Doctor Who_ Trading Futures - Lance Parkin [10]
The players didn’t seem to be enjoying themselves much, it had to be said. Perhaps this depiction of war was a little too real – a bit too much of the waiting for something to happen, not enough of the action.
Fitz would probably have drifted off to find something else, if he hadn’t seen the woman watching the players.
She was Chinese, and the only person his age in the place – well, the only good‐looking woman, which was the same thing. She was short, dressed in tight black leather trousers and a college sweatshirt. She smiled back at him, briefly, which was more than enough for Fitz to file her under ‘Possible’.
Fitz could speak Chinese – a long story – and wondered if a quick ni bao would impress her. He decided against it.
‘Not playing?’
She shook her head. ‘Spotting talent.’
An American accent – not just the sort she’d have picked up from watching Hollywood movies, either. Fitz was useless at pinning down exactly which part of America accents were from. A shame really, because a quick ‘so, you’re from Philadelphia’, or whatever, would have come in handy to get the conversation going.
He tried to think of something.
‘You’re American?’
She was still staring over at the screens, she’d not looked at him. ‘Well done. You’re from the land of Sherlock Holmes after all. What gave it away? The accent, the Berkeley T-shirt, or just the fact everyone here is staring at me like I’m about to break the ceasefire?’
‘Mainly it was the accent,’ Fitz deadpanned. ‘Calm down, we’re all on the same side.’
She chuckled at that, and looked at him properly for the first time. ‘Very good.’
The soldier tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Are you Sutcliffe, J?’
‘No.’
‘You know him?’
‘No.’
‘You’re an EZ citizen?’
‘Er… what’s aneasy?’
‘Where are you from?’
‘London. Originally.’
‘Then you’re drafted. Sutcliffe hasn’t shown up.’
Fitz glanced over at the Chinese girl. ‘Time to do my bit for Queen and Country.’
He stepped up to the control panel. It seemed straightforward enough.
‘You’ve driven a class two before?’
‘Oh yes,’ Fitz bluffed, grabbing the control stick and placing his hands resolutely on the control panel. ‘So, where’s this set?’
‘The disputed Siberian territories.’
‘And who am I shooting?’
‘Whoever the computer tells you to.’
‘Gotcha. And do I pay you now, or…’
‘You get your pay in twenty minutes.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He must have misheard.
The soldier handed Fitz some goggles. Putting them on was like wearing a pair of glasses someone had scribbled on with a felt tip. All sorts of information ran past, flashed up or moved around the screen. What with the movement of the tank, it made him a bit travel sick. The one constant was a countdown in the lower right hand side – currently at 19:40. That, he presumed from the ‘twenty minutes’ comment, was the game time remaining.
‘Sutcliffe, you with us?’ a voice from somewhere in his goggles asked.
‘It’s not Sutcliffe, it’s –’
‘You’re with us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re left flank. Keep an eye out for drilling operations.’
‘Sir.’
‘Got them!’ another voice cried out. ‘Tracked vehicle, one point four kilometres away.’
‘I got the logo – it’s Exxon. They lodged an exploitation claim with the last but one regional government.’
Exxon, Fitz tutted, was a silly science‐fiction baddy name. Too many Xs, and ending with ‐on to make them sound like robots, or something. It took him right out of the reality of the game, and reminded him of the B-movies.
‘Alter course.’
Fitz glanced over to the bloke in the next cubicle, and copied what he did, shifting the control stick to the right.
Something streaked across the screen. There was an explosion quite a way behind him.
‘Seekers,’ someone called out.
A light was flashing on the control panel. Fitz pressed it. A message flashed up telling him countermeasures were online. He understood the word ‘were’.
There was a gun emplacement right in front of him, a machine gun nest, surrounded by a bank of snow. He hadn’t seen it until it had started firing.
He realised