Walter Williams - This Is Not a Game

Dagmar looked down at Austin in the parking lot and felt herself fill with despair.

Her fingers trembled, but she managed 911 on the third try.

That is so cool, thought Andy. I wonder how they knew I was looking.

Andy-better known by his online handle Joe Clever-was in his James Bond van parked in a strip mall across the highway from AvN Soft and Great Big Idea. The van was a new idea-he’d bought a used Dodge and equipped it for surveillance, with cameras hidden behind two-way-mirror windows, a satellite uplink, a cooler for the Mountain Dew and Red Bull he drank during the course of his researches, and a camp bed for when the caffeine finally wore off. He was divided on the notion of adding a chemical toilet-it would smell, but it meant he didn’t have to abandon his researches to haunt the rest rooms at Starbucks or Burger King.

He’d equipped the van with a number of plastic placards that he could stick to the door with built-in magnets. The current one told observers that the van belonged to Andy’s Electronic Service.

He was considering getting himself a surveillance drone, like those used by the police, highway patrol, and traffic reporters. They were cheap enough to make-just a big model plane with an onboard camera controllable from the ground. He didn’t need one of the fancy ones with the miniturbines.

Maybe, he’d thought, he could mount a launch rail on top of the van.

Andy had been using his Big Ears, bouncing a laser off the boardroom window at Great Big Idea, to listen to Dagmar’s meeting with her team. The reception had been wretched-the van was too far away, on the far side of the highway-and the air-conditioning must have been blowing right onto the window glass, because the sound was horribly distorted. Yet he had caught a few names that were probably characters who would be introduced into the game, and a few interesting phrases like “the cold-data store under the gantry at Mars Port,” which would be a place to pick up a clue if he only knew when it would be there.

He’d have to make sure that Consuelo-his new handle, chosen for this game-would be in the online world of Planet Nine, and at Mars Port under the gantry, at the right time.

If only he’d managed to hear which gantry.

It was while listening to the wild distortions on his Big Ears that he’d first caught sight of the motorcyclist. He was passing up and down the frontage road slowly, keeping an eye on the AvN Soft building the entire way. Andy had watched the rider take note of the CCTV camera above the entrance to the AvN parking lot, and he wondered if the rider had also seen the camera on the front door.

Andy assumed that he had a rival. He wasn’t pleased by this prospect; he very much preferred to be the only Dumpster diver on any game. But the driver seemed a little ill-equipped for espionage. The Kawasaki was nice, but it wasn’t even an anonymous SUV, let alone the spy van that Andy had assembled for himself.

The cyclist had eventually parked himself in the Chili’s parking lot out of sight of any cameras. When he took off his helmet to smoke a cigarette, Andy got out the Pentax and the big zoom lens. The rider was an impressive figure: in his twenties, tall, thick-necked, with big ears and reddish blond hair styled in a flattop. He wore gleaming-new riding leathers and clunky, thick-soled boots, and he looked like an actor playing a heavy.

Which wasn’t necessarily unusual: L.A. was full of underemployed actors. Sometimes, if you ate in restaurants, everyone on the wait staff seemed to be giving auditions.

As Andy took a series of pictures of his rival through the mirrored glass in the van’s rear doors, he reached the conclusion that he’d never seen the man before. A player this dedicated, you’d think Andy would have seen him at a few live events.

Andy noticed that the rider didn’t throw away his cigarette butt, but instead pinched it out and put it in his pocket.

When someone left the AvN Soft building, Andy tracked his camera to the new arrival and lost sight of the cyclist. He recognized Austin Katanyan, whom he knew as one of Charlie Ruff’s business associates who was unconnected with the game business, and when he swung the camera back to the Kawasaki, it was already moving.

The Pentax could take video as well as still pictures, and when he saw the motorcycle slowing down as if the rider wanted to talk to Austin, Andy thumbed the video button and reached for the Big Ears.

And then, to Andy’s utter delight, the rider pulled out a pistol and shot Austin dead. Andy kept the Pentax on the motorcycle until after it had left the parking lot and rocketed away down the frontage road, and then tracked back to where Austin Katanyan had dropped behind a row of cars. Apparently Austin was still there, because the receptionist had just run out of the building and crouched down by the body. Or the “body,” since obviously the assassination was a part of Motel Room Blues.

Whoever was playing the receptionist was a pretty good actress. That wild, distraught look was very convincing.

“This,” Andy said out loud, “is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen! ”

He got busy. He powered up the satellite uplink and uploaded the video onto Video Us. He then logged on to Our Reality Network and posted a link to the video, and then uploaded the still pictures of the assassin to a new topic called “Who Is This Man? ”

It was only when the ambulance arrived and the police began to swarm the area that Andy began to wonder if perhaps he’d made a mistake.

“I talked to Austin ’s mother this morning,” Charlie said. “The Red Cross came up with their phone number.”

His voice was raw with lack of sleep and hours of talking to the police.

“I’d never spoken to her in my life,” he said, “and I don’t think she has the slightest idea who I was, but I had to tell her that her son had been killed. And then as soon as I’d gotten through that conversation, the father called. Because the mother told him and he didn’t believe her. Or me. I only know that he was really pissed off and kept yelling. He didn’t believe me until I gave him Detective Murdoch’s phone number, and maybe not even then.”

Charlie lay back in his office chair, drawn eyes gazing sightlessly at the plush Pinky and the Brain dolls sitting atop his monitor. The tasteful functionality of his spacious office-huge desk, computer, monitor, and huge video displays-provided a contrast with their owner. Dense stubble coated Charlie’s cheeks and chin, and great sweat patches bloomed beneath the arms of his pastel shirt. The police had been present till after eleven at night, and after that, Charlie had been too busy to leave.

He both looked and smelled as if he’d slept on his office couch, which he had. At midmorning he’d sent his secretary out to buy some new clothes, and there were showers in the exercise room, which he’d use as soon as he had something to change into.

Dagmar did not possess an assistant who would buy clothes for her. She needed to do a laundry and was wearing yesterday’s clothes. She’d thought she’d at least had clean underwear, but apparently she’d miscounted.

“Have you heard anything from the police,” Dagmar asked, “about who did it and why? ”

“The police,” said Charlie, “do not confide in me. But I overheard some of them talking to Murdoch-they said they didn’t get the call early enough to track the killer with their camera drones, so nobody knows who he is or where the hell he went. We looked at the security cams and found out that the one on the door didn’t see anything, and the one at the parking lot entrance saw only the top of the guy’s helmet-so the police are fucking out of luck.”