fresh out of college, arriving next week. You’ll be the Lead Training Specialist in charge of getting them up to speed. Then, perhaps we can revisit whether your project can go forward.”
Sam ran his hand through his thick black hair. Had he heard right? “You expect me to train my team’s younger, cheaper replacements.”
Martin’s smile was a cold reflexive twitch. “I expect you to do what’s right for the company. I’ll leave it up to you how to inform your team, but make sure they’re gone by the time the new batch arrives. That’ll be all, Sam.”
“Fuck you, Martin.” Sam stormed out of Martin’s office, ricocheting from disbelief to anger to panic. He hadn’t noticed Bryce Harrison standing in the hallway and he barreled into her. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you,” he said, embarrassed. The boss’s wife. How much had she heard?
“Hey, Sam, no problem. Your mind must’ve been a thousand miles away. What’s going—?”
Sam didn’t wait for her to finish. He needed to find his team. He kept walking toward the stairwell. He’d worked with Bryce on the HMC project and been impressed by her creativity and cool intelligence. But once married, she’d become a full-time executive’s wife. A waste of talent, Sam thought, but typical of Martin’s ego to want his wife’s full-time support all to himself.
As he trudged down the flight of stairs to his team’s floor, his shoes felt like lead boots. He stepped out of the stairwell and surveyed the cubicle farm where his team huddled over their computers, intent and focused on work he’d told them was valuable. His stomach lurched and he covered his mouth until the feeling subsided. No. Martin was wrong, and Sam wouldn’t be the one to tell them. He turned back to the stairway, heading toward the executive floor. He would resign, make Martin do his own dirty work.
He approached Martin’s slightly open door and reached for the doorknob. At the sound of raised voices, he froze. Glancing around to make sure no one was in the hall, he leaned against the wall to listen.
He heard Bryce first.
“How much blood has to be on your hands for you to wake up?”
“There’s no blood on my hands. The deaths caused by VIC before the HMC was added were unforeseeable. There haven’t been any since.”
“The HMC saves people while they’re in the game, but what about when they’re not? I’ve seen the statistics, Martin. Domestic violence and assaults have risen, specifically among VIC gamers.”
“I can’t be held responsible for the actions of gamers in their private lives. The game doesn’t make people violent.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d heard the stories at the women’s center. You have the power to change things. Why won’t you listen to reason?”
“I understand your need to have hobbies, but if your charitable work upsets you, you should find something less stressful.”
“It isn’t a hobby. People’s lives are being ruined. If you’d open your eyes to what’s happening outside of SimTech, you’d understand.”
“Between that coward, Sam, and you, I’ve had all I can take for one day. Go home. We’ll discuss this later.”
“You bet we will.”
Sam pulled back from the door and slipped down the hall towards the stairs. He had to give Bryce credit. She had balls, to confront Martin like that.
* * * *
Sam scraped his meal of leftover spaghetti down the garbage disposal and dropped his plate into the sink. It made an awful clanking noise but didn’t break. He slammed the faucet on and ran water into the dish to let it soak, then jerked it off. But his kitchen appliances and dishes were no substitute for the person he was boiling angry at.
Earlier in the day, he’d feigned sickness and left work. He still hadn’t told his team, and he didn’t plan to. Restless, he walked into his living room.
His furnishings were modest. Nothing embarrassing, but simple in style. The hardwood floor was cool against his bare feet. He walked down the hallway leading to the bedrooms and turned into the guest room he’d converted to a game room.
Stepping across its threshold was like entering a different dimension. Whereas the rest of his apartment was humble, he’d spared no expense here. The walls were covered with limited edition memorabilia from old science fiction movies, collected over the years with care so that each one represented a different period within the genre. The futuristic bar was custom-made from his own design and included a glass surface with interactive LED lighting. The sound system and entertainment screen were top of the line. In the center of the room was VIC’s simulation chair.
Sam poured a glass of bourbon. He sipped, letting the whiskey burn down his throat to warm his belly. VIC had changed the way the world played video games. By simply uploading a photograph, the gamer could create a virtual image clone of himself or herself to play with, or a synthetic image clone of someone else to play against. Instead of the cartoonish characters players could choose from in other video games, VIC was so realistic that players felt they were in the movie. Yet it was better than a movie. It was as if they’d traveled through different dimensions of their own making. No fantasy was off limits.
It was time for a fantasy of his own. Setting down his drink, Sam slid his body into the VIC simulation chair. After hours upon hours of play, the chair’s soft leather had contoured to the shape of his body. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling as his body relaxed into it. He clipped the cross-chest harness into place and wiggled his bare feet into the footgear attached to the chair, working his toes into the flexible foot glove that would read his movements and reflexes. Next, he slid both forearms into the gloves attached to the armrests. The gloves contracted comfortably around his arms. His fingers tapped the controls inside the glove, and the helmet and display settled around his head, blocking the sights and sounds of reality.
After the VIC intro, Sam set up his game scenario. He always played in Group Play mode as a default. The anticipation that an unexpected player might enter the game made it more interesting. After clicking several options, he went to his personal files and selected a picture of Martin from the company website. VIC searched its database, loaded the stored character, then prompted, “MR. HARRISON IS CURRENTLY IN PLAY. WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN?”
He selected Yes. He was more than ready to challenge the bastard. Maybe the defeat of Martin in virtual battle would salvage his bruised ego.
The VIC Sam found himself in the living room of a large pretentious mansion, one he could imagine Martin living in. His gorge rose when he found Martin—the VIC Martin—standing in front of an ornate fireplace. How he hated the man. Before Martin could react, Sam strode across the room and punched him in the face. Man, that felt good.
Martin staggered back, nearly falling. “You son of a bitch. Who do you think you are?”
“It’s a game,” Sam glared at him, making his hands into fists so tight his knuckles turned white. “Let’s have some fun.”
Martin grabbed a cast-iron fireplace poker from its rack and swung it at Sam. Sam ducked low and drove an elbow into Martin’s kidney. Martin doubled over in pain, his grip on the poker loosened, and Sam yanked it out of his hands. Clenching his side, Martin looked up at Sam, his eyes wide. Sam stood over him, tightened his grip around the handle of the poker, and brought the heavy tool down across his boss’s
