Fantasy in Death (In Death #30)(2)

With Fantastical, they’d be kicking it all up—and—fingers crossed—become major players.

He’d already decided on the scenario, a favorite, and the level. He’d practiced, studied, refined, and reworked this fantasy, the elements of it countless times during development, and now set for the game he code-named K2BK. He’d take the role of the battered and cynical hero, battling the evil forces of the beleaguered kingdom of Juno on the endangered planet of Gort.

The mirrored walls of the holo-room reflected him as the light began to swirl and dim, as his damp and wrinkled khakis and Captain Zee’s T-shirt, his wet skids transformed into the scarred battle gear and boots of the warrior king.

In his hand he felt the hilt and the weight of the broadsword. And that rush, yes, that new rush of his embodiment of the hero, and the battle to come.

Excellent, he thought. Excellente primo. He could smell as well as see the smoke of battle, and the blood already spilled. He reached up, felt the bulge of biceps, the pucker of an old scar.

Twinges and aches throughout his body spoke of wounds barely healed, a lifetime of combat.

Best, he felt strong, bold, brave, fierce. He became the courageous warrior king about to lead his exhausted, wounded, and unnumbered people into battle.

He let out a war cry—because he could—and heard the power of his voice shake the air.

It rocked completely.

A scruff of beard covered his face, and a tangle of hair tickled his neck and shoulders.

He was Tor, the warrior, the protector and rightly King of Juno.

He mounted his warhorse—on the second try, which wasn’t bad—and charged into battle. He heard the cries of friend and foe as swords clashed and fire lances spewed death. His beloved Juno burned so he hacked his way through the lines while blood splattered and sweat streamed down his skin.

At his partner Benny’s suggestion they’d added an optional love interest. In order to reach his woman, a brave and beautiful warrior courageously defending the castle walls, he had to fight his way to the front and engage in the ultimate battle—mano a mano with the evil Lord Manx.

He’d reached this level countless times during development, had gone beyond it only a handful as he programmed the challenge to the top of the scale. It took skill, timing, agility to fight through, to dodge the flames from lance and arrow, to deflect the slash of sword—or what was the point?

Any hit would lower his score, potentially send him into humiliating retreat, or a valiant death. This time he wasn’t looking just to beat the level, but to hit a new record.

His horse screamed in challenge as they galloped through the stink of smoke, leaped over bodies of the fallen. He braced and clung when the horse reared, and still was nearly unseated.

Every time that happened, he met Manx on foot, and every time he met Manx on foot, he lost Juno, the woman, and the game.

Not this time, he swore, and gave another booming cry as he broke through the smoke.

And there, the walls of home where the brave fought those who tried to destroy it. And there, the dark, fearful visage of Lord Manx, sword red with the blood of innocents.

He felt a pang—for loss, for the happier times of his childhood before murder and deceit had sullied it.

“Your trap failed,” Bart called out.

“I would have been disappointed otherwise.” Manx grinned, his black eyes shining with death. “It was always my wish to meet you here, to end you and your line on this ground.”

“It will end here, and with your blood.”

The men charged; swords met. A snap of lightning Bart had added for drama spurted and sizzled from the cross of the blades.

Bart felt the impact race up his arm, and the bolt of pain in his shoulder had him making a mental note to lower the levels on the default. Realism was important, but he didn’t want gamers bitching because they’d programmed it too hot.

He turned into the next strike, blocking it, and he felt a wrenching pop in his shoulder. He nearly called for a pause in the program, but was too busy dodging a swipe.

What the hell, he thought as he struck out and nearly got by Manx’s guard, winning wasn’t winning until you worked for it.

“Your woman will be mine before nightfall,” Manx snarled.

“She’ll dance on your—hey!” His sword slipped, and his enemy’s blade sliced his arm. Instead of the quick jolt to mark the hit, the pain seared. “What the hell. Pause—”

But for Bart, it was game over.

Lieutenant Eve Dallas badged the shell-shocked doorman and breezed by. The sun and sultry heat left over from the night’s storms boosted her mood. At her side, her partner, Peabody, wilted. “A couple months ago all you did was bitch about the cold. Now you bitch about the heat. Never satisfied.” Peabody, her dark hair pulled back in a stubby tail, continued to bitch. “Why can’t they regulate the temperature?”

“Who are they?”

“The weather people. We must have the technology. Why not give us at least a couple weeks of steady mid-seventies? It’s not too much to ask. You could get Roarke to work on it.”

“Oh yeah, I’ll tell him to get on that, right after he buys up the last ten percent of the universe.” Eve rocked back on her heels as they took the elevator up, and thought of her husband of almost two years.

Actually, he probably could figure something. “If you want regulated temps, get a job where you work inside with climate control.”