The Game Within

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

MONDAY, AUGUST 9, 2027 9:21am

(10:06:07:45)

He didn’t remember the face staring back at him. When did that change? Lights and noise and hands brushing and combing distracted him, a little. But the face. Older. Tired. The make-up didn’t help.

“Coffee, Mr. Helkar?”

She was young, bouncy. She tapped through menus on a tablet in her hand, not waiting for his answer.

“Yes, thank you,” he mumbled, “black, please.”

She wandered off, fingers and eyes on the tablet, her body moving to its next destination on autopilot.

“You’re all set, Mr. Helkar. Try not to smudge your make-up. I’ll touch you up again at the break.”

“Thanks, Joy. And thanks for making me look more—”

“Colorful? Alive? You should get out more, Mr. Helkar. On your last visit you still had a little tan, but now you’re starting to resemble some cave dweller.”

“Give me your real opinion, Joy. Don’t hold back.”

“We love you, Mr. Helkar. Don’t ever doubt that. But I worry. That pretend world of yours isn’t healthy. Come out more often. Play in the real world.”

He smiled at her attempt to hide real concern behind amusing talk. The banter was light, but the concern was honest. He did need to get out more. She walked away with a wink and a pat on his shoulder, like he was a scolded puppy. A puppy that really needed some coffee.

The set was darker than the cosmetics station, and the commotion was louder. Barb Westlake stood under the lights talking over something in her notes with the director. Camera people checked equipment and dollied their rigs around looking for blue Xs on the floor. Behind the cameras empty seating filled the studio. The closed set meant no audience. Barb’s famous private interviews with the rich and powerful were too intimate for fans. The interviews mostly catered to movie stars, athletes, politicians, and business people. Marcus considered himself a little obscure for Barb’s show, but she’d interviewed him before. She did her research and always found the uncomfortable questions to ask, but Marcus didn’t care about that. He wasn’t easily embarrassed or surprised, perhaps because he had nothing to hide. Some people hated him, some loved him. Both confused him. He got the people who liked his stuff. He recognized those after his money. But the rest of them made no sense to him.

“Marcus,” Barb Westlake gushed, walking across the studio and planting a lavish kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for agreeing to this. You’re a life saver. I can always count on you to give me something interesting to talk about when I’m in a pinch.”

Marcus Helkar, always there in a pinch.

“Glad to help, Barb. Does this mean you’ll go easy on me today?”

“Marcus, I’m offended. I’m always easy on you?” She slapped him on the chest. He felt like a puppy again except it was all part of her schtick. She had something planned. It was too predictable. “Now I need my final touch-up,” she said. “You want me beautiful, don’t you? I’ll see you in a few.”

She scurried away, hailing the director to follow her as she headed off to her make-up station. Marcus couldn’t imagine how they would make her up any more.

He walked up onto the set and turned toward the missing audience. Bright lights accentuated the black beyond. He supposed most people wanted it that way when they were on stage talking about themselves. That emptiness helped them forget the millions watching and listening to everything they said. Marcus would have preferred the studio lights being up and the seats being filled. The darkness made him claustrophobic.

Barb started the interview ten minutes later only after coming and going twice more. The producer appeared long enough for a quick spat with the director before storming off. The director had time to drink a cup of coffee. Marcus’s coffee never showed up.

“You’re wrapping up year three are you not, Mr. Helkar?”

Marcus recognized the leading question. Barb Westlake’s favorite kind. But what was it leading to? She had gone easy for the first few minutes, but it was coming.

“Yep, next month is the anniversary, and it’s been a great year, Barb.”

“And would you say you continue to gain market share against your competitors?”

“My accountant suggests we are growing and our player roles are expanding. I guess that means more market share, sure.” He wasn’t biting.

“Marcus, you’re overly modest. Sales are up over thirty percent this year are they not?”

“You’ve done your homework, Barb. Yes, we’ve had a good year.”

“And to what do you attribute this dramatic rise? Haven’t those numbers increased year after year?”

“I’d like to believe it’s because we are always improving our product, adding new choices, enhancing the old. We pride ourselves on surprising our public.”

She smiled at that and hesitated.

“You do surprise your public, Marcus. Much as you did by leaving Trident three years ago.”

And there it was. The intrigue. The scandal. How commonplace of her.

“That surprised your boss,” she continued, “now didn’t it?”

“Well, Barb, I imagine this will come as another huge surprise, but Patrice Dillon and I are good friends and I left Trident with no ill will. That might surprise the media, but I doubt it. I’m just not that special.”

“Careful, Marcus. Our audience knows quite well who you are. If not special, you’re certainly an enigma. And I bet Ms. Dillon and all the management at Trident would love to have you back considering your company has now eclipsed them in sales and following.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that.”

“You follow the numbers, Marcus. Who in your position wouldn’t?”

“I follow the numbers, but they do great stuff at Trident and interests come and go. Today we may be on top, but tomorrow it will be them or GameStar or somebody else. This is a fluid business.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch more than she should.

“But isn’t it true you developed most of Trident’s game platform?” she asked. “In fact, don’t all their entertainment products run on code you wrote yourself?”

That was public knowledge, for anyone who bothered to find it. That might be one person — Barb Westlake. It was a question mid-list Internet hosts threw into the mix to generate suspense where none existed. Marcus was amused when guests got pasty and nervous when these speculative attacks came out.

“I worked at Trident for a few years, Barb. I’d be surprised if none of my code survived. People say I’m pretty good at what I do.” He smiled back at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“But if you wrote all that code, Marcus, are we to assume you wrote new code for The World Within? I mean, that sounds like a tremendous amount of work.”

So it was the old stealing the competition’s intellectual property game she was playing. That theory hadn’t been trotted out in ages.

“Actually, Barb, I did write all new code for my company. Turns out stealing the IP of another company or profiting off it in any way is illegal. They call that piracy. Are you accusing me of something?” Marcus smiled as if the whole thing was a joke.

“Marcus, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not accusing you of anything. Others might, I suppose, but anyone who knows you like I do, well, that’s out of the question.”

Marcus didn’t respond. Had she asked a question? The silence stretched uncomfortably again, but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t his show.

“Marcus,” she continued, “what are people saying about The World Within these days? Are they still having fun?”

“That depends on whether they’re the people suggesting I took something from Trident or the people who like to play online games, Barb. I’m guessing the latter are still having fun. As for the former, well, I don’t write software for them so I couldn’t say.”

She smiled that plastic smile that looked so great on screen, but couldn’t hide the bitterness when you were sitting across from her. She didn’t hate him or want to embarrass him. She wanted ratings, and wouldn’t get them this way.

“Tell us about what’s coming in the new year, Marcus. What can the fans expect?”

And that was it. She took her shot and missed. Now she was on to boilerplate. Marcus gave her the updates and answered the obligatory technology questions and the “isn’t that too scary for the kids?” questions and it was done in another seven minutes. Mikes came off and lights went down. The cameras rolled to new locations for new shoots that would start before Marcus left the building. People would watch and smile and forget. Not one thing memorable had transpired. That was okay by him. The public appearances were part of the spectacle, but he didn’t need it. It was always for somebody else.

“Thank you again for dropping by, Marcus. You’re a dear.

“Of course, Barb. Anytime.”

“And don’t forget, the interview airs Wednesday at noon. We should have a big audience.”

She turned to leave and he couldn’t help himself.

“Barb,” he called after her. She stopped and turned, the plastic smile at the ready.

“Yes, Marcus?”

“The next time you want to suggest I stole code from my former employer will be the time I buy this program and put you on the street. Fair enough?”

He smiled his own plastic smile and walked out.

Outside the wind had picked up and coat collars were turning up against it. No distinct clouds hovered, just a gunmetal gray sky, uniform in all directions. It was chilly, something Marcus hadn’t expected, and he pulled his jacket tight as he headed off down the street. His office was only a few blocks south of the studio. Transportation wasn’t necessary. He needed the walk anyway. Somehow the interviews always got his heart racing, and the walk helped get things back to a normal pace.

He told himself he didn’t care what people thought, but that was too easy. He cared that they had the truth instead of innuendo. The code was all his. Nobody that mattered questioned that. It was just the Barb Westlakes of the world, people wanting something juicy, people mad he had something they didn’t, people he shouldn’t care about.

He shook it off and turned at the end of the block. There, walking the opposite direction, a large man passed close and bumped him, hard, so hard he almost fell before running into the stone face of an office building.

“Hey, what the hell?” he called out after the man. “There are other people walking here, pal.”

It was something you did in frustration. Something you said to the bully who stole your lunch money or yelled at the car that cut you off. It was just a reaction. But the man stopped and turned. He moved back to Marcus in two quick steps. He wore sunglasses, a Fedora, and a beard just beyond reasonable length, but no expression. When he was close, he stopped and looked down at Marcus. He was a good four inches taller than Marcus and eight inches wider.

“Watch yourself, Mr. Helkar,” the man said in a low even voice. “Your celebrity does not earn you special treatment. People know what you’ve done. They will expect compensation for that.”

The man reached out and took Marcus’s lapels in beefy hands. He turned them out and snugged the coat up around Marcus’s neck.

“Stay warm, Mr. Helkar. Cold times are coming.”

The man stared at him for an uncomfortable beat before turning and walking away into the crowd on the street. Marcus stared after him until he blended into the other bodies. Only then did he start breathing again.