Fantasy in Death

  She rose, paced, then gave in and rapped a fist smartly on the closed door.

  It took a moment. Did he do that on purpose? Make her wait? Then the light flipped green, and the door opened.

  “I need to use the holo-room,” she said. “I need a game that approximates what Bart might have been into at the time of the murder. I need you to set it up and go through it with me.”

  “All right. I’ll meet you there.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a couple of swords, of the nonlethal variety.”

  “Everything in the weapons room is authentic, so no. You’ll have to make do with holo-weapons.”

  “Okay.” She tried to think of something else, then simply shrugged and started to the holo-room.

  Roarke’s was bigger than the one in Bart’s apartment—big surprise, she thought sourly. It probably met or exceeded the specs of anything Roarke had in any of his R&D operations.

  But the size didn’t matter.

  A holo-reconstruct of a murder that took place during a holo-game would give her a better feel, she hoped, for what had happened. What often led to why and why to who.

  She walked around the large, empty space, listening to her own footsteps echo. She wasn’t much for games, not really. Training exercises, now, that was different, and she found the holo-room handy there.

  More than once Roarke had used it to take her somewhere fantastic—a rainy night in Paris, a drifting boat on an empty sea. Romantic, seductive—well, the holo was handy there, too, though at the moment she doubted either of them felt particularly romantic.

  He came in with a disc. “You’re still wearing your weapon.”

  She’d forgotten, and now stripped off the harness to lay it and the weapon by the door.

  “You wanted something close to U-Play’s Fantastical. We’ve been dissecting what we have of it in EDD, but I don’t have the data or components here. It seemed . . . a gray area to bring any of that home to continue the work here.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But I have our most current version of our game—no title as titles can leak. It’s Program HC84-K.”

  “You have that at home? Isn’t that shaky security?”

  “First, someone would have to know it’s here, then get through house security, into my private office, and find the vault, get through that security, then get through the passcodes and fail-safes on the disc. If they managed all that, they’re likely good enough to have developed this themselves.”

  He slid it into a slot as he spoke, used both palm plate and retinal scan, added a voice command and several manual ones.

  “In any case,” he continued, “it’s something I’ve been fine-tuning myself, and I prefer to do that here. So . . .”

  He stepped back, studied her. “You want sword play, but you don’t know the era, the setting, the mode, or the goal. We haven’t managed to get anything off the disc Bart used to give you any of that. You’ll have to pick.”

  “I don’t know. Sword fight. Not foils,” she added. “Broad blade. Strong, straight.”

  “Broadsword.” He tilted his head, smiled a little.

  “Don’t put me in some dumbass girl costume.” She jabbed a finger at him. “I mean it. I’m not doing this half naked for your perverted amusement.”

  “A shame, but fair enough. Let’s try a few.” He went manual again, she suspected to keep his little game a secret until she was sucked in.

  The air shimmered, wavered, and in a moment she found herself standing in a shadowy forest—and dressed in some sort of ancient Asian garb. She had a sword in her hand and soft boots on her feet.

  “When and where are . . .”

  She broke off, eyes huge. While her thoughts were in English, her voice had come out in what she thought was Japanese.

  “How the hell—”

  “Translator feature. Adds to the realism,” he said in the same language. “It’s just slightly out of loop. We’re working on that.”

  “I . . . No, it’s too weird. I don’t want to speak Japanese.”

  “All right, let’s try another.”

  With barely a shimmer this time, she stood on a green hill, her hair long and tied back. She wore, as Roarke did, some sort of leather top that hit mid-thigh and snug pants that slid into the tops of boots.

  She hesitated, then gave it another try. “Okay, now where . . . Gaelic. It’s Gaelic, isn’t it? I get the accent.”

  “Ireland, Tudor era.”

  “It . . . it smells green, and there’s a hint of something earthy, smoky.”

  “Peat fires. All the sensory features have been enhanced. In the real world scenarios, the language, the syntax, the clothing, well, every detail’s been meticulously researched and replicated. There are any number of fantasy options already programmed in, or the players can program their own, either from an option menu or by going manual. There’s no limit.”

  “Okay, frosty, because I’m hearing you speak Gaelic, but I’m processing English. Did Fantastical have this?”

  “I don’t know, but tend to doubt it from the data we have, from their setup at the warehouse. We’ll offer a cheaper version without the translator, but I project the translator feature—which will be steep—will be a main selling point. And there’s the added educational aspect.”

  “Sure. Educational.” She tipped her head. “I hear . . .” She turned on the hill, and let out a stunned breath. A battle raged in the valley below. Hundreds of warriors, horses, fires. She was pretty sure she was watching a castle being sacked.

  “More scope than I’ve seen in holo before, more range. It’s more like being in a vid. A really well-produced vid.”

  “That’s only limited by your skill and imagination. The program will adjust, follow your choices, your strategy.”

  “How do you stop it?”

  “By simply telling the program to halt, pause, or change. In a multiplayer game, doing so would cost that player points or result in disqualification.”

  “Yeah?” She turned back to him and didn’t he look amazing with all that black hair blowing in the wind, in that scarred leather and with a bright sword in his hand. “I won’t be calling time-out.” She lifted her sword. “Let’s play.”

  8

  She set, planting her feet as she struck out. She heard the ring and clash as steel met steel, felt the force of it sing up her arm.

  They eyed each other over the deadly vee.

  “I take it you’ve fancied we’re enemies.”

  “More fun that way,” she said, and spun back to return with another thrust.

  He blocked, then worked her back a few paces. “That would depend.” He feinted, struck right, right again, then left. She repelled, a kind of testing denial before thrusting forward to force him back.

  He swept up, under her guard, but she danced aside, then whirled, using the rotation to add speed and strength to the next attack.

  “You’ve been practicing,” he commented while their blades whistled and sang.

  “You, too.”

  “Part of my job.” His blade clashed and shimmered against hers. “But you don’t see many cops in sword fights.”

  “You never know.”

  She knew him, knew he held back a bit. Knew he was amused by the situation, and that gave her an advantage. Using it, she smiled at him. “Sword’s got weight.” She gripped the hilt in both hands as if to test it, and when he lowered his sword a fraction, charged in.

  She caught his shoulder, just a quick bite before he slapped her blade aside.

  And she saw blood well.

  “Oh Jesus. Oh shit. I cut you. How—”

  “It’s not real.” He held up a hand before she could rush forward. They both knew he could have taken her down, ended the game in that moment of shock. “Just part of the program.” He inclined his head. “Your point, Lieutenant.”

  “It could’ve happened that way. Something like that. Come on.” She used her free hand, wiggling her fingers in challenge. “Keep it
going.”

  “It’s your game. And I’d say that’s enough of a warm-up.”

  He came in hard, driving her back. She nearly lost her footing, felt the rush of displaced air and adrenaline as his blade whooshed by her face.

  This time when she gripped the hilt in both hands it was to gain the power necessary to repulse the attack.

  She felt the sting, could have sworn she smelled her own blood, when he scored a glancing blow on her hip.

  “Your point.”

  They circled each other while in the valley below the battle raged on. Her sword arm ached from the weight, the effort, her hip throbbed, and sweat coated her skin. She could hear her own breath, wheezing a little now, and see the blood staining the torn leather on Roarke’s shoulder.

  She was having the time of her life.

  She lifted the sword high over her head, point toward her opponent, and once again planted her feet. “Tie breaker.”

  He smiled at her, baited her with a crook of his finger. Though her eyes narrowed she wasn’t so easily caught. She pivoted, spun, met his thrust with a downward arc, then swiped up and barely missed that compelling face.

  Sun eked through the clouds, shone on the biting blades as they whizzed, hacked, clashed. Her heart thundered in her chest, a drumbeat of battle pounding in the blood.

  The wind and his own rapid movements had his hair dancing around a face damp with sweat. She thought his eyes brighter, bolder than the blades.

  He gave no quarter; she wanted none. Thrust, strike, attack. Thrust, strike, defend. As they matched power against power, speed against guile, she felt the thrill of battle against a perfectly matched opponent.

  Once more their swords crossed, held. They stared at each other, breath labored, sweat dripping.

  “Screw the game,” he said.

  “Oh yeah.”

  They tossed their swords aside and leaped at each other.

  They rolled over the thick, coarse grass, mouths meeting, clashing as their blades had. Breathless, desperate, she gripped his hair, used her teeth. Her breath came short and harsh as she tugged and yanked at leather.

  “How the hell do you get this off ?”

  “How the devil do I know?”

  “It’s your game.”

  “Bloody hell.” He rolled her over, shoved her facedown in the grass to attack the laces. “Bastard’s knotted like steel.” Inspired, he yanked the dagger from his belt and sliced them free. He flung the dagger point down in the grass.

  Lowering to her, he gave himself the pleasure of her naked back, the lean length of it, the play of muscle under hot, smooth skin. When his hand passed over the wound in her hip, she flinched.

  “How’s the hip?”

  “Hurts—just enough to let me know I took a hit.” She flipped over, reared up, pulling the dagger out of the ground. “Shoulder?”

  “I’ll live.”

  She smiled. “Better hold still or I’ll win by default.” She sliced the dagger down the leather. Her eyes on his, she turned the blade. “Trust me?”

  He gripped her wrist, shoved her arm down until her fingers opened on the hilt. “No.”

  With a laugh, she pulled him down to her.

  His mouth warred with hers, quick bites, sliding tongues while their bodies, slick with sweat, stained with blood, moved over the rough grass.

  Smoke plumed from the valley below, and on its edges echoed the endless combat. It seemed apt, she thought. No matter how in tune she and Roarke might be, there was always another battle brewing under the calm.

  And always with it, always this need to take, to consume, to have, to be. Even now, in the midst of this violent fantasy, she wanted nothing more than his hands on her, then his body mated with hers.

  She rolled again, straddled him. His hands closed possessively over her breasts before he pushed up so his mouth could do the same.

  She tasted of the fight—hot, damp, hints of leather, and under his hungry mouth her heart thundered. For him. As her body trembled—all that strength, all that will trembling. For him. That was his miracle, his greatest treasure.

  “Mine,” he said. “My heart.” And he felt the new thrill of hearing her answer him in the language of his blood. His hands tangled in her hair, the long, wild tumble of it—another new and oddly seductive sensation.

  He overbalanced, taking her down to her back with the swords crossed just above her head. Now when he thrust, when she cried out, it was only in pleasure.

  Power met power again, and with it speed while the new battle raged. When she closed around him, when she shuddered through her release, she dragged him with her through the violence, and into the peace.

  She lay faceup, the wind washing over her, the determined beams of sun pulsing red against her closed eyes. The grass, all those rough tufts, made her skin twitch—but it didn’t seem like a good enough reason to move. Particularly since Roarke lay beside her, nearly in the same position.

  The clanging of her heart in her ears had slowed and quieted enough so she could hear the continuing war in the valley below them. Apparently, the hillside had come to a truce.

  “Who won?” she asked.

  “Let’s call it a draw.”

  Seemed fair enough. “I guess we’re still a little pissed at each other.”

  “I thought it was aggravated.”

  “Same thing. But between the fighting and the sex, I worked most of mine off.”

  “Then we’ll call that a draw, too.”

  What was the point in arguing about it? she asked herself. They’d just start it all up again, and nothing would change what he did, who he was. Nothing would change what she did, who she was.

  Sometimes that middle ground between them was narrow and slippery. The trick was figuring out how to navigate it.

  “It’s a good game,” she told him. “Realistic, compelling, involving.”

  “We barely touched the surface.”

  “This.” She touched a hand to her hip, examined the smear on her palm. It looked like blood, felt like it, smelled like it.

  “Illusion. It involves sensory enhancement, the scan of your vitals, your physicality, the motions, reactions.”

  “What if you cut off a limb—or a head.”

  “End of game. Or in multiplayer, end for the player who lost the limb or head.”

  “I mean, would you actually feel it, see it?”

  “Not the human players. If you were playing the comp, a fantasy figure, and got that kind of hit on it, you’d see it.”

  “What about a droid?”

  “Well, you could program it to play against a droid. Same results. The droid is solid. Therefore, the game would treat it as it would a human. The weapons aren’t real, Eve. They can’t harm anyone.”

  “Which is what the vic would have assumed, whether he played against a human, a droid, or a fantasy character. Just a game. But it wasn’t.” She continued to study the blood on her palm. “I felt the hit—not like a cut, not like you’d just sliced me with a sword—”

  “I’d hardly have done so if you would have.”

  “But I got a jolt. Like an electric shock. Mild, but strong enough to let me know I’d taken a hit. And it throbbed—when we fought. I was fighting wounded.”

  “Which would be the point.”

  “I get that. I get it. But the vic had those burns. Up the voltage, you’d get burns.”

  “Not without direct contact. The game reads the hit, registers it, transmits it.”

  “Okay, but if somebody reprogrammed the game, and used an actual weapon.” She sat up, pushed her hair back—surprised and disconcerted by the length of it.

  “It’s different. Your hair.” His gaze ran over it. “Interesting.”

  “It gets in the way.”

  When he smiled, she ran a long, loose lock between her fingers. “It feels real. If I tug it, I feel it, even though it’s not really there. My weapon’s over there. I can’t see it, but it’s there. It’s real. So if his killer brough
t it in—like I did—oh yeah, forgot. Sets it down in a specific place. He’s only got to remember where it is, pick it up, use it. But why do all that? Why go through the motions of the game first?”

  “More sporting?”

  “Maybe. Maybe. The bruises, the burns. If the game was sabotaged ahead of time, the levels bumped up beyond what they could be for code, for sale, that ups the competitive level, too, doesn’t it? And if the killer used a droid, he wouldn’t have to be here. Alibis, none of them would matter with that angle. Talk Bart into testing the game at home with a droid.”

  “The droid would have to be sabotaged as well, or built and programmed off code. The weapon would register as real, as lethal, so it would have to be programmed either not to register the weapon as lethal, or to discount it. Then to clean up and reset the security. Some of that would involve computer use, and that should have alerted CompuGuard.”

  “You could do it.”

  “Yes, I could do it. But I have unregistered equipment and the privacy to do the work without sending out flags. EDD combed the warehouse. There’s no unregistered equipment there. And none in Bart’s apartment.”

  “Which only means, potentially, someone else had a copy of the disc, and worked on it off-site. You know this whole thing is showy. Showoffy,” she added and started to rise.

  And remembered she was naked, and her illusionary clothes torn and bloody. “Ah, let’s shut this down.”

  “If we must. Game end.”

  The hillside vanished, the sounds of war faded away. She watched the blood on her palm do the same. She picked up her shirt, studied the ragged tear down the back.

  “There was no dagger,” Roarke explained. “So essentially I tore the shirt you actually had on to remove the tunic you didn’t.”

  “Different cause, different method, same result. That’s what we’ve got here. Somehow. A mix of illusion and reality combined to murder.” She held up the ruined shirt. “Essentially someone did this to Bart Minnock.”

  In the morning, because there seemed to be no point not to, she compared the results of her level three to Roarke’s.

  “There’s nothing here that sends up any flags, not on this investigation.”