“Thank you for using his name.”
Merry rolled her eyes, but tried to hide the gesture by smoothing her already smooth brows. Her father’s study was painted a rich teal. Bookcases lined three walls, and on the fourth was a marble fireplace. Hanging overhead was a Morningstarr dragonfly, wings gently flapping, creating a soft breeze. An ancient Roller stood on its hind legs in the corner, looming like a small bear. Mechanical spiders giggled in the bank of plants underneath the windows. Her father sat in a chair by the fireplace, a blanket over his lap. On top of the blanket sat a robot in the shape of a small dog, if a dog were shaped more like a pillow than an animal. Wonderful, thought Merry, a new metal monstrosity to clomp and clank around her house. Its “breathing” was loud enough to shame entire hives of bees.
Her father lifted the doggy bot. “Say hello to Winnifred.”
“I do not want to say hello to Winnifred,” said Merry, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice. It was fine that her father wanted to collect Morningstarr Machines. They were still worth some money on the collector’s market, and they certainly made for compelling conversation pieces at Merry’s lavish parties and events. But her father tended to get attached to the things, as if the things were alive. And then he started tinkering with robotics himself. He took apart some of the Morningstarr Machines, recombined them, added his own particular flair. (If you could call it flair.) He’d designed half the robots lurching and lurking around his rooms like . . . well. She didn’t know what. Ghosts. Monsters. Toasters with legs.
“Woof,” cried Winnifred the doggy bot, segmented tail wagging. “Wo-OOOF.”
Merry winced.
“Say hello!” commanded Merry’s father.
“Hello, Winnifred,” she said.
“Wooooooof,” said Winnifred, settling back down on Merry’s father’s lap. How had her father programmed the thing? Never mind, Merry really didn’t want to know.
“Are you ready for the party, Father?”
“Party?”
“Yes, Father, the party. You’ve known about it for months.”
“I don’t like parties,” he said. “I’d rather stay here with my pets.”
Pets.
“Father, we’re playing the game, remember? Don’t you want to play the game?”
“I’m having a guest over for tea.”
“What guest?”
“No one you know.”
“Father, please.”
“Eh,” said her father. Merry wondered at what age one started believing noises like “Eh” or “Meh” or “Whaaaa?” were good substitutes for actual speech. She resisted the urge to bark, “Use your words!”
“Father, my guests will expect you to be there. Promise me that you will at least make an appearance.”
Father grumbled. The doggy buzzed.
“Father!”
“Yes, yes,” he said, waving her off. “I’ll make an appearance. Just for you, my dear Merry.”
“Thank you, Father.” She stood there, watching him pet his new . . . pet, and then turned, stalked from the room, closed the door behind her.
Briefly, Merry rested her forehead against the door. Good thing she had power of attorney. Otherwise, she might really be concerned.
Downstairs, the first knock sounded. The butler’s mellow voice said, “Welcome. Allow me to show you to the great room.”
Merry hurried to arrange herself in the center of said great room, a cocktail in one slim hand. “Hello, darling,” she said as her first guest, a hedge fund manager, entered. Merry air-kissed Mr. Hedge Fund on the cheek so she didn’t mess up her lipstick and then pointed him toward the bar. After Mr. Hedge Fund came Mr. Internet Billionaire—not nearly as rich and successful as Merry’s father, but successful enough. Then the owner of a pharmaceutical company, the owner of a baseball team, the owner of a corporation that made rocket ships so that eventually people would be able to vacation on the moon, the owner of a media conglomerate, several more hedge fund managers—they tended to move in herds—some venture capitalists, a few skulking political operatives with questionable hygiene, a smattering of supermodels, a couple of TV commentators, a boating magnate, and one actual duke.
The guests mingled, sampling appetizers offered by tuxedo-wearing servers. They clinked glasses, tossed back amber liquid. Their laughter grew louder. After a long and sumptuous dinner under the Tiffany chandelier, Merry led her guests back to the great room. By then, the sky was streaked pink and purple, and the lights from the buildings shone in the distance. The guests took their places around each gaming table.
Merry stood in the middle of the room, in the middle of the city. She said, “Now it’s time for this evening’s entertainment. A game I invented with my dear father, Hunter Roberts.”
At the mention of his name, her father appeared in the wide doorway, blinking as if he hadn’t seen this many people in ages. Which he hadn’t. Hunter Roberts didn’t say a word. He nodded at the assembled guests and then fidgeted like a small, distracted boy. Then he turned and walked back to his office.
The hedge fund managers and venture capitalists and billionaires murmured and eyed one another over the tops of their cocktails. But they wouldn’t dare say anything untoward about Merry or her father. Hunter Roberts still had more money and more power than all these people put together.
Which meant that Merry did, too.
“As most of you already know,” she said, “the game is called Megalopolis. Last month’s theme was ‘War.’ This month’s theme is ‘Power.’”
Merry took a stack of leather dossiers from a nearby servant and walked around the room, from hedge fund manager to hedge fund manager, tycoon to tycoon, passing them out. “Each of you will receive a new identity to play, and a certain amount of cash and some other incentives to advance the personal and political interests of your character. Everything is listed in the dossier. Game boards and dice are on the tables. We’ll play three twenty-minute rounds with breaks in between.”
One of the hedge fund managers opened his dossier and said, “Waitress? No way.” He tried hand back the dossier.
Merry snapped, “You know the rules. No trading! And no complaining! Just like in the real world, you must accept the hand you’re dealt. Next!”
The magnates and tycoons and CEOs alternately grumbled and celebrated as they were assigned characters like “truck driver,” “doctor,” “army captain,” “city councilmember,” “hairdresser,” “entrepreneur,” “college student,” and “homeless teenager.”
“I don’t see why I have to play a homeless teenager,” a tycoon whined.
“Luck of the draw,” Merry said cheerfully.
“My goals are finding food! And a house! But I don’t have any money!” said the tycoon. “How is this fair?”
“I’m the CEO of a corporation,” said the CEO of a corporation. “My goals are increasing value for my shareholders and finding more tax loopholes. This is too easy. I’m going to clean up, Merry.”
“We’ll see,” said Merry.
“You need to give me a job,” said the tycoon to the CEO.