J. Robb - Fantasy in Death

“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.”

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.”