light to blind the display and a warning message to appear in the bottom right-hand corner. As the picture returned, a third shot was already incoming. The player jumped vainly on the platform and was struck in the chest. The vision of the virtual room disappeared into a flash of light, and this time did not return. Instead, a consolatory message scrolled down the display, suggesting the player try again later.
Markman got in line.
The scoring of the players varied as widely as their ages. Some very young children were uninhibitedly fast, while many adults were eliminated in under ten seconds. The record stood firm at three minutes, twenty seconds--set earlier by an athletic type named Richard Baker, a man in his early twenties. Few people were able to approach anywhere near that time. After each game, the names of the ten best players scrolled down the screen as the next victim was helmeted for battle. Baker's name appeared no less than three times on the list. Markman looked around the area, guessing that Mr. Baker was somewhere nearby, carefully watching over his one-thousand-dollar score.
It was a forty-five-minute wait. Finally, the demure attendant gave Markman her practiced smile and opened the electronic gate for him. He stepped up onto the thinly carpeted platform and thought himself into relaxation as the helmet was fitted over his head and the real world went dark. A soft hissing sound came from speakers within, and gentle jets of cool air circulated from behind his head. The plastic weapon was placed in his right hand. It felt slightly awkward but balanced well enough.
A split second later the world became unreal. The computer-generated room that had become so familiar during the long wait was now quite different. It had exotic depth, feel, and color. There was an undeniable feeling of being a real part of it. The three-dimensional effect was too good not to believe. It was a reality in itself, artificial or not. Stereo room noise now came over the speakers. A message illuminated the bottom right-hand corner of his field of vision--words that seemed to hang in the air. They read, "COUNTDOWN, 3...2...1..."
The virtual scene came sharply to life. A faint click echoed from the right-hand side of the cartoon-like room. Markman, poised and ready, spun in that direction but held his fire. One of the alien forms stepped into the open to attack. Markman squeezed off his first shot, and the figure fell backward. More unidentified sounds came from the left, but there was nothing. Abruptly two more shooters jumped up on the right. Markman's rapid fire beam hit both at chest height. Not waiting for them to fall, he spun back to the left, expecting a crossfire, but the next attack was frontal. He jerked the unfamiliar weapon around firing as he did so. The first shot struck a computer player in the left shoulder, the second and third in the empty face.
The game was in full swing. There was no time to think. It was react or die the virtual death. It was the way Markman worked best. An unusual two or three seconds passed without assault, a pause intended to leave the player off-balance. Then the next wave began, more fiercely than the last. Several targets burst into view. Markman had to fire continuously. The attack pattern was broken, the first figures to appear were not necessarily the first to fire. Markman was hit in the shoulder but blindly eliminated the attacking computer player before the impact flash had subsided. The exchange of electronic gunfire became a barrage, a continuous action of movement and penalty. Markman was hit twice more before finally being beaten by a three-way crossfire in which he eliminated only two of the aggressors.
Messages of colorful congratulations appeared in 3D on the helmet's display. The effort had earned a place among the top ten, fourth highest. A moment later, hands were unlatching the lightweight helmet, and the attendant's surprised expression came into view, as it was lifted off.
"Fabulous sir, just fabulous," she exclaimed. She placed the equipment on its holder by the electronic fence and picked up a small device that looked like a hand-held calculator.
"Could I have your name please, sir, for entry into the system?"
"Julian, David Julian."
"Congratulations, Mr. Julian. Could we have your address and occupation? We'd like to mail you updates on our products if you don't mind."
"Not at all," said Markman, and with the help of his false billfold, he provided everything she asked for. As he stepped down from the platform, a nine-year-old near the front of the line patted his arm and said, "Great score, mister. Really great."
All along the line the young ones peered at him with exalted admiration, while most of the adults furrowed their brows in disdain.
Markman, got back in line.
Three hours and twenty minutes later, Markman hit the virtual stratosphere. He had adapted to the new environment and its peculiar ways. When the time score was displayed on the monitor screens it showed a duration of four minutes, thirty-seven seconds. David Julian now held the number one spot.
As the helmet was removed, a loud chorus of applause and whistling broke out within the convention hall. A substantial crowd had formed around the game area as word of a new record being set had quickly spread. Markman flushed with embarrassment at the unexpected notoriety. The astounded lady attendant now required the address at which he was currently staying. "In case your record holds, and I'm sure it will," was her pedantic reasoning. He stepped down from the platform and abruptly ran into the only unpleasant face in the crowd, Mr. Richard Baker. The former record holder put his hands on his hips and shook his head in disbelief.
"I don't believe it," was all he said, and he turned and headed for the end of the line.
Markman stayed until closing time, as did his record. Try as he may, the unseated Mr. Baker was not able to repeat his own best time, much less beat Markman's. The satiated crowd in the convention center emptied into the New York night, dispersing into the city that never slept; finding their way to the places they kept and were kept in, their lairs within the concrete jungle.
Chapter 11