LITMIR.BIZ

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the little pistol she’d pulled out of the pocket of her housecoat.

      “You are a bad girl. This is a house of mourning.” She squinted as the barrel waved slightly in the air.

      “The police will be here soon.” I took a couple steps back. Rule of thumb: if there’s a pistol pointing at you, run. They’re inaccurate past fifteen feet in amateur hands. Problem was, I was only five feet away.

      “They’re already here.” I heard a deep bass voice rumble behind me, around the cigarette I knew was in his mouth.

      “Put the gun down, Mrs. Kim.”

      Mrs. Kim lowered her arm when she saw Detective Shouft, standing out of the line of fire pointing his gun straight at her head. Obedient to male authority, I couldn’t help thinking, though with relief instead of my usual irritation.

      An hour later, after Mrs. Kim had been read her rights and arrested, and the neighborhood was no longer lit by lights and sirens, Shouft came over to where I was leaning against the fence. He lit another cigarette from the end of the last one.

      “Parks.”

      “Shouft.”

      “Feeling suicidal?”

      “Not really.”

      “I would have called you, told you she paid for Johnny’s father’s funeral.”

      “No, you wouldn’t. Active investigation.”

      He didn’t answer, blowing out a thin stream of smoke.

      “Shitty detective work, Parks. You guessed.”

      “Beat you here by ten minutes.” He made the growly noise that reminded me of a disgruntled bear. We stood in silence for another few minutes before he spoke again.

      “Dinner?” His tone of voice was far too casual. I could feel my pulse quickening with the prospect of a familiar bad decision, the kind you don’t start regretting until you can’t get your underwear down from the ceiling fan.

      “Only if you’re paying.”

      “Breakfast?”

      “Only if you’re cooking.”

      THE GAME, by Marjorie Ann Mitchell

      Sam Breske stared in confusion across his boss’s large mahogany desk, hoping that today would be the day the old man finally grew a sense of humor, and what he’d just heard was a failed attempt at a joke.

      Martin Harrison, owner of Harrison SimTech and creator of VIC—Virtual Image Clone—looked back at him dispassionately, not a twinge of amusement on his face. “In order to do what’s necessary to stay on top, there’s bound to be collateral damage,” he said, leaning back in his black leather executive chair and tenting his fingers. Behind him, a window displayed the view from the top floor of the six-story building—swaying pine and sweet gum trees, a cloudless blue sky. Their office buildings in Research Triangle Park in North Carolina were understated, especially given RTP’s boost in prestige since SimTech claimed it as its headquarters. It was here that Martin ruled—a Caesar guarding his empire.

      “That collateral damage you’re talking about is my team. The same people who helped you build this company.” Sam rose from his seat, incredulous.

      Martin sighed. “There’s no room for sentiment in business, Sam. It’s not financially feasible to continue your project.”

      “Just like that? VIC is the highest grossing gaming system in history. How’s it possible that enhancements wouldn’t make money?”

      Martin leaned forward, pointing at Sam accusingly. “You know as well as I, we’re fighting to stay ahead of the competition. Tough decisions have to be made.”

      “That’s ridiculous,” Sam said, his arm slicing the air in dismissal. “You’re asking me to fire the best assets this company has. How do you expect SimTech to grow without software engineers?”

      “That’s the other thing I wanted to speak to you about. You’ve been an integral part of the company, Sam, creating the HMC when the gaming commission threatened to shut us down over some unfortunate incidents.”

      Even though everything Martin was saying was true, Sam could tell he was being disingenuous. “By unfortunate incidents, of course, you mean the deaths caused by VIC’s realism. You know damn well I didn’t create the HMC all by myself.”

      After two gamers had died, Sam had managed the project team that created a Health Monitoring Component (HMC) that could detect a gamer experiencing an unusually high amount of distress. When the HMC triggered, it shut down the video game and sent a signal to emergency services in the gamer’s area. The HMC had saved the company, their careers, and several lives.

      Irritated, Martin continued, “Yes, yes, but the point is, I know how invested you are in this company and in VIC. That’s why I plan to keep you on in a position I created specifically for you. There’s a group of green engineers, 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

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