Peter Griffen’s booth was strategically placed at the heart of the cavernous convention room. Two information tables occupied each of the four sides, all of them by doors that led into the interior of the huge booth. At least, they would lead into the booth later. For now they were locked.
Advertising in the form of holoprojectors hovered in miniature over the walls, but none of them offered any information on Peter Griffen or what the new game might be. Fifteen minutes’ worth of advertising about other games Eisenhower was doing spewed through the holovids, as well as some past advertising on games that had been major hits.
Even as large as the Eisenhower booth was, the convention center still dwarfed it. No other booth was as large, but most of them had holoprojectors set up to advertise games between the booths and the high ceiling. Gaming centers pushed into the four sides of the convention made do with two-dee screens that covered the walls from floor to ceiling.
Over forty thousand convention guests roamed the broad aisles, filling them to capacity. Voices created an undercurrent of noise that never stopped and was punctuated by bleeps, buzzes, sirens, and clangs from the different games. Excitement rattled through the air around Maj, turning her anxiety up a notch.
“Hey.”
Startled, Maj took an involuntary step back, then she realized Catie had been talking to her. “Hi.”
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Catie said, dropping out of the flowing crowd to stand in front of her.
“I was thinking.”
“Too hard,” Catie agreed. “I can tell by the little squinkles around your eyes.”
“Those are from lack of sleep.”
Catie glanced back at the booth. “Has Peter Griffen shown up?”
Maj shook her head. “They have no idea when he’s supposed to be here.”
“You’d think this is the place he’d be.”
“Unless he’s somewhere giving an interview. Where’s Megan?”
“With Mark. They got some time on Catspaw, so they’re busy trying to get past the lethal defenses of a wrecked space station embedded in the side of an asteroid. They’re supposed to collect the ship’s journal and get clues about what really happened aboard the ship. It’s one of those mystery-tech adventure games they enjoy.”
Maj watched a guy in a wombat costume on Rollerblades weave through an applauding crowd that separated before him. The wombat waved a purple and yellow flag gleefully.
Catie smiled. “I guess Wover’s got a new game out.”
“Yeah, and he seems to be pretty excited about it.”
“I’ve got to go meet with an art guy,” Catie said. “I’ll check back on you later.”
Maj nodded. “Good luck.”
Holo displays crowded each other for space on top of the various booths. The holos moved and shifted in neon colors, replications of new heroes and creatures being marketed as well as updated versions and continuations of heroes that had helped create the computer gaming phenomenon. Two ninjas in futuristic energy armor battled each other with laser swords on top of the Fujihama exhibit. Sparks leaped outward when the blades met, but died within inches of the floor or the nearest person. The razored shriek of energy fields meeting boomed like thunder from the speaker systems.
Maj studied the crowd, searching for Peter Griffen, wondering how she was supposed to see anyone in the crowd.
“You are Soljarr,” a nearby display squawked in a basso voice, “warrior-slave to the Tevvis colony. Your brain was removed from your body, then placed in an invulnerable drone so that you could help your captors fight against your own people. To disobey is to die. But there’s a way out, and a way to save your people, if you’re brave enough and clever enough to find it.”
At least three dozen people stood in line between corridors of tape at the Soljarr booth. All of them talked eagerly, pointing at the holo over the structure. The holo showed a shimmering blue-steel exo-body that moved as fluidly as water. Virulent purple blasts erupted from Soljarr’s fists, blasting through a line of squat, mechanical drones powering across an icy tundra, reducing them to flaming bits of metal and gears.
Maj kept moving, but then an uncomfortable feeling threaded down the back of her neck. She stepped from the crowd and looked behind her, studying the faces. Above them a holo displayed a giant panda with a long yellow scarf piloting a tiny biplane, zipping through the air and snagging metallic green coins resting on clouds.
Adults as well as kids and teens made up the crowd, all of them drifting by with the same sense of wonder on their faces. None of them appeared to be paying any special attention to Maj, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that she was being watched.
Matt Hunter swung his sword and blocked the slash that would have taken his head off if it had connected. The shock traveled the length of his arm and knocked him slightly off-balance. He took a step backward to recover, then lost his footing completely as the uneven hillside gave way.
The Burgundian warrior facing him shouted in savage joy and leaped forward. Taking his swordhilt in both hands, he swung hard.
On his back and unable to get to his feet quickly, held down by the armor he wore, Matt raised an arm.
Suddenly another sword appeared, crossing under the Burgundian warrior’s and knocking the attack aside. The Burgundian snarled a curse in his native language and turned to face the newcomer.
Matt didn’t waste any time, but the fifteenth-century armor was heavy. Even with the special skills he’d uploaded from the computer program, it took time to get to his feet.
“Traitorous dog!” the Burgundian warrior shouted.
The new knight strode to face the man. His armor showed signs of prolonged battle, smudged with blood and mud, tiny green leaves from the brush stuck it. The shield he carried over one arm had a scarred
“Hey,” Leif Anderson protested in a mildly amused voice, “no name-calling.” The sword seemed to come alive in his hands, sweeping forward time after time and driving the Burgundian warrior back.
Matt got to his feet, feeling the layer of perspiration covering his body under the heat of the armor. He took up his sword and set himself to meet the attack of another warrior bearing down on them.
The man was fierce and savage. His unkempt auburn beard showed under his helm and looked like a bird’s nest. A four-foot-long battle-ax whirled in his hand.
Matt parried the weapon with his sword and wondered if the battle-ax was an anachronism. Maid of Orleans wasn’t supposed to be historically accurate; it was supposed to be fun, an alternate reality of the Hundred Years’ War between France and England.
The Burgundian warrior drew back at once, whirling the battle-ax again. He thrust the haft between Matt’s legs in an attempt to trip him.
Stumbling, Matt barely kept his balance on the treacherous slope.
“You fall, you treacherous pup,” the Burgundian warned with a big grin, “and I’m going to smash you open like a turtle, and that’s a fact.”
From the corner of his eye, Matt watched Leif hammer his foe to the ground, then lost sight of him as he stepped around the attacking warrior. Lifting his left arm, Matt caught the ax blow on his shield, then cut his own sword beneath the man’s elbow.
The chain mail shirt the man wore prevented the sword from breaking skin, but the blunt trauma definitely broke some ribs. The Burgundian’s face whitened, and he let out a pained howl. But he drew the battle-ax back and stabbed at Matt’s legs again.
Anticipating the attack, Matt shifted and stomped a booted foot on the ax haft. The wood splintered with a sharp snap, taking off the lower third of the haft.
The Burgundian roared in rage and swung his weapon again. Computer-trained reflexes moved Matt into motion. His sword met the battle-ax in midstroke and broke the attack. He stepped forward and slammed his shield
