Free Malarkey by Sheila Simonson

say
that?"
    "Yes."
    "I'm fond of that part of Europe. I used to holiday in
Dubrovnik. As the war began to spread, I saw the opportunity, so I
went out to Sarajevo."
    "My God."
    He nodded. "It was a horror. Still is. I helped document mass
execution of prisoners of war for Amnesty International. A fine time
we had of it digging up skeletons." He took a sip of wine. "So my
'adventure' wasn't entirely self-serving, but it did bring my work to
Alex's notice."
    "And you took this job."
    "I thought virtual reality would be an improvement on the
mundane kind."
    I finished my starter. "And is it?"
    He toyed with his spoon. "I've worked in the States, but I
needed high tech credits."
    "You should have a substantial reputation in the trade when
the baroque disk hits the media stores."
    "I hope so."
    "You didn't answer my question."
    "Ah, you're a hard woman. I'm an artist, trained to present
the truth, so to speak. There's all kinds of fakery involved in the
images we create. That's one reservation I have."
    "And?"
    "The game playing." He shoved his starter aside without
finishing it.
    Game playing.
    "Interactive disks developed from computer games."
    "Nintendo?" Like a great many women, I had found the early
computer games boring and faintly repulsive because they seemed
to involve little beyond zapping an imaginary enemy.
    He said softly, "The corpses we dug up were boys in their
teens and twenties playing at war. When I heard of Slade's war
gaming I was appalled. He was writing an elaborate game program
whilst teaching Irish lads guerrilla tactics. I'll admit drilling boys in
the art of war is not unheard of in these parts, but the Provos at least
have a cause."
    I recalled that the Provos were the provisional branch of the
Irish Republican Army. "Ulster?"
    "The six counties." He pulled his plate toward him with the
air of a man about to do his duty. His tone was light, mocking. "Ulster
is the ancient province. It's not Ulster without Cavan, Monaghan, and
Donegal, or so my grandfather would have it. He's a strong Sinn Fein
man is my grandfather."
    "The North, then."
    "The North, God help it." He shoved at a bit of new potato. "I
saw what the Serbs and the Croats were doing to each other. The so-
called ethnic cleansing is sectarian slaughter, the Orthodox killing
Catholics and vice versa, and everybody murdering Moslems. There's
no end in sight. I kept seeing the obvious parallels. Car bombs are
bad enough. I'd hate to see a Bosnian bloodbath in the streets of
Derry or the fields of Antrim. It could happen if enough lads were
willing to play the game."
    "Was Wheeler—"
    "Political? No. That was the horror of it. He thought he was a
conservative, but he'd no philosophy. The man had never heard of
Edmund Burke. He was as ignorant as my grandda's dog about Irish
history, too." He stabbed a bit of potato. "Of course, most Americans
are."
    "My father isn't," I said peaceably.
    "True for you." He chewed. "'Twas the skills of warfare that
interested Slade. I wanted to do a photo essay on his game players,
but he told me he'd break my hands if I tried."
    "Nice."
    He shrugged. "I doubt he could have. He liked that kind of
talk. But it made me wonder what he didn't want photographed. And
all the while his lads were sneaking through the Stanyon woods
zapping each other with paint the color of fresh blood."
    "I'll say they were." Neither of us had been paying attention
to Kayla Wheeler, but something of what McDiarmuid was saying
must have got through to her. "One of those yobboes killed Slade and
shot him with a paint gun after he was dead. The Garda inspector
told me when he phoned me in London."
    She had a penetrating voice. Her remark brought the hum of
conversation to a dead stop. My father looked appalled, the others, in
varying degrees, avid.
    "He had a splash of red paint on his forehead when I found
him," I admitted, since Kayla had let the cat out of the bag
anyway.
    "And you didn't mention it?" Barbara sounded affronted. My
father