and-white gangster flatfilm, the sort of thing that had preceded entertainment holos.
Three of the weirdos were male figures, dressed in pin-striped suits with broad-brimmed hats. The fourth was a striking-looking blond woman in a long skirt and an old-fashioned sweater, with a little hat perched on her head.
The tallest man in the little group pointed back at Babe Ruth. “Ah, pipe down, ya big fat slob!”
Matt frowned as Leif stood up, trying to get a better look at the hecklers. Ty Cobb went racing into the outfield, screaming insults back at the hecklers. Yet his voice was almost inaudible.
“Something is wrong here,” Matt said. “We shouldn’t have been able to hear that guy.”
Yet the taunting voice was still echoing throughout the stadium — as if the tall figure in the outfield had somehow taken over the public-address system. But that was impossible — wasn’t it?
Matt was in for a worse surprise. What the foursome in the bleachers did next was
Matt had only seen Thompson submachine guns in holos. They were big, heavy, clumsy things. But the four in the stands handled them as if they were light as feathers. The weapons thundered out as the intruders sprayed the field, cutting down the holographic ballplayers.
Joe DiMaggio couldn’t outrun a machine-gun bullet. Nor could Willie Mays or Roberto Clemente. Ty Cobb was also cut down. The tallest of the gunners ignored the nearby, easy targets. He set his sights on Babe Ruth himself, sending the Yankee slugger flying back in an ungraceful dance of death.
Harsh laughter echoed across the field. “Too easy!” the tall gunman hooted. “The target was so big!”
They’ve got to be holo characters, Matt told himself. The drums on those machine guns can’t hold more than a hundred rounds. And they
Holos or not, the quartet of thugs was emptying the stands. A huge V-shape in the bleachers had cleared as real and virtual spectators bolted from their seats to get out of the line of fire. Frightened people clogged the stairs and walkways, clawing at one another as they tried to flee.
Matt’s lips twisted in a scornful smile as he watched the stampeding crowd. “Some idiot is going to get his or her neck broken, running away from that little laser show,” he began.
Then Matt noticed the still forms slumped in their seats all through the triangle of death.
He turned in sudden concern. “Leif—” he began.
His friend had actually climbed up on his seat to get a better view of the chaos in the stands. He was still up there, a perfect target, as a hologram bullet passed through his chest.
Leif tumbled off the bleacher seat, his eyes wide, his mouth distorted in a silent scream. He landed soundlessly on the floor — not very realistic, Matt found himself thinking. But with all the mayhem going on, the stadium’s veeyar simulation system was probably getting overloaded.
Matt pushed those thoughts away as he dropped to one knee, yelling, “Anybody here in virtual, pull the plug! Get out of here!”
The holographic images of several of his friends, and many of the strangers within earshot, quickly winked out. Matt barely noticed. All his attention was on his downed friend Leif. There was no sign of a bullet wound, Matt noted with a sigh of relief. But Leif definitely wasn’t in very good shape.
His face seemed waxy, white as chalk. Leif’s eyes were wide and staring, but they didn’t show any signs of consciousness. The pupils had shrunk to pinpoint size.
Matt recognized the symptoms. Shock. It was a common response to physical or mental trauma. It was also a nerve problem when something went wrong with computer implants.
Basic training in the Net Force Explorers meant a full course in first aid. But there was nothing Matt could do to help his friend. Leif wasn’t here, he was two hundred miles away. Matt couldn’t even get a pulse through the failing veeyar link.
He dug into his back pocket, hauling out his wallet. Flipping aside his IDs and Universal Credit Card, he came to the foilpack keypad that came with every wallet. Matt activated the power and hit the “phone” option. The flexible circuitry inside the tough polymer material switched to the precoded cellular phone format.
Matt muttered a brief prayer as he held the wallet to his ear. There was the connection tone! He’d been afraid that with the stadium systems all fouled up, he wouldn’t be able to get a line at all.
First things first. Matt punched in the area code for the East Side of Manhattan, then Leif’s home phone number. “Come on!” he muttered as electronic noises bleeped in his ear. Then the connection was made — but no one was home.
“Your call cannot be answered at this time,” a pleasant-sounding female voice purred in Matt’s ear. It was the Andersons’ computer system, offering him a choice of voice-mail options.
Matt cut the connection, waited for the tone, and began dialing again. This time the number was shorter — the New York municipal area code plus 911.
“Emergency services,” a computerized voice came on.
“Medical emergency,” Matt said, trying to keep his words clear. He gave Matt’s address and apartment number. “Victim is alone and in shock — possible damage to subdural computer implant and neural injuries.”
Matt choked. Just a few minutes ago, he’d been joking with Leif about blowing brain cells on useless information. If whatever happened here had caused serious damage, Leif might actually have lost brain cells.
Leif hadn’t moved or spoken. His holographic image became fuzzy, then faded away. Matt stared in worry.
A real voice replaced the computer interface, asking for more information. Matt tried to answer the questions, and added a fact that might hurry any rescue. “Leif is a member of the Net Force Explorers, and so am I.” Matt then rattled off his Net Force Explorers ID number, and the number for his wallet-phone.
At least that will get some help for Leif, he thought, cutting the connection to New York. Then Matt punched in the local emergency code. There were probably hundreds of people calling in this weird virtual attack to the Baltimore police. But one more won’t hurt, Matt thought. Maybe this will be the call that convinces the local cops that this isn’t just some sort of huge prank.
Matt found himself again making a report to a computerized voice-mail system. Sure, he thought, Emergency Services must be getting flooded with calls. He kept his story short and to the point, mentioned the Net Force Explorers, and cut the connection.
What had he missed while he’d been trying to get help?
The Gruesome Foursome still stood at the top of the bleachers, hosing the field and the seats with their tommy guns. Matt got a queasy feeling as a make-believe bullet passed through his arm, but it seemed that the virtual attack could only harm virtual spectators tied into the stadium’s simulation system.
Armored figures suddenly appeared in the emptied bleachers.
Police spotters, Matt figured, popping up in holographic form to get a look at what was going on.
Hadn’t they been warned about the holographic bullets? Maybe they thought their virtual armor could handle it…but they were wrong.
Several police observers went down. Then they all shimmered and disappeared.
Matt could hear sirens converging on the stadium, and police copters appeared overhead.
The tall gangster’s laughter resounded across the nearly empty ball field. He aimed his virtual tommy gun into the sky, but the holographic bullets didn’t harm real live police equipment.
“All right, people,” the pin-striped gunman’s voice blared through the PA system. “Show’s over.”
His laughter, and the ratcheting roar of the machine guns, cut off as if a knife had sliced through the air.
Most of the people around Matt crouched or lay behind the flimsy safety of the bleachers. But Matt Hunter stood, glaring at the oddly dressed foursome who had caused so much devastation in a few short minutes.
Then the intruders were gone, without so much as a flash or shadow to mark their going.
Whoever they are, Matt thought, they have an excellent system behind them. Talk about your clean getaways….
Chapter 2
