Angel Eyes

by Nicole Luiken

  Wow. I’d thought I’d have to fight for that one. I wondered if Kenneth Jones had taken an interest and foreseen my request.

  “Vacation?” Jazzy said heatedly. “You’re talking like this is going to be a skiing holiday. This is going to be an intense competition. We could find ourselves doing anything from diving into the sun to climbing Mount Everest.”

  Gerry shifted in his plastic chair. “But it’s all VR, isn’t it? I mean, we won’t really have to climb a mountain.”

  Jazzy shot him a withering look. “It’s the Next Step. Nobody really knows what that means yet. But even if it is VR, it will be the best VR on the planet. It’ll feel real. You’ll going to need a vacation to recover from your ‘vacation’, I can promise you that. And we’ll be up against professional Virtuoso teams. You don’t stand a chance.”

  Ah, but the audience loves an underdog.

  I smiled at her, amused. “Stop trying to talk them off our team. Or do you want to go solo and risked getting Culled?”

  “Your point total is 75,” Brunette volunteered. “There are seventeen slots remaining and thirty people with totals higher than yours.”

  Jazzy bit her lip. “I’ll be on your team.” A sulky mutter.

  “Then a more positive attitude, please.” I raised my eyebrows at Sahan. “What about you?”

  He held up his hands. “I’m happy to join your team. I wasn’t making much progress on the puzzle.”

  “And, of course, I want Emily on my team, provided she’s well enough.” I tried to make her inclusion sound like an afterthought.

  “Your offer will be relayed,” Brunette said.

  "Great, it’s settled." I rubbed my hands together. "Now let's blow this joint!"

  #

  “Team meeting, my room in five minutes,” I called out, walking backward down the hall of the luxurious hotel where Kenneth Jones was housing all the Blank golden ticket holders who’d made the Cull. Our exact location was ‘undisclosed’, and we’d been forbidden to contact the outside world on pain of disqualification.

  As soon as I was alone, disappointment elbowed the smile off my face. I’d hoped to grab a few hours of face time with Mike. Being apart sucked.

  I’d hadn’t had time to do more than open the curtains—blah, city parking lot view—when someone tapped on the door. I pinned my smile back on, only to grin when I saw who was actually there. “Em!”

  “Hi, Angel.” Her voice sounded slightly hoarse, but her colour had improved, and she looked healthy.

  I gave her a fierce hug. “Don’t you ever, ever scare me like that again,” I said, low-voiced. “No more accepting cinnamon buns from handsome jackasses.”

  “I won’t, I promise.” She offered me a watery smile.

  I wanted to say more, but I could hear the others coming down the hall and since they still thought I’d first met Em only a few days ago, I kept my mouth shut.

  However, I could see dawning comprehension on Em’s face.

  “Yes, I know,” I mouthed at her, before turning to greet the rest of the team. “Okay, time to plan.”

  “How can we make plans when we don’t know what the scenario is yet?” Jazzy folded her arms.

  “That’s the first question,” I admitted. “Let’s pool our information. Did anyone pick up any clues as to what the NextStep Immersion will be?”

  Gerry and Ron both shrugged, baffled. Em studied her manicured toes.

  “A medieval,” Jazzy said. She’d obviously caught the princess clue, too.

  Sahan cleared his throat. “That’s one possibility, but I thought I caught a few hints of something else… I recognized a few names in the data stream as actual historical figures.”

  “Like who?” I asked, curious. I’d typed so fast, most of the names hadn’t registered beyond a collection of letters.

  “John Franklin, Joe Hazelwood and Catherine O’Leary.” Sahan paused, but I motioned for him to continue. “They’re all associated with disasters. John Franklin led an ill-fated Arctic expedition. Joseph Hazelwood captained an oil tanker that caused a horrible oil spill. Catherine O’Leary was associated with the Great Fire of Chicago.”

  “Don’t you mean Mrs. O’Leary’s cow?” Jazzy objected. “And John Franklin is a very common name. All you really have is Joseph Hazelwood. The other two could be coincidence.”

  Sahan looked at the floor.

  “I think he’s right,” I said crisply. “There’s a photo of a zeppelin on the wall of Ms. Rodriguez’s office. I bet it was the Hindenburg.” Which had, of course, fireballed horribly.

  “But you’re not sure?” Jazzy pounced.

  I favoured her with a cold stare. “You were in the office with me. Did you read the name of the airship?”

  Jazzy fell silent.

  Gerry spoke up. “If there’s a picture of the zeppelin in her office, it’s new. Trust me, I cooled my heels in there for an hour once waiting for her to finish a call. I memorized all the pictures on her walls. She had a framed certificate, a painted plate with flowers, and a picture of two puppies in a basket. No zeppelins.”

  “Great!” I threw enthusiasm into my voice to stave off any further objections. “Then we have some idea what to prepare for. That gives us an edge.”

  “Disaster is a pretty broad scope,” Jazzy pointed out. “It could be anything from an earthquake to an airplane crash."

  “NextStep is Kenneth Jones’ baby,” I said. “He created the Historical Immersions so I doubt we’re looking at a generic disaster scenario. He’ll have based it on a specific historical event.”

  Jazzy’s eyebrows rose. “So maybe we’re looking at a medieval disaster like the Black Death or the Sack of Rome by the Vandals.”

  “Yes, but let’s not narrow things down just yet. Can you and Sahan make a list of the most likely disasters? Tad, you can help, too,” I added, so my matchmaking wasn’t quite as obvious.

  Nods. Good, Jazzy could take orders, after all.

  “Okay, before we split up, I need to get a feel for everyone’s strengths. Gerry, what skills do you bring to the group?"

  "Fast reflexes," he said. "You are looking at the high school champion basketball star center for all of New York. Third in Worlds."

  Ron gave him a high five. "And I was his star forward."

  "Excellent. Plus, didn't you say you took a month of pre-med?"

  "Yeah." Ron rolled his eyes. "Boy, was I ever bad at that! My eyes crossed just trying to read the textbook."

  “Still, I bet you know first aid. You can be our medic."

  Ron scrunched his eyebrows together. "But, it's going to be VR, right? Nobody's actually going to get hurt."

  I held up the brochure Brunette had handed out. “According to this, NextStep is a mix of both VR and real. We’ll move around a physical location with our physical bodies, but we’ll wear VR suits and part of what we experience won’t be real.”

  “What parts?” Gerry asked.

  “People,” Sahan said. He’d obviously read the info, too. “There will be a number of Non-player characters who are VR constructs with limited roles, though the programmers may improvise their dialogue as needed.”

  “Mostly they’ll use VR for special effects—to simulate danger.” Gerry and Ron were still frowning, so I gave an example. “Let’s say someone pushes you off a tower. Your VR suit would provide the experience of falling from a great height while your physical body fell either a short distance or was caught in a net. It will also simulate pain, but only up to a certain threshold, and, of course, there will be no lasting damage.”

  Ron nodded comprehension, so I returned to the original question. “So while there shouldn’t be any serious injuries, a medic can still deal with small cuts and things. More importantly if one of us is ‘injured’ in the game, treating the injury will keep the programmers from calling Game Over and taking a character off-line. A medic would be really useful," I said with perfect truth.

  I turned to Sahan. “Anything? Besides puzzle-solver extrao
rdinaire?” I prompted. The purpose of the exercise was to boost our confidence.

  "Uh, I’m pretty experienced in VR. I prefer fantasy games, but I've played quite a few barbarians. If it's the Sack of Rome, I swing a mean sword." Sahan made a pretend cut. “Oh, and I speak four languages,” he added, off-hand.

  "Impressive. That may come in very useful," I said sincerely. "Jazzy?"

  Her chin stuck out. “My specialty is visual puzzles.”

  “So you have a good eye for detail,” I said tactfully.

  She nodded.

  Em's turn. She shook her head. “I don’t have much to bring to the table.”

  “Didn’t you tell me you minored in Drama? Acting experience will help you stay in character in the Immersion.”

  Em tilted her head. “I hadn’t thought of that. I guess that could be useful.”

  That left Tad. I smiled at him. "Your turn. Anything besides your computer skills?” Because the scenario might be pre-computer era.

  For a moment I didn't think he was going to answer, then he said, "I'm good with locks."

  The others exchanged nervous glances. Even slouched against the wall, Tad hulked over the rest of us.

  "That will probably come in quite handy," I told him. "And if you don't mind, I might use you for intimidation."

  A slow nod.

  Time to wrap up. "Okay, people, I want everyone to read the rules and get a good night’s sleep."

  A chorus of groans followed. The NextStep rules binder was twenty pages thick.

  The meeting broke up.

  Tad lingered a moment more. "So what’s with the girl who looks like you? Do you have a twin?" He held up his reclaimed palmtop and showed me a black-eyed Devon in a black evening dress.

  “She’s the competition,” I said lightly.

  “So you have a personal axe to grind?”

  I had trouble reading his expression under his overhanging brows, but he sounded accusing. I lifted my chin. "Yes. Is that a problem?"

  "No," he said after a pause. "I didn’t expect you to admit it. I’ve got more footage of her from the casino.” He tapped a few keys. “The file should be on your palmtop now.” He slouched out.

  Three minutes later, Em knocked on the door. I watched in silence as she set up three jammers in the shape of a large triangle around us, ensuring no one could listen in or videorecord our conversation. Very high tech, expensive jammers.

  “How long have you known?” she asked.

  “Since I started calling you ‘Em’ instead of Emily. M for Maryanne.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “You fooled me for a day,” I admitted. “The lighter, shorter hair, gray eyes and plumper face combined made you look different enough that I didn’t immediately recognize you. I’m getting better at seeing past the effect of plumping creams, but how did you change your voice?”

  She touched the choker she wore. “This alters the vibration of my larynx.” She tapped it twice. “See?” she said in her normal Maryanne voice.

  “Cool.” I bumped her shoulder. “And if you can deceive me, it proves you have the acting chops to be a real asset in the scenario.”

  She grimaced. “I really thought I had you fooled. What gave me away?”

  “Certain mannerisms. Like your habit of tucking your hair behind your ear. And, you know, just you being you.” I shrugged unable to explain it any better. “Once I took a closer look at the shape of your nose and mouth I could see you under the plumping cream. Of course, without the ‘princess’ clue I might not have taken a second look.”

  Thunderheads gathered in Maryanne’s expression. “What princess clue?”

  Oops. When I finished explaining, her cheeks had flushed with colour. I gathered her father hadn’t told her— “Wait a sec,” I blurted out. “Your dad does know where you are, right?”

  Silence. Maryanne folded her arms, mutinous.

  Oh, crap. I pinched my bottom lip, dismayed. I could see the shape of things now. “You bribed someone into giving you their golden ticket and entered the prison a day early. Your dad’s figured out you’re in here somewhere, but not your exact whereabouts, so he’s harnessing the power of the puzzle-solvers to find you.”

  Maryanne studied the wall.

  “So, is there a reason you decided to give your dad a heart attack?” I asked.

  Maryanne exploded.

  “He’s too overprotective! I need to prove to him that I can survive all on my own. More than that, I want to win.” She began to pace the small confines of the jammer triangle. “Not for the prize—I’ll be disqualified—but I want to show him that I’m his daughter and that I could help him run the company. Whenever I try to talk to him about it, he just pats me on the head and tells me to enjoy myself. I’m sick of vacations.”

  “Uh, how long has this been going on?” I asked, slight stunned.

  She shrugged moodily. “A while, but meeting you again really brought it to a head. We’re the same age, yet you have Mike and a career. I just have my daddy’s money.”

  She flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “It’s a stupid idea. Look at what happened today. I got poisoned and you saved me. What a great way to convince my dad it’s safe to let me go off on my own.”

  “It’s not a stupid idea,” I said loyally. “And give yourself a break. I don’t think Jordan recognized you. His nasty little prank was aimed at me, not you.” No need to tell her the guy she’d been crushing on belonged to a terrorist organization.

  “Really?” She raised her eyebrows, doubtful, but willing to be convinced.

  “Really. Now, as it so happens I’m also planning to win.” And beat my clone. “So do you want to stay on my team and kick some NextStep butt?”

  A small smile quirked her mouth. “Sure.”

  Time for a change of topic. “Want to assess the competition?” I asked. I sat beside her and played the Devon video from the Golden Ticket casino event on my palmtop.

  We watched Devon enter the celebrity casino. As soon as the emcee announced her name, she received 47 votes, the number scrolling up in the corner of the screen. She obviously had some loyal followers from previous VR gaming events.

  I caught myself clenching my fists and forced my fingers to uncurl.

  “So that’s your clone? That dress makes her look like a stick insect,” Maryanne said loyally as Devon played craps and fenced verbally with the other celebs.

  Tad had obviously edited the video, because Devon’s score suddenly increased to 53 and a spotlight shone on her.

  Devon started to duck, then quickly straightened when she realized she wasn’t under attack. It was the first misstep I’d seen her make, and I focused harder, curious.

  The emcee’s voice rang out: “…his long-time partner, Devon Seawest. Watch out for this pair!”

  The scene cut to Mike lightly running down the steps into the casino.

  My heartbeat picked up.

  He looked devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo with a white cummerbund, and he smiled blindingly for the cameras. They zoomed in on the craps table as he arrowed straight toward Devon.

  Her face froze into an expressionless mask, caught between hope and hurt. “Gabriel?”

  “Isn’t that Mike?” Maryanne asked, confused.

  I paused the video, squinting at the tiny screen. It looked like Mike, but I supposed it could have been his three-years-younger clone. I hit play.

  “Devon. You look like an angel.” He kissed her hand.

  Her eyes widened, and she jerked her hand away.

  My smile widened into a vicious grin. “It’s Mike. He used his clone’s golden ticket to enter the scenario.”

  Maryanne blinked. “Mike has a clone, too?”

  “Yep. It was standard policy to sell us in ‘breeding pairs’—which is why I was so anti-Mike back when we first met. Ooh, look, poor little Devon is upset.”

  I found the rest of their conversation highly entertaining, though I wondered what Tad had thoug
ht of it.

  Another edit and Devon sat in one of the video booths. The crocodile had produced more fake tears, glimmering prettily in her onyx eyes, but not actually falling. “I’m worried about Gabriel. It hasn’t been very long since his accident. He’s barely out of the hospital. His competitive instincts are endangering his health. He really needs to sit this one out. The tournaments cause a lot of stress and…”

  Blah, blah, blah. But apparently the sob story worked because her number climbed from 61 to 111, a bell rang and she walked through a set of hokey golden arches.

  Dismay crowded my chest, inhibiting my breathing. I’d assumed from the beginning that my clone would make it past the Cull, but if she’d stopped Mike from joining me— I ground my teeth together.

  I started to shut off the screen, thinking that would be all there was, but Tad had included another video clip of Mike in the video booth. My heart lightened.

  Mike sat on the little stool and faced the camera, unsmiling. “I’m Gabriel Braive,” he lied. “Devon Seawest is my partner. I’m guessing she told you that I’m too weak to be out of bed.”

  I watched admiringly as Mike neatly turned the tables on Devon. “Let me tell you the true reason she’s so eager to ditch me…” His gaze turned introspective just as if he had gone through a life or death event. “Nearly dying changes a person. The experience frightened Devon because she almost lost the person she cares the most about. Me.”

  My smile withered. Where was Mike going with this?

  “…made me face the fact that I have feelings for her, that I want to be more than partners...” Violet eyes seemed to meet mine through the camera lens. “I need to ask her a question.”

  I stared in disbelief as Mike produced a small jewelry box and flipped the lid open, revealing an amethyst ring. My heart seized.

  “Oh, my God,” Maryanne gave a soft exclamation of horror. “Angel, I’m so sorry. That—that two-timing rat! How long do you think he’s been dating her?”

  “What?” I blinked. The question made no sense. “Oh. No, Maryanne. Mike’s playing for the cameras. He hates Devon. Didn’t you see their body language earlier?”

  “But— Oh.” Maryanne sank down on the bed again, looking confused. “But you looked… so...” she trailed off.