Paradise Clash: Bounty Hunter

by L. E. Price

  “Put it through,” he said.

  The screen flickered to life, giving him a desktop-camera view of a glass-walled office. Overhead lights turned the ink-blot birthmark on Anton Kozlowski’s bald scalp into a dash of spilled burgundy wine. SDS’s senior legal counsel looked just as dour as he did the day they met at Trevor’s bedside, and just as unhappy to be working with outside help. Jake could understand his attitude; the man wanted to keep his company’s dirty laundry safe inside the hamper.

  “Mr. Camden,” Anton said. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

  “Not at all. Coffee’s not ready yet.”

  “I wanted to follow up with you, regarding the status of your investigation.”

  Jake had been hired by Trevor’s family, not by SDS. He was tempted to remind him of that. Then again, at some point he might need cooperation from the company; no sense burning any bridges he didn’t have to. He decided to smile and play nice.

  “I’m following a number of leads. On my way to an interview with a promising informant this morning, in fact.”

  His sunken eyes narrowed. “Informant?”

  “A friend of Trevor’s. Someone who has the inside scoop on what he was up to, the last few days before he got mind-snatched.”

  “And they’re willing to cooperate?”

  “They’ll cooperate,” Jake said.

  Anton’s gaze shifted to the left, checking something on a screen Jake couldn’t see. His fingers rattled a keyboard.

  “You were delivered an exclusive upgrade granting you full gamemaster access to Paradise Clash. My records are showing that it hasn’t been activated.”

  “That’s right,” Jake said.

  “May I ask why not?”

  Because I don’t want you, or anybody else at SDS, watching my every move. Not when my instincts are pointing to an inside job.

  “Because people don’t like talking to cops,” Jake said. “Not in this world or any other. You get more done, going in quiet with an easy touch.”

  Anton looked like he wanted to argue. He was smart enough to know better.

  “I…suppose you have a point. Still, given the sensitive nature of this situation, and the potential fallout, we would feel more secure if you activated the upgrade. Just so that we can establish, in retrospect, that the investigation was completely transparent and above-board.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” Jake said. “While I’ve got you on the line, had a question for you.”

  “If it’s about Paradise Clash itself, I may have to take your questions and pass them to the development team. As I’m sure you’re aware, SDS employees aren’t actually allowed to play, as per the Enhanced Gaming Act of 2067; too much risk of improper behavior or manipulated outcomes. I’ve never set foot in the game, though I’m told it’s quite entertaining.”

  “Oh, it’s a blast,” Jake said.

  “Well. Something to look forward to when I retire, I suppose. So, what were you—”

  “What do you know about the sea dragon?”

  Anton looked blindsided, just like Jake wanted him to be. He shifted in his chair, eyes down and to the left, formulating his response like he was standing in a courtroom. Jake had to give him credit: he bounced back just as fast, with a firm, confident reply.

  “That, actually, I can comment on. It doesn’t exist.”

  “Simple as that?”

  “As simple as that,” Anton replied. “I know, because I was involved in several meetings on the subject, in my capacity as corporate counsel.”

  “There was a legal issue?”

  “May I remind you, Mr. Camden, that you signed a binding non-disclosure agreement? And that agreement extends to any and all information you may obtain about SDS and its activities? What I’m about to tell you goes no further than this conversation.”

  “Duly noted,” Jake said.

  “There was going to be a sea dragon. In fact, the apparition the first ‘dragon hunters’ witnessed did exist, as a placeholder for testing. Then we discovered a problem. The lead developer on the project, Dimitry Machacek, was found to have plagiarized some of his work from another game under development in China.”

  “Including the sea dragon?”

  “We weren’t sure,” Anton said, “and ultimately, our solution to the entire tangled mess was to quietly fire him — with a generous severance package to keep him quiet — and remove all of his contributions to the game. He didn’t just implement the sea dragon, he’d done all of the design work and the initial proposal.”

  “Meaning you couldn’t farm the job to another employee and start over,” Jake said, following the logic. “Not safely. You didn’t want anyone coming back later and pointing fingers, claiming SDS was stealing another company’s work.”

  “Precisely. We decided the safest approach was to simply shift directions and deny the entire thing had ever happened. I’m afraid there’s no great mystery here, and no conspiracy either; just a bit of corporate housekeeping. Dust under the rug.”

  Jake was almost disappointed. The dragon hunters’ enthusiasm had gotten to him, too. He wondered if paranoia was contagious.

  The coffeemaker chimed.

  “I should get to work,” Jake said. “Thanks for the inside scoop.”

  “Of course. Please update me when you make progress. And please do consider activating the gamemaster upgrade. It would make things much easier on my end.”

  Bet it would, Jake thought as the screen flickered to black. He still wasn’t sure if he believed in the sea dragon. As he poured himself a cup of coffee, leaning against the wall and listening to the bathroom pipes rattle, he debated how much he believed in Anton Kozlowski. The lawyer’s explanation had been reasonable, believable, stripping away the veils of conspiracy and replacing the mystery with simple facts. Occam’s razor — the principle that the simplest explanation was usually the right one — said he was telling the truth.

  One thing bothered him. Anton had been happy to share the inside scoop about the sea dragon. But he never asked why Jake wanted to know, or even how he’d heard about it in the first place.

  Two possibilities, he thought. Either Anton’s a lot less curious than he looks…or he already knew why I was asking.

  * * * *

  The Kensington family chauffeur picked Jake up, bright and early. The guys working garage-gate security at Barrymore were starting to get used to him coming and going. Not happy to see him, just used to him. Upstairs, the tight-lipped maid let him in. Even her ice was melting a little, but that might have been because he dressed for the scene; Jake had broken out his Sunday best, shaved clean and dressed in a herringbone three-piece suit. It was corporate camouflage and he’d tested it on his way up, riding an elevator filled with middle-manager types. No one gave him a second glance.

  He had an extra weapon in his arsenal. His old police credentials rode in his inner breast pocket, sheathed in black plastic. He’d given up his shield years ago, but the ID card still got him through doors now and then. Flip open an official-looking document, snap it shut before your mark could really read what it said, and they’d believe anything if you talked fast and sold a convincing lie. In the last year that card had passed him off as a courier, a regional manager, and a health inspector — twice.

  He had to smile at a memory. Woody, walking him through creating his Paradise Clash persona. “Getting you acclimated to the game is going to be easier than I thought. You’re halfway to being a roleplayer already.”

  He let himself into Trevor’s room. Then he went to work. He had already searched the bedroom, last time he was here, and came up empty; Trevor’s secrets were all online. He still gave it another pass, rifling through drawers and the shelves of his closet — this time, looking for something more utilitarian. He needed to get into the Barrymore Academy, and he doubted they had an open-door policy for visitors.

  He came up empty. Jake had been Outside for a long time. Too long to swim free in these gilded, disinfected waters. He n
eeded a local expert. He scratched the red, inflamed skin around his Werther implant as he subvocalized a call-command to Martika, the fixer who had gotten him this job.

  Her voice was a Russian torch-singer croon in his inner ear. “My favorite bounty hunter. Still looking for the Kensington kid?”

  “His mind, anyway. The rest of him’s right next to me, not going anywhere. I need a little intel on the arcology scene these days; I’m already inside Barrymore, past the outer security cordon. How hard is it going to be to do a little poking around in here?”

  “With the client’s help? Not at all. Trevor’s parents can get you a day pass, anything you need within reason.”

  That nagging itch again. He really needed to get his implant checked out. “I have to keep my motives on the down-low.”

  “You think his parents are involved?”

  “No, but I think they might be loose-lipped around those who are. Too many people are sticking their fingers in this job and I’m not convinced they’re all looking out for the kid’s best interests. I need to pay a social call to Trevor’s school, in the flesh. Would he have some kind of ID card, a pass to get in?”

  Martika’s laughter was like chimes of ice. “Darling, key-cards? So retro.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been Outside for a long time.”

  “And Barrymore was never your stomping-grounds, was it? You were…Holiday Arcology, right?”

  Jake leaned back against Trevor’s dresser.

  “When I feel like getting nostalgic,” he said, “I’ll let you know. And I’ll be drunk, just warning you.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get testy. No, the flavor of the day when it comes to the corporate youth of Barrymore is subdermal chips, just like the mandatory ones mom and pop have to get as part of their employment contracts. Lets the boss know you’re not going over your mandated two-and-a-half-minute bathroom break.”

  “Can’t they track everybody by their Werthers?”

  “Werther GPS signals are easy to hack. And the implants themselves are easy to remove — if messy — by the hands of some enterprising kidnapper with a pair of pliers and a high tolerance for inflicting pain. A subdermal chip, which can be planted in any one of a hundred spots on the body and masked against a casual scan, is a much more reliable tool for the job.”

  Jake eyed the comatose teenager on the bed, hospital machines softly beeping as he took his breakfast through the IV tube in his arm. Even if he knew exactly where Trevor’s chip was planted, zero chance he was going to go digging for it. Some lines you don’t cross.

  “Looks like I’m going to have to get creative. Thanks, Martika.”

  “Nichevo strashnava, my friend. Just a word of warning? You’re on hostile ground as it is, and the corporate enclaves are very, very protective of their fledgling recruits.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, arcology schools have trained security staff. Not mall-cops. Veterans — ex-military, ex-cops. Fully authorized, should they suspect ill behavior, to shoot on sight and let the lawyers ask questions later.”

  Words of wisdom. Jake wondered, and not for the first time, if he shouldn’t just do this from the relative safety of the game-world. The problem was, that sense of safety went both ways. There was a good chance Rickey had information on what Trevor was up to, who the kid had crossed, and how he’d ended up comatose and brain-snatched. Jake was going to have to put the squeeze on him.

  That meant doing it face to face. In person, in the real world, where Rickey couldn’t hide behind the mask of Magnolto the magician. Paradise Clash was coded so that nothing could really hurt you. Reality wasn’t. Jake wasn’t looking to hurt the man, not necessarily, but he wasn’t ruling out the option. More importantly, Rickey needed to know he could be hurt.

  One way or another, Jake was going to find out everything Rickey knew. Every secret he was still keeping.

  21.

  Jake needed a way in. Rickey was a contractor for Westinghouse Educational Corporation; they provided school services to arcologies across the planet and ran them like beehives. The staff was vetted, heavily indentured — Westinghouse paid for their teaching degrees in exchange for a long-term contract — and largely confined to campus. Making the teachers live in a dormitory kept costs down. It also kept them behind the security cordon, which meant waiting for Rickey to leave after work wasn’t an option.

  Trevor’s parents could get him inside, but like he’d told Martika, he wasn’t sure who they were talking to or how careful they’d been about their son’s predicament. The less they knew, the less they could accidentally spill, and the safer Trevor would be until Jake found a way to bring him back home.

  He couldn’t show up on campus with Gordon and Emily’s knowledge, or their blessing. Then again, if he found an angle, maybe they wouldn’t have to know. He thought back to their first meeting. Emily was a rarity: the scion of a AAA-credit family, with pristine, baby-pink skin behind her ears. She didn’t have a Werther implant and seemed proud of the fact. Of course, that kind of pride was easy when you had a whole staff of lackeys to place your calls, make your reservations, or carry out the hundred other day-to-day chores that practically required a Grid 2.0 hookup.

  Chores like taking care of the arrangements when your kid was home sick from school. Jake’s Eva patched him in to the academy’s reception desk.

  “Good morning,” he said, putting on his best business voice. “This is Jacob Camden, calling from Senator Kensington’s office. It’s about her son, Trevor.”

  The receptionist’s voice was a gust of breath, harried but warm.

  “Oh, goodness, is he all right? We’ve been worried. Everyone loves Trevor here, such a bright young man.”

  “He’s on the mend, but I’m afraid the doctors want to keep him home and in bed a bit longer. Just to be safe, I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course, of course. What can we do to help?”

  Jake paced at the foot of Trevor’s bed, back and forth, weaving the pieces of his story together.

  “Well, he’s getting his lessons through his school deck, and he has his virtual books, but he told his mother there are some physical notebooks in his locker and they have notes that he needs to study up on. Would it be possible for me to swing by and pick those up?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “I’ll have someone empty his locker out and put it all in a bag; come by the administration office, I’ll be here all day.”

  He thanked her and hung up the phone. That was easy. Now came the hard part: using that excuse to slip deeper onto the campus, find Rickey, and question him. Oh, and get out without being shot by some overzealous security guard. That too.

  * * * *

  Academy Three was on the arcology’s eighteenth floor, a brisk elevator drop from the penthouse suites. The walk-up to the outer cordon drove home the beehive analogy. The walls took on hard angles and a copper-golden sheen, like steel honeycombs. Scrolling LEDs along the walls welcomed students and visitors alike with a warning: authorized personnel only, prepare to be scanned and searched. Security provided by Westinghouse Hi-Caliber, a subsidiary of Westinghouse Educational Corporation.

  The honeycomb broke into a pair of funnels, one for enrolled students, one for guests and deliveries. Jake headed left. A thick wall of reinforced glass slid open as he approached, then whispered shut at his back. Another wall was just ahead. He stood in the mantrap in-between, freezing under the glare of a yellow LED eye.

  “Hold for scan,” said an electronic voice, crackling from a recessed speaker above his head. Jake tried not to squint as a bar of yellow light washed over his eyes. Sniffers checked him for chemical weapons, illicit subdermals, and the tang of gunpowder.

  “No authentication on file,” said the voice. “Identify yourself.”

  He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be talking to the glowing eye on the wall or the speaker above him. He divided his attention between the two.

  “Jacob Camden. I work for Senator Kensington, Tr
evor’s mother. I’m expected.”

  He counted slow under his breath. When he reached five, the glass wall ahead slid aside. He stepped into a fortress inside a fortress.

  Signs along the honeycomb walls pointed him toward the administration office, and security cameras set into every high corner swiveled to make sure he walked where he was supposed to. A small pack of students passed him by, all whispers and giggles, dressed in identical salt-and-pepper uniforms with prim gray ties. He thought about stopping them, asking where he could find Mr. Rickey, but the cameras kept his lips sealed. He only had one shot at this.

  He kept a lookout for holes in the surveillance net. Utility closets, side hallways without a glass eye keeping careful watch, anything he could use to slip through the cracks. Getting in was one thing; depending on how much noise he had to make, leaving the way he came in might not be an option.

  Jake had timed his arrival with care. Morning, about an hour before lunch. Classes were in session, morning deliveries had already come and gone, and the faculty had its hands full. A honeycomb archway opened onto the administration office. Golden vinyl chairs lined the walls like an upscale doctor’s office, while a grandmotherly woman in institutional gray typed away behind the curve of a sleek synthetic-wood desk. The counter ran the length of the room; beyond was faculty territory, with a pair of discreet closed doors flanking a grid of octagonal cubbyholes stuffed with envelopes and messages.

  “Morning,” he said. “I think we spoke on the phone earlier.”

  She was dressed for a rainy day, but she had a smile that could push back the clouds. “Mr. Camden! Of course. The custodian emptied out Trevor’s locker, and we’ve got everything right here.”

  His heart sank as she hoisted a thick plastic bag, transparent but emblazoned with the Westinghouse logo, onto the counter between them. He had hoped he could use the story as an excuse to get to Trevor’s locker — and deeper into the school, closer to Rickey’s classroom. The receptionist was too efficient for her own good. He rummaged through the bag, thinking fast. There were a couple of tattered textbooks, a spiral notebook, nothing he could use.