Mindgames: Part 1, Chapter 1: You Are Cordially Invited...

i

Cedric died violently. This was only mildly irritating considering how poorly he'd done in his quest. His predecessors had easily evaded this trap and their success had made him careless. So when the granite block swung toward him at the end of the vine, he simply threw himself into a shallow dive without considering that the block might be swinging a little lower and faster this time. He realized his mistake just as the left side of his head caved in.

He was on his feet a moment after his death, shouldering his axe with a muttered curse. He was unworthy of a place in the great marble Hall of Fallen Heroes, but he'd already been transported there, so he climbed the empty pedestal next to Balaban the Thief (who had died picking a booby-trapped lock). He crouched in an attitude of ferocious attack, bared his teeth and brandished his weapon. Then his limbs locked in eternal pose and a swirling mist engulfed the hall.

Conlan Royce opened his eyes with a disgruntled sigh and switched off the machine at his side. He disconnected the wires at the base of his skull, half expecting to feel hot, sticky blood and the sharp tips of broken bone. His fingers met only smooth, unbroken skin and the tips of the implants. But that reality of illusion was what made mindgaming so much fun.

He sat up with a little grunt and swung his legs over the edge of the cot just as his wife entered the cubicle. "Were you watching?" he asked, hoping that she hadn't been.

Her smile was both sympathetic and apologetic. "I was bringing in the week's mail and decided to see how you were doing." She took the wires from him, rolled them up, and slipped them into their storage compartments. "I was a little surprised you could be caught so easily, and on your fifth try."

"I didn't know this scenario had a random factor in it."

"Didn't know?! It says right in the introduction, after your fourth try the random factor is activated! Well, never mind, you know now. Who'll you send next? Bethina?"

"Mm, she'd be good. I haven't played a magic-user since Datham got himself swallowed by that magic-resistant swamp dragon. What about you? Join me next time?"

"Maybe. I'm about ready to tackle this one--if you'll swear not to get nasty and sacrifice me like you did in that Amazon thing."

Conlan laughed. "I swear. Now, what's for dinner?"

"Dinner?!" She slapped playfully at his paunch as they stepped out into the rec room. "You were skipping dinner tonight!"

"Getting killed makes a guy hungry! Okay, tonight we go to the restaurant and see how they do on the boss's night off. What's in the mail?"

"A letter from your sister who refuses to use a computer and a couple of contracts for your signature."

"Be still, my heart. What about E-mail?"

"Just an invitation to Eric Arne's last game."

Conlan quivered to a halt. "Good Lord, woman! Arne's last game?! Every gamer in the western hemisphere would give his sword arm for that invitation!"

"I know," laughed his wife. "I've already arranged for Jack to watch the restaurant while you're gone."

"Eric Arne's last game!" Conlan's eyes gleamed. "I wonder who else he's invited?"

"As if you'd be allowed to know."

"True. But I'll bet they'll be the best, the brightest, and the most unpredictable gamers in this country!"

ii

"Damn and blast!"

The computer caught Brian Carnwell upside-down, naked, and red-handed. Literally.

"I told you not to disturb me!" he shouted.

"Sorry, boss." The rich, feminine voice lacked the least bit of regret. "I have a message coming through I think you'll want to see."

"You're a machine, dammit! You don't have opinions!" Brian wiped the paint from his palms onto his pants, forgetting that he wasn't wearing any.

"You're the one experimenting with artificial intelligence," argued the computer in very reasonable tones. "And you've admitted that you don't always know how your programming will turn out."

"All right, all right!" He reached up and grabbed the bar, unhooking his ankle shackles and letting his bare feet swing down to the drop cloth. He inspected the huge canvas smeared with great, sweeping handsful of turquoise and scarlet. His thighs now matched the latter colour beautifully. He scowled and padded across the thick carpet to the terminal. "I'll have you know I was in the middle of what could have been my best work yet. It's your fault if I lose my inspiration."

"I've scanned some of your paintings," retorted the machine. "I'm not sure you ever--"

"Voice off! Printout!" The printer chattered obediantly. A slow grin spread over Brian's face as he read the message. "Voice on," he commanded, "modem on, and tell the old bastard that of course I accept. Then display all my characters with their current standings. Think you can handle all that?"

"What am I, a pocket calculator? Here."

The extensive list appeared on the monitor, and Brian and his computer began cheerfully arguing their merits.

iii

Kyriako Cassada's secretary slipped in and dropped the afternoon mail on his desk. She tried to be quiet so as not to disturb his phone conversation, but he swivelled his chair and smiled his thanks at her. The flash of his teeth nicely complemented his lion's mane of white hair. Of Spanish and Greek heritage, only one generation removed from the family estate outside Athens, he clung tenaciously to the old-world ways of the audio-only telephone and the regular postal service. The small computer with modem, the vidphone, and the fax machines in the corner of his walnut-panelled office were strictly for emergencies.

He finished his conversation and leaned back in his dark leather chair. He was in acceptable condition for a man in his mid-60's, but he'd lately noticed a shortness of breath and rapidity of pulse, especially when involved in important transactions. He was fingering his wrist when his eye caught the glimmer of a gilt-edged envelope in his mail. Intrigued, he gently extracted it and slit it open with an ornate silver letter opener. The crackling sheet of paper inside was almost translucent and likewise trimmed with gold leaf. Kyriako's eyes glittered. Only one person could so thoroughly indulge his eccentricities without a trace of mockery. A slow smile added creases to his pale olive face. The ink was gold--not just gold-coloured, but pure gold--and the printing florid. "Your participation in the final adventure of Eric Arne is respectfully requested. The adventure will commence precisely at four o'clock, post meridian, Eastern Daylight Time, on Wednesday, the twenty-sixth of April, the year of Our Lord two thousand and thirty-four, and will conclude approximately three days later or with the death of your last character, whichever occurs first. Your reply is eagerly awaited."

Kyriako consulted his calendar. He had several crucial meetings scheduled that week. Without another thought, he recalled his secretary, instructed her to regretfully postpone all those appointments, and dictated his acceptance. The heads of Ethiopia and China and Mexico and the rest would have to wait another week. An experience like this came only once in a lifetime.

iv

Amanda Byerly had put her youngest son down for his nap and was programming next week's menu when the fax machine signalled an incoming message. She saved her partially completed menu, then rolled her wheelchair over to read the message. It was brief, cheery, and exciting. She immediately wrote out and transmitted her acceptance, then activated her modem and hooked her computer terminal into her husband's at his office. He responded with a lively "WHAT'S UP?"

"ERIC ARNE'S SECRETARY JUST FAXED AN INVITATION TO HIS LAST GAME," she typed. "IT STARTS A WEEK FROM WEDNESDAY, RUNS 'TIL SATURDAY, AND I WAS WONDERING IF YOU AND THE KIDS COULD WING IT ALONE FOR THOSE FEW DAYS?"

"NO SWEAT," the screen printed immediately. "I HAVE PLENTY VACATION BANKED AWAY. I ASSUME YOU'VE ALREADY ACCEPTED?"

"YOU KNOW ME TOO WELL!"

"THAT'S WHAT TEN YEARS' MARRIAGE DOES TO YOU," he teased, then signed off. Amanda blew a kiss at the monitor, then recalled her menu and began making changes. She would have to plan something extra special for the family to make up for her absence.

v

Everything about Josh MacKenzie was apologetic, from his expression to his height. He often had to be asked to speak up--when he spoke at all. That he remained unmarried at forty-five was no surprise to his acquaintances. Yet he had a way of getting others to do exactly what he wanted, while all the time staying comfortably in the background. Perhaps that was why he'd been promoted to departmental supervisor. Perhaps his own boss had sensed the hidden power that otherwise revealed itself only when he was gaming.

Gaming was his real passion. Consequently, his pallid face took on an unaccustomed flush when he returned to his apartment for lunch and found the message on his monitor. Eric Arne's games were legendary; even the non-gamers knew his name. The Tri-Dim and virtual reality recordings of the adventures invariably sold out even before they were released. Josh remembered clearly his only previous invitation to an Arne adventure, nearly a decade ago. Then a newcomer to mindgaming, he'd acquitted himself well. He was apparently now to receive his reward.

Josh sent his acceptance, then forgot lunch as he spent the remainder of the hour choosing from among his characters. And though he returned promptly to his office, he spent the rest of the afternoon in his own world, his body at his desk while his mind engaged in heroic battles. Not surprisingly, no one noticed.

vi

When Kimberly Garnett's personal secretary finally found his boss after nearly an hour scouring the complex, it was more by sound than sight. Tall, thin, imperiously regal, she was releasing all the acid of her tongue at an unfortunate underling who had been impertinent enough to allow some of his own creativity to slip into her designs. The Garnett label was one of the most respected in the industry, and with good reason--she had carved her niche in a cutthroat business with a ruthlessness surpassed only by her talent, earning countless awards and an array of sobriquets from "the Grand Dame of Fashion" to "the Dragon Lady" to "Her Bitchiness" and worse. She was certainly not about to let some upstart jeopardize half a century of work with his own dreams of fame. If he wanted to have ideas, let him start his own label!

The secretary waited diffidently until the last verbal blow of the Garnett whip had fallen before he made himself known with a discreet cough. The basilisk eyes flicked to him. "What is it?" snapped Kimberly Garnett.

"For you, ma'am, special messenger." The young man offered the message with a smoothness belied by his barely stifled wince as the envelope was snatched by the spidery hand.

Kimberly Garnett slit open the envelope with one long, ebony-lacquered fingernail. She paused to sweep a few strands of waist-length silver hair from her eyes and across the shoulder of her black velvet jacket, then extracted the slip of paper. "Damn!" she muttered as she scanned it. "The old fool expects me to drop everything to applaud his swansong. Doesn't he know I've got a fall line to get out?" But the glint in her eye and the tight smile that was her only expression of pleasure showed that she had already made her choice. When the message was thrust back with a curt nod, the secretary knew he was to send her acceptance. So he vanished wordlessly while the Garnett glare once more roved in search of malefactors.

vii

"Trash!" growled Joyce Pearlman. "Utter, stinking trash!" She ripped the paper from her printer, shredded it, and savagely ground the streamers into the carpet. "My God," she shouted, pounding her own forehead with her fists, "how can you write such tripe?!"

She turned her back on her computer, lit a cigarette with a trembling hand, and stared out the window. Silent waves crashed far below on the Lake Michigan shoreline and traffic crawled along Lake Shore Drive. She obscured the high-priced panorama with an angry cloud of smoke. Unlike the lake, she was dry; unlike the traffic, she was going nowhere. She'd been this way for three months. And she'd promised her publisher a new manuscript by spring. Unless her creative wellspring unplugged itself, she would have to renege on her contract. And as a hot new fantasy novelist with two books on the best-seller lists and a very expensive north-shore apartment, she could hardly afford to alienate either her publisher or her fans.

Maybe I should've switched genres after the first book, she thought. Avoided being tagged a fantasy writer. If I'd done a mystery, or a mainstream novel, or even a gothic romance, for God's sake! Maybe then I wouldn't be trapped like this! But I had to go and write another damned fantasy! And now--she jammed her cigarette against the glass and let it drop to the sill. She'd gone through this fruitless exercise in self-recrimination too often already. She heaved herself out of the comfortable swivel chair, grabbed her coat and purse, and started for the door. At least she could go and eat. Sometimes that helped, for a while.

BEEP!

She whirled and snarled at her computer. "What the hell do you want?!" Probably her agent, wanting to know why she hadn't sent him anything yet. "Can't you leave me alone?"

It couldn't; it signalled again.

"All right! All right! Bastard!"

She slung her coat into one corner and her purse into another and stalked to the terminal, jabbing at the keys. With complete impassivity, the monitor displayed Eric Arne's invitation. With extreme passion, Joyce typed out a vicious refusal. But she hesitated on the verge of sending it. An Eric Arne adventure? That might be just what she needed to prime the pump--and if she was going to continue thinking in such clich? she needed something badly!

She dumped her refusal, then typed and sent an acceptance. Then, in a fit of inspiration, she typed, "Involved in major mindgame; unavailable before mid-May." This she sent to her agent, grinning as she imagined his stunned reaction. Before he could reply, she had disconnected her terminal and was out her door, feeling much better. She had just written her first succesful piece of fiction in six months. This deserved a celebration!

As the elevator slid shut, her thoughts filled with visions of cheese soup, fettucine Alfredo, thick slabs of garlic bread, and huge wedges of French cream cheese cake, interrupted only by flashes of gratitude for her amazing turn of fortune. Eric Arne's last adventure! Maybe she could borrow a little something here and there from his scenario!

viii

"Kat, there's a message for you by the machine."

K'teesha Dahl dropped her books on the coffee table. "Who's it from?" she asked.

"Mindgames," replied Brenda.

"Oh, good. Maybe they have my first assignment." K'teesha strode over to the fax machine and picked up the paper that lay beside it. She frowned as she read it. "Hang on. This can't be right."

"What's wrong?"

"The game they've got me on. They can't be serious."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Wrong? Nothing. It's just the biggest game they've ever run, is all."

"Well, congratulations!"

"Congratulations, hell! Didn't I tell you somebody over there wants me to fail?"

"Kat, get real. They have lots of African-American employees, and women employees, and lesbian employees. Why would they be out to get you?"

K'teesha shook her head. "I don't know. It's just a feeling. Maybe I'm their only African-American lesbian woman employee. Or maybe it's 'cause I wouldn't give Jason a tumble."

"Sexual harrassment? Can you prove it?"

"No."

"Well, consider this." Brenda got up, came over and put her arm around K'teesha's waist. "Maybe they just realize how good you really are."

"Mm. Thanks." K'teesha leaned down and kissed her. "I can always count on you to keep me from getting too paranoid."

"So what's this game about?"

"God knows. You know Eric Arne?"

"Who doesn't?"

"You'd be surprised. Anyway, this is his last game we're holding. And you can bet that when the inventor of mindgaming decides to hold one final scenario, it's going to be one hell of a blowout. It'll have twice the action of any other game, guaranteed, and be at least three times as complex. It'll be by invitation only, and he'll have the best players in the country in it. Some of them will be sure to be playing two characters. And they want me to be assistant tech on it."

"How many other techs will there be?"

"Just the two of us. Me and Sean Ferris."

"Who's he?"

"Senior tech at Mindgames."

"You ever worked with him?"

"Hell, girl, I've never even met him!"

"So. Let me get this straight. Your first actual mindgame will be the biggest and most complicated game since it was invented, gamemastered by the inventor himself. For this game, you'll be paired with the best tech at Mindgames, whom you've never even met, let alone worked with. And it'll be just you and him? You're right, babe, someone's out to get you."

"Oh, dear. If you think that's true--"

"Relax, Kat!" laughed Brenda. "I'm joking! I think you've just been given the greatest honour that place can hand out, and you just haven't realized it yet!"

"Yeah." K'teesha laid the message down again. "Yeah. You're right. Damn it, you're right! It's about time I started recognizing my own worth!" She laughed. "And you know, even if my worst fears are true, and someone over there really is out to make me fail, they're gonna regret they ever tried. I'm gonna come out of this game with flags waving and rockets exploding, and I'm gonna shoot right up to the top of the business. Girl, this is one game that's gonna have a place in history!"

She was right.