Wicked Games

by M. J. Scott

  "I keep another meeting room for the really boring meetings." Damon's voice—deep and warm—made me jump.

  Crap. Apparently his avatar's voice hadn't been a simulation.

  He stood in a doorway I hadn't noticed in the wall with the surfboards. Dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt, he didn't look quite as polished as the avatar, but he still looked expensive. Expensive and damn good. The reality had laugh lines bracketing those blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose. Somehow it was more enticing than the simulation.

  "Nice to know I'm not boring," I managed.

  My brain tried to work that one out while trying not to notice the low down flutter caused by his smile. A flutter that only increased as he reached me and I caught the scent of soap and cotton and something subtly spicy.

  Real

  Male.

  Inviting.

  Potential client, I reminded myself firmly. "How was New Zealand?" I asked. It seemed a safe enough question.

  "Productive." He gestured toward his desk and waited until I'd seated myself in one of his visitor's chairs before sliding into the sleek ergonomic contraption on the other side.

  Productive. Was that code for “I got what I wanted”? I doubted he had many unproductive meetings if that was the case. But asking that wouldn’t be so safe, so I settled for a neutral smile and stayed silent. Letting the client speak first was always a good tactic.

  "I'm glad you decided to come today," he said. "You're probably wondering what this is all about."

  Denial was pointless. "I'll admit you piqued my curiosity."

  "Good." He pushed a button, and a section of the desk slid aside to reveal a data screen set in the wood in front of me. The document it displayed was full of the kind of closely spaced text I associated with lawyers.

  Damon tapped the desk just above the screen. "Before we go any further, I need you to sign this."

  "What is it?"

  "Standard non-disclosure agreement."

  I touched the screen and began to scroll. The agreement was at least thirty pages long. Longer than any other confidentiality agreement I'd ever been asked to sign. Which meant I was going to read every word before I did. I moved my chair closer, determined to take my time.

  Once I'd waded through the legalese, I'd figured out that Riley Arts took its confidentiality seriously. Very seriously. Basically, the agreement said they'd hunt me down and make me very sorry if I blabbed anything to anyone. Ever. It made me glad I didn't talk in my sleep.

  But I didn't make a habit of discussing my clients’ business with anyone—a consultant who was indiscreet was a broke consultant—so I didn't see that I was giving up anything I couldn't afford to give up.

  "Before I sign, I assume you will be happy to provide me a reference if you're satisfied with my work, despite this?" I did my own imitation of his little screen tap trick. The agreement allowed me to mention I was or had been contracted by Riley Arts, but nothing more than that. And while that name would look good on my client list, a personal recommendation from someone like Damon Riley could open a lot of doors.

  "If I'm satisfied, of course." He slid a stylus across the desk and it rolled to a stop right by my hand.

  Show-off.

  "Good." I signed the papers, added a palm scan when the screen demanded one, and rolled the stylus back across to him. The data screen disappeared as the desk section slid back into place.

  "There will be a copy of that in your inbox," he said.

  I nodded. "Now are you going to tell me why you brought me here?"

  He nodded, not looking entirely happy with the prospect. "It's about my new game."

  My, not our. He took things personally. This time he was telling the truth. And he definitely had a problem if something was wrong with his latest and greatest.

  A new Righteous game was an event that gamers anticipated, speculated, and debated endlessly. I lived each release through Nat and her teammates and had absorbed a healthy amount of industry gossip over the years despite my lack of real interest.

  Said lack of interest in playing the games didn't mean I didn't find the thought of helping hunt down a problem with one intriguing.

  "Go on," I prompted.

  His eyes dropped to the place on the desk where the screen was hidden, then flicked back to me.

  "I get it. Confidential. I signed, so unless I get hauled into court, this is between you and me."

  Nat was going to give me hell. In Nat world, best friends told each other everything. Little things like professionalism and client confidentiality didn't matter. She'd nearly had kittens when I’d finally told her I had a meeting at Righteous, and had already started pestering for details. I was going to have to chain her in the basement or something for however long the job lasted to avoid being interrogated every night.

  If I took the job, of course.

  Damon picked up the stylus, twirling it back and forth between his fingers. "We're just starting the final testing phase. We send versions out to gamers we trust and let them do their worst."

  I nodded again. That much I understood. Nat had done some beta testing a couple of times. Never for a Riley game—that was the holy grail for pro-gamers—but for other companies. It had been kind of entertaining watching her tie herself in knots trying to find bugs and make the games crash.

  "There have been a couple of incidents with the testers." The stylus stilled suddenly.

  The back of my neck prickled. "Incidents?"

  Blue eyes went flat. "One nervous breakdown. One tester quit and vanished. Now another tester has gone missing."

  Frustration rang in his voice. That was the problem with being the master-of-the-universe type—sometimes the universe staged a revolution. Damon Riley, it seemed, wasn't happy with disorder in his empire.

  "Three out of how many?" I had no idea how many testers they would use.

  The stylus began to twirl again, but his gaze stayed on mine. "A hundred or so."

  Okay, not such a big sample. "That could just be coincidence. Gamers aren't always the most stable people." I’d met a few odd gamers over the years through Nat. Then again, I’d met plenty of people who had nothing to do with gaming who had mental health issues too. Medical science had come a long way, but fixing brain chemistry when it went rogue remained a challenge. I’d had my own struggles after the Big One.

  "We vet our testers very carefully. We need reliability. We’ve never had these kinds of issues before." Frustration and regret thrummed under the words.

  I couldn’t imagine the pressure he must be under. I didn’t know him well, but the research I’d done had revealed a man who took his responsibilities seriously. Righteous was very good to its employees, and Damon gave away huge chunks of cash to charities. He’d pushed to rebuild in San Francisco because he’d wanted to bring some life back to the city. Wanted to provide much needed jobs. And of course his testers were vetted. A Righteous beta version would be gold on the black market, so anyone given access to a copy had to be trustworthy. No doubt the legal agreements they signed would be several times longer than the one I'd just autographed.

  Which made a missing tester a serious problem. Though why Damon had come to me was still a mystery. I wasn't an investigator. Not of people, anyway.

  "Sounds like you need the police. Or a—" I cut myself off, remembering the hint of relief when I'd told him TechWitch was a name only. Some witches did this sort of thing, located missing people or property. But they tended toward high profile, not really discreet. Damon could afford to hire a whole coven of witches if he wanted magical assistance, but I doubted he’d welcome the publicity at this stage.

  He shot me a look. "The police are involved. They have, so far, been unable to help."

  That surprised me. Usually our charming city's police commissioner bent over backward to help those she thought could help her. A mega corporation like Righteous should’ve been afforded all the assistance they’d need. I wondered what Damon had done to piss Commissioner Cruz
off.

  "Apparently a few missing gamers rank somewhat lower than drug runners, black marketeers, and murderers," Damon continued.

  "Imagine that," I said. "And this an election year."

  He held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong, they are looking into it. Just not terribly . . . quickly."

  And you like things fast. He didn't strike me as a sit-back-and-wait type.

  "So you came looking for me?"

  The stylus resumed its restless twirling. "The police or my investigators will find them. In the meantime, I need to know if the game had anything to do with their behavior. See if there’s something wrong with the code. Testers plug in for hours at a time. I need my games to be safe."

  "Like I said at Decker's, I would've thought you could do that in-house."

  "So far my people have come up blank. They say everything is clean."

  "Maybe it is. Maybe it is just coincidence."

  The stylus clattered to the desk. "I don't really believe in coincidence. We didn't have any issues with the previous round of testing, but we've made substantial changes to several parts of our game engine since then. And I'm not prepared to launch the game until I know for sure. Which brings me to you. To TechWitch."

  There was that frustration again. Like he still couldn't quite believe he was turning to someone who didn't have a four-page job description and a string of degrees from CalTech or MIT or—possibly—a past life as a world-class hacker. His expression was carefully neutral, but it was hard to miss the tension riding him.

  "You want me to see if there's a problem in the code? In the game or in the operating system?"

  He nodded. "Either. Both. Whatever it takes." His eyes dropped to my hands. "You don't have a chip."

  My thumb skimmed my knuckles as my neck prickled again. I’d been so busy chasing the lowdown on Riley that I hadn't had much time to think about the tech he was using. “No. I've never needed one."

  "You'll need one for this. We would, of course, foot the bill for the surgery. On top of your fee."

  "My fee?" He was awfully sure of himself. But talking about money was easier than contemplating an interface chip.

  He named a figure, and I was glad he hadn't offered me refreshments or I would've been spitting mine across the room.

  Like I said, I made a good living at what I did—when the assignments came. But the amount he'd just offered came under the category of “no need to worry about the next client for quite some time.” Like a year or two. It would go a long way to helping me rebuild my grandparents’ house. My house, now. Which made me wonder whether there was more to the situation than he was letting on. The market would wait for a Righteous game, so it wasn't as if he was racing a ticking clock.

  "That's a . . . generous offer." Too generous. And I had learned early on to be suspicious of things that seemed too good to be true.

  He shrugged. "If you're as good as they say, then you're not charging enough for your services."

  There was the arrogance again. I didn't need a critique of my business practices.

  I took a deep breath, trying to stop being thirteen and think. Big client. Rich client. Big opportunity, and I had to admit—once I'd sent my inner teenager to her room—that given the man was six years older than me and could buy half the planet if he wanted to, whereas I'd thought I'd been doing pretty well to own my own business and support myself at twenty-nine, maybe I should listen to him.

  But the offer still seemed a little too good to be true. "And if your missing gamer turns up and I don't find anything wrong with your code?"

  "You still get paid."

  Okay, now he was definitely making me nervous.

  I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he held up a hand. "Before you make up your mind, why don't I show you around, let you see the systems you'll be dealing with?"

  The knots in my stomach eased a little. Maybe he wasn't trying to distract me with cash after all. "I'd like to know more about the chip too."

  He nodded. "Do you have concerns?"

  I hesitated. How did you say “I don't like the idea of fusing a virtual remote control to my nervous system” to the man who'd helped pioneer the tech? Nat kept telling me chips were perfectly safe and I had control issues. She was right, but I couldn't conquer my fears completely. "I don't like first-gen tech."

  Damon grinned. "Don't worry. You won't be getting first-gen. Not that the public chips are first-gen. But you'll be getting the same chip as me. It's not publicly available yet."

  Oh perfect. Experimental next-gen was no better than first-gen.

  As if sensing my nerves, Damon came around the desk, rested his butt against the edge, and proffered his wrist for my inspection. I squelched the wimpy voice of protest in my head and instead looked at his forearm.

  His nicely tanned, even more nicely muscled, faintly spicy-smelling forearm.

  Damn.

  I blinked a few times while blood rushed to my head, then sucked in a breath and focused on the chip instead.

  It looked almost natural, as though someone had drawn the circuit on his skin.

  But skin wasn't supposed to be silver and gold, glinting and gleaming in thin lines between the more natural olive tones. It wasn't supposed to be traced with an intricate dance of circuitry. And a drawing wouldn't shimmer ever so faintly with every beat of his pulse. I wanted to run my finger over the lines, but that would just be weird.

  "You'll even get the same surgeon as me. He's the best in the field."

  I bit my lip. "I'm sure he's great."

  "Touch it if you want."

  My hands clenched. Even with permission, touching him didn't sound like a good idea.

  "I promise I don't bite." He sounded amused.

  The only thing worse than having an inappropriate reaction to someone is having the object of that reaction realize it. I stomped on my objections, wiped my palms on my trousers, and gingerly touched a finger to his wrist.

  His skin warmed mine. To my cautious touch, the threads of gold and silver were slightly warmer than the surrounding skin. And beneath them, the flesh felt strange. Not smooth muscle like there was on either side of the circuit but rather nearly imperceptible ridges and crevices, reminding me that thousands of nanofilaments threaded from the chip into the surrounding nerves, giving whatever plugged into that chip direct access to his brain.

  I jerked my hand back.

  "It's not so bad. I'll even hold your hand if you like," Damon said, grin widening.

  Heat crawled over my face as I imagined those long fingers wrapped around mine. Nice picture until you put him in a surgical gown and mask and included a bunch of medical types milling around with scalpels. "Won't I be asleep?"

  "No, they just nerve block the arm. You can watch the whole thing."

  Blood. I wasn't good with blood.

  I swallowed, hard.

  "Or not," he added hastily. "They can plug you into an entertainment system and you can watch a movie or read or whatever. You won't notice a thing, I promise."

  Somehow I doubted that.

  "Can I get you a glass of water or something? You look pale."

  "I'm fine."

  He ignored me and crossed the room, waving a hand at the wall. A panel slid back, revealing a small fridge. Fancy, as was the bottle of water he brought back to me. The label was written in French. Water is water, I guess. I cracked the lid with a twist and swallowed. The chilled fluid seemed to help.

  Damon watched me, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead.

  I straightened. "I'm fine, I swear." I just didn't like hospitals. Given that my main experience with them had been to get patched up after the few times when Sara's temper got the better of her, visiting the mass morgues to identify Grandad's body after the quake, and then sitting with my Gran as she slowly wasted away from her injuries over months, my feelings were justified. But I was going to have to suck it up.

  "Why don't you give me that tour you mentioned?" I said, trying to sound casual. "I
can't make up my mind until I know more about what I'm dealing with."

  Anything was better than discussing imminent chip surgery. Plus, I had to admit I was curious to see what the inner workings of a place like Righteous were like. All I got to see at most of my clients were the standard gray cubicle tech dungeon IT departments and climate-controlled server and mainframe rooms.

  Given most of Righteous was effectively an IT department and people seemed to fight to work there, I was hoping for something a bit more interesting.

  Kind of Willy Wonka's Geek Factory.

  Though Damon was a lot cuter than any of the actors I'd seen play Willy in Nat's classic movie collection, and definitely cuter than the latest VR version. As good as graphics had gotten, there was still something slightly off about the human figures. Something that creeped me out.

  Unlike Damon, who had the opposite effect, much to my chagrin. I seemed to be developing an alarming urge to grin goofily whenever he smiled at me.

  No dating the paycheck.

  And with that rejoinder fixed firmly in my head, I stood. "So, show me the funhouse."

  Chapter Three

  To my relief, Damon didn't question my subject change, just rose and led the way back to the elevator.

  His palm on the scanner prompted a cool female voice to ask, "Which floor would you like, Damon?"

  "S2, Madge."

  There was no S2 on the panel of numbers beside the door, but that didn't seem to matter. The doors slid shut and we began to whizz downward.

  "Secret passages?" I quipped.

  "Not secret. And floors, not passages. Though we do have passages for the lower levels connecting all the buildings. They're the next level down."

  "Who’s Madge?"

  "She's a computer. One of the bits of tech around here that helps make life easier."

  I hid my surprise. The voice had sounded completely natural. Voice tech kept getting better and better, but to my ear, usually the voices still sounded just faintly synthetic. Something off about their pronunciation. But Madge had sounded real. A reminder that I definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore.