Spark

by Anthea Sharp

  They went along with the flow of people headed out of the station and toward the gleaming glass and steel complex housing the convention center. Once inside the main building, they were hit with the smell of industrial carpet and the babble of excited fans.

  “Volunteers, over there.” Bix pointed at the sign, then cut across the crowd.

  Aran followed, rubbing his thumb over the chip glued on the inside of his wrist. As long as no one took a close look, he’d pass.

  “Slow down,” he said, tapping Bix’s shoulder.

  “Sorry.”

  Bix fell back, fidgeting with the edge of his coat. They joined the queue at the volunteer check-in table, and Aran pushed his friend ahead. Best to let the genuine guy go first. The lady in front of them was wearing sparkly wings. She had to take them off and let the security guard on duty inspect them to prove they weren’t wired as transmitters or something. Finally approved, she grabbed her badge with a loud snort of annoyance and stomped off, wings glittering.

  Aran swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and nudged Bix forward. Show time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Aran made himself breathe regularly, despite the sudden speeding of his heartbeat. It wasn’t as if he’d get arrested if this didn’t work—but he’d certainly be kicked to the curb. He didn’t have the cash for a ticket, and he wouldn’t pass any kind of background check. This was his only chance to get into SimCon.

  The man at the volunteer check-in table was thin and pale, with a silver stud piercing his left eyebrow. He looked up at Bix with a disinterested expression.

  “Name?”

  “Bix Chowney. And my friend, Aran Cole.”

  “Scan.”

  Bix passed his wrist over the scanner, which chirped acknowledgement. The man at the table flipped through his alphabetized box, then handed Bix his volunteer badge. It was attached to a bright red lanyard with VirtuMax printed up and down the entire length, leaving no doubt about who was the biggest sponsor at SimCon.

  “Here’s your registration packet. Gofer Central is down the hall. Next.”

  With what he hoped was a casual expression, Aran passed his wrist over the scanner. The machine remained silent.

  “Not again,” Aran said, putting frustration behind the words. “That’s the third time this week.”

  He made a show of pulling back his cuff and inspecting his wrist, letting the man at the table see the glint of the chip.

  “Seriously?” Bix said. “I thought you had that replaced.”

  He hit the right blend of exasperation and nerves, and Aran swallowed back a smile.

  “Yeah, well, my mom’s been too busy.” Aran waved his arm over the scanner again, with the same lack of result.

  “Spell your last name,” the man said in a bored voice.

  Aran did, and kept himself from looking at Bix in triumph when the man gave him his badge and packet.

  “Keep your badge visible at all times,” the man told them. “Both of you, head to Gofer Central. Down that hall, second door on the left. Next.” He looked past them, their names and features already forgotten.

  Turning away from the table, Aran let a grin cross his face. That had gone more smoothly than he’d hoped.

  “We did it! We got you in.” Bix was smiling like a fool.

  “You were good back there,” Aran said. “Ever think of becoming an actor?”

  “Not with pros like you showing how it’s done. I never would have guessed that was a fake ch—”

  “Hey, don’t shout it to the whole con.”

  Not that wearing a fake wrist-chip was illegal. People who couldn’t afford the real thing sometimes put on dud chips for show, but duping the authorities by pretending to be legitimate was a road to trouble. The longer Aran could avoid official notice, the better.

  He had his badge now, which would give him access to almost everywhere in the conference. Gofers were the lowest level of con volunteer, and as a result nobody looked at them too closely.

  Which was exactly how he wanted it.

  Gofer Central was impossible to miss. The big hand-lettered sign was their first clue, along with the volunteers darting in and out of the room. Just inside the door stood a dark-haired girl wearing glasses and holding a tablet. Her badge read Matila—VC.

  “Hi,” she said when Aran and Bix stepped over the threshold. “I’m Matila, the volunteer coordinator. Badges, please.”

  They held them up and she scanned them with her tablet. A check mark appeared by their names.

  “Welcome to SimCon, guys. Ever volunteered at a gaming convention before?”

  “Nope,” Aran said, while Bix shook his head.

  “Okay,” she said. “Check your packets—you’ll have specific duties assigned, based on the questionnaire you filled out when you applied to volunteer. Since this is the first time for both of you, the jobs will probably be boring, but hey, they’re a necessary part of keeping the con running. You’re expected to put your hours in every day. Other than that, have fun, try to get some sleep, and don’t forget to shower now and then.”

  “Do we get shirts?” Bix asked.

  “Over there.” The coordinator waved at a long table at one side of the room. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

  “Thanks,” Aran said, as he and Bix headed into the controlled chaos of Gofer Central.

  A dozen volunteers flurried through the room, all wearing the black and silver SimCon shirt, with volunteer blazoned across the back.

  On the opposite side from the T-shirts, another long table held snacks and drinks, primarily of the salty, sugary, fatty, and caffeinated variety. The bulletin board beside it was plastered with signs and flyers and notes pertaining to every aspect of SimCon.

  “Shirts first,” Aran said, steering them over to the table.

  A blue-haired girl found their sizes and checked them off her list. “You can change in the bathroom next door,” she said, then winked at Aran. “Or right here in front of me. I don’t mind.”

  Bix cleared his throat, and Aran jabbed him in the side with his elbow.

  “Come on,” Aran said. “Two seconds of showing your manly chest isn’t going to scar you for life.”

  “It might scar me, though,” a nearby volunteer called.

  “Close your eyes, weenie,” the T-shirt girl said.

  While she was distracted, Bix whipped off his shirt and donned the SimCon tee. Aran unbuttoned his “geeklet” shirt, aware he was gathering a few appreciative stares. For half a second he considered going into the other room, but it seemed a foolish waste of time. He was in good shape; not that he was planning to make a strip show of himself. With quick, efficient motions he changed, then bowed at the smattering of applause.

  “Show off,” Bix said, with no hint of jealousy. “You have too many muscles. I should steal back that kung-fu game.”

  “Like you ever played it.” Aran pulled his schedule out of his packet. “Where are you assigned?”

  It would be a problem if he and Bix were working the same area, but otherwise he’d be able to finesse his way through. His most important goal here was to get as close as possible to a FullD system, and he was confident he would. Sometimes hacking life was easier than cracking game code.

  Bix glanced at his schedule. “I’m checking badges at the main exhibition hall. You?”

  “Doing set up in the theater,” Aran said.

  His real assignment was helping calibrate projectors in the presentation rooms. He’d hit the theater first, then come up with some plausible excuse when he showed up late for his actual job.

  “Sweet! Maybe you’ll see Spark Jaxley. Wanna trade?”

  “I doubt I’ll see her. And you get to check out where all the best swag is in the Expo Hall. See you back here in two hours.”

  “Right.” Bix tipped up his chin in farewell and went out the door.

  Aran folded his map of the convention center and stuck it in his back pocket. He had the place memorized, down to the stairwells a
nd fire exits. Even the janitorial closets. It was always good to know where to go for extra cover. He headed down the corridors to the theater, practicing his “I’m completely official here” stride.

  A beefy security guard stood in front of the main theater doors, arms folded. Aran flashed his badge and papers at the man. “Tech support.”

  Without a word, the guard let him in.

  The theater smelled of anticipation, and a blend of hairspray and scorched dust from the hot stage lights. The house was dim, the stage illuminated by a spotlight and a screen glowing with the VirtuMax logo in silver and red. Aran paused behind the rows of empty seats and watched as three guys carried a FullD system to the center of the stage.

  “Pull the spot a little more left,” a man at the front of the theater called. “Get that rig up front, guys.”

  The beam hit the gaming system and it shone, chrome details and polished magenta fittings sparking under the spotlight. The sim chair seat was cushioned in black synth-leather, and even the cables leading out from the system looked high end; thick and substantial, in straight lines instead of the usual noodle of cords.

  Time for him to get to work. Hovering too long in the shadows would make him look suspicious. Aran strode down the aisle, heading for the man he guessed was the stage manager.

  “Hey,” he said. “They sent me to help with tech set-up.”

  The man squinted at his badge. “Aran, is it? Know your way around sim equip?”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve rebuilt and upgraded my Viper a dozen times.”

  His system was fully overclocked at this point, modded into a machine capable of things the designers had never planned for. He’d put too many hours and too much cash into the system, but it had been worth it.

  Now, though, the imminent release of the FullD changed everything. Bix would let him use the system he’d pre-ordered—and there were always the sim-cafes—but Aran couldn’t afford to wait until official launch day to start playing.

  Having SimCon here, in his own town, made it easier to get the jump on finding the inevitable hacks and exploits in the programming. Whoever was first to market with the Feyland cheats would make a pile of money. Aran intended to be that person.

  After that, well, he’d like to go clean. He’d wash the hacker slime off, brush up his honest gaming skills, and maybe even get good enough for the tournament circuit.

  “Right,” the stage manager said. “Talk to PJ over there—he’ll put you to work.”

  Five minutes later, Aran was taping wires to the floor with black gaffer’s tape. He started back at the VGA/mixing board, shadowed in the wings. On hands and knees, he worked his way up to the gleaming sim-system. Sort of like a worshipper approaching a shrine, which was both true and ironic.

  The rip of tape blended with the other sounds of set-up, oddly relaxing despite the jangle in his blood. This close to the system, he smelled the newness of it—fresh plas-metal and enamel paint, and all tempting. He laid the last piece of tape, then stood.

  Damn, he wanted to try it out. Slowly, he ran his palm over the soft synth-leather of the chair. Envy coiled in the pit of his stomach, spiced with fierce yearning.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” a clear, female voice said.

  Aran jerked his hand back as if he’d been caught snitching candy. He looked up to see the famous, magenta-haired figure of Spark Jaxley striding onto stage. She was geared up in a suit straight from one of the sim games: molded and shiny, and showing off her curves.

  Aran’s mouth went dry, and he was glad of his mixed heritage, the dusky skin that hid the flush he felt warming his cheeks. He’d laughed at Bix’s fanboy moments, but standing there, with the real live Spark Jaxley in front of him, Aran had to admit he understood the attraction.

  ***

  Spark didn’t drop her smile, though a possessive jolt ran through her at the sight of the guy standing next to her FullD.

  “Ah, yeah,” he said. “This is the first model I’ve seen in person. It’s prime.”

  She kept walking, coming right into his personal space, close enough to read his badge. He didn’t back off, just gave her a half smile in return. His eyes were slightly tilted, as if one of his parents was Asian, and he was good looking, despite the clunky black glasses obscuring half his face.

  “I can’t wait to see you play,” he said.

  There was the usual admiration in his voice—she was tired of being adored by people who didn’t even know her—but there was sincerity, too. He really did want to see her show off the system.

  “You’re a simmer.” She didn’t need to make it a question.

  It was obvious in the way the guy (Aran, according to his badge) had been looking at the FullD. She felt that same pull herself; the lure of immersing herself in a fabulous world, of testing her formidable skills and beating anything the programmers could dream up.

  Although the Realm of Faerie was a whole other challenge. Luckily, only a few gamers would ever stumble into that world. When they did, she and the rest of the Feyguard would be there to pull them back out.

  “I sim,” Aran said. “Hey, could I get your autograph?”

  “Of course. Got a pen?”

  He fished around in his jeans pockets, coming up with a folded map of the convention center and a pen with the VirtuMax logo printed on the side.

  “Thanks,” he said, handing them to her. “Make it out to Bix. B-I-X.”

  “Your name isn’t Aran?” She shot another look at his badge.

  “It’s for a friend. He’s a big fan.”

  “I’ll be in the VirtuMax area tomorrow. He could meet me then.” She wrote out the name and signed her autograph, then handed the pen and paper back to Aran.

  “Maybe. But he’s shy—and there’ll be about a thousand other people who’ll want your autograph. This way, your hand will be spared from signing one more.”

  She laughed a little. “I like your logic. You know, there’ll be demo models of the FullD for people to try.”

  “I know.” His dark brown eyes sparked with interest. “Although there’s still that problem of the thousand other people.”

  She tilted her head and studied him a moment. There was something appealing about this guy, beyond the fact he wasn’t a complete mess of fannish drool at her feet. And he was cute. Rebounding from your almost-crush on Roy? a voice inside her needled. But there was no such thing as a not-falling-in-love rebound.

  “Listen,” she said. “You’ve got a badge. Come in early tomorrow. I’ll clear you with security, and make sure you get some system time. Say, around nine? Con opens at ten.”

  He gave her a surprised look, quickly overtaken by a grin. “That’d be great.”

  “Miss Jaxley,” the stage manager called. “All done with your little meet-n-greet up there? We need to check the feed to the screens.”

  “See you tomorrow,” she said. “Nice meeting you, Aran.”

  “You too, Miss Jax—”

  “Call me Spark. Not nearly enough people do.”

  His smile emphasized his high cheekbones. “All right, Spark. Later.”

  The stage manager cleared his throat. Aran tucked the paper and pen in his back pocket, then jumped down off the stage, lean and agile.

  “Miss Jaxley,” the tech said, “here’s your gear.”

  Spark took the gleaming helm and visor and pulled on the LED-studded gaming gloves. Just before she slid into the sim chair to begin running the interface, she saw Aran in the back of the theater. He lifted his hand in farewell, then slipped out, leaving only shadows behind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “No way!” Bix snatched the folded paper with Spark’s autograph out of Aran’s fingers and pressed it theatrically over his heart. “Now I really hate you, man.”

  “Give that back.” Aran held out his hand. “I’m sure someone around here would show a little appreciation for a custom autograph.”

  “Seriously—I owe you,” Bix said.

  “Not really.” Aran shifted his
weight to the balls of his feet, then back to his heels. “I didn’t get much opportunity to talk to Spark. Hey—any chance you can show up to the con early tomorrow?”

  Bix’s frown scrunched up his forehead. “The only way I can come at all tomorrow is if I go to worship with my family in the morning. They’re practically foaming at the mouth at the thought of me spending any time here on the Sabbath.”

  “Among the unwashed heathens and devil gamers, right? At least you can still attend.”

  For once, Aran was glad of Bix’s hyper-religious parents. If Bix had been able to come, Aran would have found a way to finagle him time on the new FullD systems—but this way, Aran didn’t have to ask Spark’s forgiveness for bringing along an uninvited guest.

  Not that he was telling Bix exactly where he’d be at nine a.m. Getting the autograph almost erased the guilt he felt at not revealing that Spark Jaxley had invited him to come early and try out the FullD.

  Not only would Bix be beyond jealous, Aran didn’t want his friend to know—or even guess at—what he did to make a living. Sim hackers were not universally loved. Pretty much the opposite, in fact.

  Sure, everybody wanted to know the cheats and exploits, but it was a sneaky, underhanded way to turn a profit. The honorable players refused to use the hacks, and then were at a disadvantage because of their nobleness. Bix was one of those, and he’d said dozens of times how much he despised the scum that found the exploits in the first place and then sold the information. If he saw Aran playing an advance version of the game, and then BlackWing started selling hacks before the system was released—well, Bix wasn’t dumb.

  “Come on,” Bix said. “There’s a new combat game demo at one of the booths, and they’re raffling off good stuff to try and get attention. Even a new Slix system.”

  “An almost obsolete sim set-up. Just what every gamer needs.”

  “Not everybody is going to be moving to the FullD when it releases next week. And maybe VirtuMax’s design is still full of bugs. They took long enough to launch the thing. Come on.”