The Graveyard Game (Company) Read online

  “I’ll find out.” Lewis slipped his hand free and took his briefcase and keys. “Ciao, then. If I have to stay over, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Oh, stay over,” Maire ordered, waving him to the door. “Too long a drive to make twice in one day. Besides, you could use a little vacation. Get this unfortunate incident out of your mind.”

  “Oh, that,” said Lewis, as though he’d forgotten already. “Yes, well, I imagine a ride on a cable car will lighten my spirits.”

  He wasn’t referring to the popular tourist transit. Theobroma cacao has a unique effect on the nervous systems of immortals. Make chuckled at his joke. The tech looked over his shoulder in a surly kind of way as Lewis stepped out into the heat and light of a Southern California morning.

  He walked once around his car to inspect it for vandalism. When this Company HQ had been built, thirty years earlier, the gated community in which it was situated was regularly patrolled, to say nothing of being perched so far up on such a steep hill as to deter most criminals. Times had changed.

  Sooner or later, they always did.

  Satisfied that his leased transport was safe for operation, Lewis got in. Carefully he fastened his seatbelt and put on his sunglasses; carefully he backed out onto Zeus Drive and headed over the top of the hill to the less crowded exit from Mount Olympus. As he descended, he had a brief view of the city that stretched to the sea. Beyond, it had once been possible to see Catalina Island. The island was still there, but the smog hid it. Only once in a great while, when atmospheric conditions were just right, could it be glimpsed.

  He proceeded down to Hollywood Boulevard and headed north through Cahuenga Pass, where he got on the Hollywood Freeway. He bore east to Interstate 5. After Mission San Fernando he followed the old stagecoach road, now a multilane highway into the mountains. It took him north, under arches restored since the last earthquake.

  Long high miles brought him to Tejon Ranch, where the road dropped like a narrow sawmill flume between towering mountains preposterously out of scale. At the top, the San Joaquin Valley hung before his eyes like a curtain, and far down and away the tiny road raced across it, straight as an arrow.

  He shivered, remembering how bad the grim old Ridge Route had been, especially in the season of flash floods, or forest fires, or blizzards, or summer heat so extreme, it made automobile tires explode. The modern road had only the drawback of the San Andreas Fault, which lay directly beneath it.

  But there was no earthquake scheduled today, so as he shot down onto the plain through a miasma of burning brakes he muttered a little prayer of thanks to Apollo, in whom he did not particularly believe, but one really ought to thank somebody for getting safely down that pass.

  For the next four hours the view was the same: the lion-yellow Diablo Range on his left, flat fields on his right, stretching across the floor of the valley to the Sierra Nevadas, the eastern wall of the world. Straight ahead lay the highway, shimmering in the heat. Memory rose like a ghost from the bright, silent monotony.

  He did not want to remember himself striding along the front walk of Botany Residential with a bouquet of red roses, and he was even whistling, for God’s sake, he was that happy. Could anything have been more of a cliché? Right in through the lobby, past all the mortal servants and the Botany staff leaving for early dinners, and he didn’t care who saw him. He waited at the elevator, still whistling. He might as well have had a neon sign on his forehead: I AM A HAPPY MAN.

  The elevator doors opened, and there stood Botanist Mendoza, ice bucket in hand. She smiled at him, briefly. She didn’t smile at many people, but once at a party he’d been casually kind to her. It hadn’t amounted to much; he’d seen her alone at a table, miserably unhappy, and brought her a handful of cocktail napkins to dry her eyes. Could he help? No, she explained with brittle dignity: it was only that she’d once loved a mortal man, and he’d been dead now for forty years, and she hadn’t realized it had been that long until something at the party reminded her. She didn’t really want company, but Lewis stayed long enough to be sure she was all right.

  He smiled and nodded at her now, and she nodded back. They stepped past each other, she to the ice machine and he to ascend into realms of delight. He thought.

  As it turned out, he got ice too.

  Ten minutes later he was standing outside the elevator on the fifth floor of Botany Residential, in the act of tossing the roses into the trash chute, when the door opened and Mendoza was standing there again, witness to his bitter gesture. Her eyes widened. He drew himself up, summoning what shreds of self-respect he had left, and adjusted his cuffs.

  “Hello, Mendoza,” he said.

  “Oh, Lewis. I’m sorry,” she said.

  She took him down the hall to her apartment, and he didn’t mean to pour out his woes, but he did, and she listened.

  They stayed there for hours, until he talked it all out, and then it seemed like a good idea for them to sneak down to the bar in the lobby and go on talking over drinks. For some reason she decided to let him past the wall of sarcasm with which she kept the rest of the world at bay. It couldn’t have been his little moment of chivalry with the cocktail napkins. Lewis had been kind to a lot of women. But, laughing with her in that cramped little bar, he spent the best evening he’d had in a long time. And they were seen.

  “You went out with the Ice Witch?” hooted Eliakim from Archives. “Mendoza? Botanist Mendoza? You took a flamethrower instead of a bottle or something?”

  “None of your business,” Lewis said. “But it might interest you to know that she’s a perfectly delightful woman.”

  “This is the redhead we’re talking about, right?” Junius from Catering leaned over the back of his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. “The workaholic? The one who isn’t interested in anybody? I tried to kiss her once at a Solstice party, and I thought I’d have to get a skin graft for the frostbite!” He looked at Lewis with a certain awe that Lewis found flattering.

  He merely shrugged. “It doesn’t bear discussion.”

  Of course they promptly went out and told most of New World One, and for about two weeks rumors flew. He went to Mendoza to apologize.

  “To hell with them,” she said philosophically. “Us a couple? Are they nuts? What a bunch of nasty little academic gossips, and what overblown imaginations.”

  “I just wanted you to understand that none of it came from me,” he said, not that pleased.

  “I know,” she replied, looking at him with a fondness that made his heart skip a beat. “You’re a good man, Lewis. You’re the nicest immortal I’ve ever known.”

  She kissed him, then, on the cheek, and tousled his hair.

  They never became lovers, but she was affectionate with him in a way she never was with anyone else. He accepted that. They became great friends. When he was transferred to England, he found he missed her terribly. When he learned what had happened to her, years later in Los Angeles, he was sick at heart.

  San Francisco

  HE GAVE A SIGH OF RELIEF when at last he turned west through the Altamont Pass, fighting the wind until he got through to the East Bay cities, leaving the golden desolation well behind him.

  Chrome and glass, sea air, the Oakland Bay Bridge with its section that had fallen out during the last big earthquake—all nicely replaced now, millions of busy commuters never gave it so much as a thought anymore, but Lewis’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel until he had crossed into the city.

  He made his way along the diagonal of Columbus, where he turned up a steep and narrow street and called upon a man in a dark rear apartment. A price was named and met; several bundles of cash were removed from Lewis’s leather briefcase, to be replaced by a certain packet of letters. Lewis got back into his car and checked his internal chronometer.

  Three hours ahead of schedule.

  He started the car and took it up the long spiral to Coit Tower, apologizing to the transmission. There he parked and walked to the edge of the terrace, to a
ll appearances a young executive taking an afternoon off to admire the spectacular view.

  He removed his sunglasses and folded them away in his breast pocket. He looked out across the bay at Marin County. Somewhere over there . . . ? He transmitted a tentative inquiry. It was returned immediately, from the depths of the city at his feet:

  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, pre
tending 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.