The Graveyard Game (3 page)

Receiving your signal. Who’s that?

Literature Specialist Lewis. Joseph?

Lewis! What are you doing up here?

We have something to discuss in private. Coordinates, please?

Directions were transmitted. Lewis got back into his car and drove down from Coit Tower, apologizing this time to the brakes and promising to go nowhere near Lombard Street’s notorious block.

He drove to another tourist attraction instead: the great outdoor shopping mall on Pier 39. Parking, he wandered through the mortal throng, the Europeans with cameras, performance artists, recovering addicts hawking cheap jewelry from card tables. Near the entrance Lewis spotted the location he sought. It was an amusement arcade of the modern variety, promising the thrills, so popular in this late twentieth century, of vicarious mass destruction and simulated murder. Cautiously he went in, politely declining a handbill that would have got him twenty cents off a frozen yogurt cone.

He stood peering down a long dark corridor filled with electronic games, tuning his hearing to sort through the wall of noise. Beeps, crashes, screams, roaring, and a familiar voice:

“. . . so your place would be the first, Jeff. We’re willing to throw in the service plan for free, too. But, you know, I really think this model sells itself. I mean, I couldn’t believe it when I saw the resolution, personally.”

“Yeah, I like the graphics,” somebody said, almost won over but wanting a bit more assurance. Lewis walked around a console where an adolescent boy was piloting a flying motorcycle through flames and winged demons. He beheld two bearded men, spotlighted in reflection from the sunlit world outside.

One was a young mortal, in nondescript casual clothes. The other was an immortal, a short and rather stockily built male in an Armani suit. His ancestry might have been Spanish, or Jewish, or Italian, or Greek; in fact he had been born centuries before any of those nations existed, though he appeared to be in his early thirties. He wore a neatly trimmed black mustache and beard, which gave him a cheerfully villainous look.

Open on the floor at his feet was a bulky white case bearing the logo of a well-known special effects house based in Marin County. He was holding a curious visored helmet in his hands, extending it to the mortal.

Both men turned to look at Lewis as he approached.

“Do you have a soda machine in here?” Lewis inquired.

“Sorry, no,” the mortal told him, but the man in the Armani suit reached out a beckoning hand.

“Hey, friend, have you got a minute? Would you mind being part of an impromptu demonstration here?”

“Not at all,” Lewis said. The immortal reached out to shake his hand.

What are you doing?

Bear with me
.

“Name is Joseph X. Capra, how’re you doing today? Great. Listen, I’m just offering my friend here some of the latest virtual reality technology for his business, and I’d like to get an unbiased opinion of this new helmet. Would you mind trying it on?”

“Not at all,” said Lewis graciously, setting his briefcase between his feet. “Of course, I don’t play VR games much—”

“That’s okay, friend. That’s even better, you know? You won’t know what to expect.” Joseph stepped around the case and set the helmet on Lewis’s head. He fastened down the visor, and Lewis found himself in total darkness, listening to the voices outside.

“Now, just hang in there a minute, friend. You’ll experience maybe a second of disorientation, but I promise you, the room won’t be moving. Let’s see, would you like to try the walk through Stonehenge? That’s a neat one, let’s get you set up for that.”

“Sure,” Lewis said.

Jeff said doubtfully: “I understand the Japanese have stuff now that’s five years ahead of anything we have, so this is probably already obsolete—”

“This they don’t have,” said Joseph firmly. “Trust me on this one, pal. Here we go, the walk through Stonehenge!”

Lewis heard a click, and ethereal New Age music began to play in his headphones as Salisbury Plain opened out before him. He seemed to be drifting across it like a cloud, advancing on the Neolithic monument as it might have looked shortly after its completion. White-robed druids were moving in procession around it, chanting.

Really, Joseph, there weren’t any druids yet when Stonehenge was finished. I was one, I should know
. “Gosh, this is—quite amazing,” said Lewis.

“You like those visuals, huh? Aren’t they killer?”
Yeah, I know. What do you want? The artist is a neopagan reincarnated shaman in his spare time
. “But the best part’s coming up in just a couple of seconds. Hang in there—”

Lewis felt a hand grip his shoulder, and it was just as well, because there was a sudden flash within the helmet that left him with a pattern of stars dancing before his eyes. The virtual world around him skewed and broke up. He could tell he was supposed to be watching the arrival of the sun god Belenos, but the image was fragmented. He felt sick and dizzy.

“Oh—ah—wow! What an experience!” he chirped desperately.
What in God’s name did you just do to me?

“You like that?” The grip did not leave his shoulder. “Think you’d come back to my friend’s operation, here, to play this one?”
I’ll explain when we’re out of here
.

“Yes, certainly. Can’t wait!”
I’d sooner have my liver torn out by harpies!

“Unfortunately, this is only a sampler program, so you only get an excerpt,” Joseph said, as the music stopped and the picture went to black. There was another click, and the Great Pyramid began to loom into view as Joseph lifted the helmet away. Lewis stood blinking, running a self-diagnostic.

Something’s wrong! There’s an error in my data transmission
.

Yeah, it’s fried for the next twenty-four hours. Mine too
.

He was referring to the constant flow of data that went back to a Company terminal somewhere, the visual and auditory impressions
from every immortal operative. It guaranteed that an operative in the field was always being watched over, could be rescued in time of trouble; but it also made private conversation impossible, except through subvocal transmission, which required a lot of concentration.

Are you out of your mind?
Lewis transmitted.

No, but the Company’s out of yours
. Joseph was grinning, shaking his hand again. “I’d like to thank you for your valuable time and opinion. Great meeting you.” Go
outside and wait. I’ll be finished here in just a minute
. He turned to Jeff and said, “So okay, that’s a guy who doesn’t regularly use your product, and see the effect it had on him? Now. Because this is practically the prototype, Mr. Lucas feels . . .”

Lewis tottered outside and groped hurriedly for his sunglasses. He bought a Calistoga water at a snack stand and sat down on a bench with it. His hands shook as he poured the drink into a paper cup and sipped carefully.

He watched Joseph emerge from the arcade with Jeff, deep in conversation. They went across the street to what was obviously Joseph’s car—a black Lexus sports coupe, gold package—and loaded the case into the trunk. Finally, Joseph shook Jeff’s hand and walked back with him as far as the arcade entrance, talking earnestly and persuasively the whole while. They shook hands again, and the mortal went back inside. Joseph stood there a moment, going through a routine of finding and putting on his Ray-Bans, shooting his cuffs, patting his pockets for his keys, as Lewis got up and strolled toward him.

So, want to take my car?

I’d really rather not drive in this condition, thank you
. Lewis frowned slightly as he finished his mineral water and put the cup in a trash receptacle.

Trust me, the dizziness won’t last
, Joseph told him as they walked across the street, pretending not to notice each other.
But you sounded like you had something private to discuss, and now we can discuss it out loud. Neat trick, huh?

Remarkable, but couldn’t you have invented something a little less painful?

Joseph pulled out his keys, making his car beep twice as it unlocked for him.
I didn’t invent it. Total fluke discovery. The particular hardware in that particular helmet plus the glitch in that particular sample program. Nothing the Company could ever have anticipated when they designed us. I’m working on reproducing the effect in something smaller and more portable, though
. He got into the car, and Lewis got in on the other side.

Dear Lord! You’d better be careful, Joseph. Is it safe to talk in here?

“Oh, yeah,” said Joseph, looking over his shoulder as he backed out of his parking space. “But I’d wait till we get where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?”

“Chinatown!” Joseph grinned and peeled away from the curb.

They parked in Portsmouth Square near the Stevenson Monument. Lewis looked around nervously at the towering buildings. “A lot of these are unreinforced brick, you know,” he remarked.

“Uh-huh,” said Joseph, striding away up the street. “But we both know there’s no earthquake today, so what’s the problem?”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Lewis objected, hurrying after him. “I don’t see how you can overcome the basic hazard-avoidance programming.”

“You live long enough, you can figure out ways around almost anything,” said Joseph, stopping to look up at a rusting pink neon sign. “Come on, this is it. Good old Sam Pan’s.”

He stepped through a narrow doorway into what was apparently a restaurant, and spoke in fluid Cantonese to an elderly man in a stained apron. Lewis waited in the doorway, peering doubtfully into the tiny dim kitchen. Before him a steep flight of wooden stairs ascended next to the yawning mouth of a dumbwaiter. It opened on a black shaft whose impenetrable darkness stank like a crypt.

The elderly man nodded and sent a slightly less elderly man to lead them up the stairs. On the third floor landing they emerged into a lofty dining room with card tables lined up along the street windows, through which the afternoon sun poured like gold. Flies whirled merrily in the sunbeams. The waiter settled them at a table
and shuffled away to the dumbwaiter, where two bottles of beer rose smoothly into sight. He brought them to Joseph and went off to sit at the table by the staircase, where he proceeded to remove his right shoe and sock and examine his corns.

“We’re not going to eat here, are we?” murmured Lewis.

“What are you, nuts?” Joseph’s eyes widened as he opened their beers. “But isn’t this a great place to talk in private? Can you imagine any Company operative coming in here for any reason at all? Get a load of
this.”
He jabbed with a chopstick between two of the bricks in the bare wall; ancient mortar trickled down like fine sand. “Any quake over 6.2 and, boy—”

“Don’t.” Lewis closed his eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay. Next big one isn’t scheduled for—” Joseph looked at his chronometer. “Well, a while, anyway. So, what did you want to talk about?” He lifted his bottle and drank.

Lewis drew a deep breath. “You know I was posted to the Laurel Canyon HQ back in ’65.”

“The Mount Olympus place?” Joseph frowned. “That’s the one that monitors the Lookout Mountain Drive anomaly, huh? It’s a full-service HQ now?”

“Budget reasons,” Lewis said.

Joseph sighed and shook his head. “Jesus. One of these days that whole place will get sucked into some black hole, you know? So, what happened? Was there a disturbance?”

“Yes, apparently, though it was over by the time I got there,” said Lewis. He wondered how to tell Joseph what he had to say next. Finally, he just said it. “Joseph, I saw Mendoza.”

He wasn’t prepared for the reaction. Something flared for a moment in Joseph’s eyes, then burned out as fast as it had appeared. He lifted his beer and took another swallow. “Really?” he said casually. “No kidding? How’s she doing these days?”

“What do you mean, how’s she doing these days?” gasped Lewis, staring at him.

Joseph looked for a long moment into Lewis’s white face.
“Oh,” he said. He set the beer down carefully. He put his head in his hands.

“You mean you didn’t know?” Lewis was horrified. “I’d have thought you of all people would have been notified!”

“Yes and no,” said Joseph in a muffled voice.

“All these years I thought you
knew.”
Lewis sagged back in his chair. “My God. I was never officially notified myself, I came across the partial transcript in my case officer’s files.”

“What happened to her?” Joseph lifted his face. His eyes were cold now. “You tell me. I’d rather hear it from you.”

“She was arrested,” Lewis said. “And . . . retired from active duty. Joseph, I’m sorry, I never thought—”

“Arrested? What the hell did she do? When was this?”

“1863. She was stationed in Los Angeles, and—”

“L.A.?” Joseph said. “They sent her down there? What did they do that for? She was in the Ventana, she was okay. Nothing grows in Los Angeles! Nothing natural, anyhow.”

“Well, things used to, before the 1863 drought. There’s that temperate belt, remember? She was stationed in the old Cahuenga Pass HQ.”

“Bleeding Jesus!”

“Well, she was doing all right. Apparently. She’d completed her mission and everything, but . . . From what I can tell, the job ended, and she wasn’t reassigned anywhere else.” Lewis swallowed hard. “You know how layovers can be.”

Joseph nodded. “If trouble’s going to happen, it happens on a layover. Every time. Some goddam idiot of a posting officer . . . Tell me the rest.”

Lewis wrung his hands. “I’m not clear on the details. As far as I could make out, somehow everybody was away from the HQ one day except for Mendoza and a junior operative. And . . . a mortal came to the station while the boy was in the field. She, er, ran off with the mortal. Deserted.”

“With a mortal?” Joseph stared. “But she couldn’t stand being
around mortals! Not since—” He halted. “Who was this guy? Did anybody find out?”

“Oh, yes, the boy testified. It was his testimony transcript I saw, actually. The mortal seems to have been one of those Englishmen their foreign office sent out back then to court the Confederacy.” Lewis stopped. Joseph had gone a nasty putty color under his tan.