by Jason Segel
“Your grandfather,” Busara says.
“Yeah, and that was the moment everything started to make sense. Before that I’d been a weird-looking kid who lived in a fake château in Brockenhurst, New Jersey. But that wasn’t who I really was. I was the heir to the Kishka.”
“And this is something you’re proud of?” Busara grins. “That your grandfather was a criminal?”
I shrug. “So they say. He died a long time before I was born. Kat once told me that meant I could imagine him however I wanted. I guess to me he’s a reminder of who I really am.”
“The One?” Busara laughs out loud at her own joke.
“Yeah, yeah, not funny,” I grumble, though I’m glad she’s recovered her sense of humor.
“Sorry,” she says, biting her lip to keep from laughing again. “This is some pretty profound stuff you’re spouting. If you don’t watch it, you’re going to make me a believer too.”
“Yeah, whatever. But do you get what I’m trying to say? Your mother already showed you who she really is. She sat on the side of your bed and told you stories that saved your life. That’s the kind of love that can’t be faked.”
Busara crosses her arms and slumps back against the cushions. “I’m still mad,” she huffs.
“You deserve to be,” I tell her.
“I don’t trust her.”
“I don’t either.”
“So why are you giving me this little pep talk?” Busara asks.
“Because I don’t think your mother would ever do anything to harm you. Everything else about her may be fake, but I know her love for you is real. And that’s the one thing that makes me feel okay about all of this.”
“We don’t even know who she works for and you want to help her.”
Want isn’t the right word. I don’t want to know people like Nasha. I want a normal life with Kat. I want to go to college and eat Hot Pockets and not have to worry about the fate of the human race.
“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” I say.
When Nasha returns, she’s changed into a gray sweat suit that looks like something they’d hand out at the FBI Academy. Busara scowls at the sight. I think the outfit’s more proof that this isn’t the mother she knew. She doesn’t say a word, but she’s on full alert. If Nasha makes one wrong move, Busara’s likely to bail.
A man enters the room behind Nasha, a tall pile of gray sweat suits in his arms. He deposits them on the table and then leaves, closing the door behind him.
“Thought you might appreciate a change of clothing,” Nasha says. “There are showers as well, if you’d like to use them.”
After spending the night in an underground bunker, I would kill for a shower. Maybe that’s what Nasha has in mind.
“Have you had enough time to think things through? Are you all on board?”
I’ve been given the honor of speaking for the team. “Yes,” I tell her.
“You too?” Nasha looks down at her daughter, who offers a curt nod.
“But this arrangement isn’t going to be one-sided,” I add. “You get us in to Rikers to see Max Prince, and we’ll let you know what he says. But first you need to tell us everything you can about the situation.”
“Fair enough.” Nasha sits down. I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so easy. “Shall we talk about why Max murdered his stepfather?”
* * *
—
No one who visits Otherworld believes that it’s Earth. Even the comatose patients the Company kidnapped knew they’d been transported somewhere else. At least one of them was convinced Otherworld was heaven. A lot more of them probably thought it was hell. But they knew there was no way they were on their home planet. Even when you can smell, taste and touch Otherworld—even when it can kill you—it’s hard to believe that any of it is real.
OtherEarth is a different story. It’s the world you see all around you—just wrapped in a different skin. With the glasses on, it’s hard to know where the game ends and the world begins. But Max Prince wasn’t just playing OtherEarth with glasses. He had a disk that not only taps into all five senses, it allows you to customize your experience. You can decide what—or who—you want to see.
The first time I tried OtherEarth, I conjured the actress Judi Dench. I could smell her perfume. I could have reached out and touched her. With an OtherEarth disk and glasses, Dame Judi Dench’s clone seemed one hundred percent real. That’s the draw, of course. That’s also exactly what makes the game so deadly.
Nasha Ogubu says the organization she works for has identified seven men who’ve either died or gotten themselves into serious trouble while playing OtherEarth. Alexei Semenov gave me the names of five of them.
The first man to expire while playing OtherEarth died of a heart attack in a bathroom stall in Manhattan’s Bryant Park. He wasn’t physically prepared for what he’d asked the game to generate. His family threatened to sue the Company—until they were shown a video of the custom experience he’d chosen. Whatever it was must have blown their minds. The man was buried without a funeral. All talk of lawsuits ended immediately.
A famous Hollywood director named Grant Farmer almost became the first man to kill. Nasha says he became obsessed with his latest star. When the woman rejected his advances, good ole Grant decided to replicate her in OtherEarth. Apparently, the game did such a fabulous job that he couldn’t tell the two apart. Then one day, the flesh-and-blood actress somehow got mixed up with her digital clone. When the director went to kiss her, the actress shoved him away. Grant Farmer flew into a rage and viciously attacked the woman. If not for the martial arts she’d learned for a movie role, it’s unlikely she would have survived.
Other women weren’t quite as lucky. Two were killed when they were confused with their OtherEarth doubles. Their murderers found themselves in Grant Farmer’s shoes. They thought OtherEarth was just a game. They never suspected there would be any consequences. Now they had taken lives, and they couldn’t explain why without revealing their darkest fantasies to the world. The Company had the videos.
Which brings us to Max Prince. Max wasn’t looking for love in OtherEarth. That he could get in real life with a single click. Max wanted an altogether different experience. He had OtherEarth replicate his stepfather.
Every American under age twenty knows exactly how much Max Prince hated his mother’s second husband. He talked about it nonstop in his videos. Abigail Prince married Christian Guido shortly after Max turned eleven years old. The three lived together for five years until Max made his own fortune and escaped the family home. According to Max, every day of those five years was hell. The former soccer star delighted in torturing his stepson, mentally and physically. He belittled Max for his baby fat and forced him to work out for hours every day. Max accused his stepfather of trying to kill him. With her son out of the way, Christian Guido would inherit Abigail’s fortune.
Nasha believes OtherEarth gave Max the opportunity to finally have his revenge. He’d put on the disk and slip on the glasses. Christian would appear in the room, and Max would murder him. Over and over and over again. Then one day, Max took off his glasses and disk and the corpse on his floor was still there. He’d murdered his mother’s flesh-and-blood husband. It wasn’t an accident. There was no way Max’s stepfather could have shown up in the wrong place at the worst time—unless the Company had sent him.
“You’re sure it wasn’t an accident?” Kat asks. “The disks are full of bugs. They’ve killed dozens of people.”
“No,” Nasha says. “It’s not a bug. This is all part of the Company’s plan. The people you’ve heard about on the news are people the Company wanted out of the way for some reason. The ones you haven’t heard about are the people it wants to use.”
“Use how?”
“We don’t know,” Nasha admits. “In fact, we don’t even know how many there are.
We’ve only identified two of them. One is the vice president of the United States.”
“What?” I’m pretty sure I must have heard wrong.
“An agent of ours was working undercover as an aide in the VP’s office. One evening he received a text asking him to deliver documents to the vice president’s home. We saw him go in the home. He never came out. In the morning, a cleaning crew arrived at the vice president’s residence.”
“You seriously think the vice president of the United States murdered someone in his own house?” Kat asks.
“We had an asset embedded in the cleaning crew,” Nasha replies. “The vice president had dropped his OtherEarth glasses by the body.”
“So the Company arranged the murder—and then they cleaned it up?” Busara asks. It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice since her mother came back into the room.
“Yes,” Nasha says. “And now they own the vice president of the United States.”
The Company no longer has any use for Max Prince. If they did, they’d have cleaned up his crime scene too. They set him up because they want him out of the way. But even Nasha’s employer isn’t sure why. Like Abigail, they think he may know something he shouldn’t. One of the Company engineers he’d befriended was among OtherEarth’s earliest victims. The engineer’s death and Max’s strange crime had to be somehow related.
Nasha’s employer is happy to let Abigail’s original plan move forward. They’ll sponsor our visit to Rikers Island—as long as we share what we learn and accept their technical support.
“We have a lot riding on this mission,” Nasha tells us. “In order for it to be a success, you’ll have to get past a lot of cameras.”
“We know. We’ve got that covered,” her daughter brusquely informs her. Busara nudges Elvis, and he reaches into his knapsack and retrieves the hat he designed to fool facial-recognition software.
Nasha takes the hat from Elvis and turns it over to examine the underside brim. “Cute,” she says, and Elvis beams. “But it’s not going to work.”
“Why not?” Elvis’s face blushes bright red. I doubt anyone has ever questioned his genius before.
“You didn’t do your homework. Max Prince is being held on Rikers Island. Visitors at Rikers can’t wear hats.” Nasha flips the hat right-side up and points at the slogan on the front. “And this little joke makes your invention useless everywhere else. Is this the sort of juvenile humor you find amusing?”
Elvis gapes at his girlfriend’s mother. For the first time since I’ve known him, he seems to be at a loss for words. I see him glance over at Busara, who doesn’t look back. She’s busy staring a hole into her mother’s forehead.
Suddenly Nasha’s face breaks into a wide smile as she laughs out loud. “Damn, kid, don’t look so petrified. I’m only pulling your leg. Your work’s brilliant. I know people who are going to wet themselves when they see this. But when you go undercover, you need to blend in and be invisible. The last thing you want to be wearing is something that’s gonna make people point and laugh.”
It’s hard to argue with that logic. I feel the tension begin to ease. Elvis even manages a weak smile.
But there’s still one angry person in the room. “So what do you suggest, then?” Busara demands.
“We have professionals waiting in New York. We’ll disguise Simon’s identity and he’ll visit Max Prince on his own.”
I’m still not quite sure I heard correctly when Kat jumps in.
“Simon?” Kat says. “Why does it have to be Simon? And why does he have to go alone? We all work together. We don’t make one person take all the risks.”
“I understand, but the four of you can’t just show up at Rikers and expect to be welcomed inside. We’ve managed to arrange a visit between Max Prince and his only known relative. Any other guests would appear suspicious. Max’s uncle Arnold has been taken to a secure location so there’s no chance he’ll be spotted in two places at once.”
Taken to a secure location. Is that the same thing as kidnapped?
“Why can’t I go?” Elvis demands. “I’m a dude, too.”
“You’re a five-foot-ten dude with a Ukrainian accent,” Nasha points out. “Uncle Arnold is a six-foot-three American.”
Just like me.
“And this?” I ask, pointing to my schnoz. “You really think you can do something to hide this?”
“We aren’t going to hide it. If anything, we’ll need to make it a little bit bigger,” Nasha says. She taps a few words into the computer on her lap. The screen lights up again and she turns it around. “This is Uncle Arnold.”
I hear Kat catch her breath. She sees it too.
“Oh my God,” Elvis snorts. “I really thought you were kidding.”
“That guy’s too old to be Abigail Prince’s brother,” Busara huffs.
“You’re right. He’s her uncle. Technically he’s Max’s great-uncle.”
I’m looking at a man in his mid to late seventies. He’s wearing a slick modern suit and has his hair combed in a crisp part. Other than that, he’s a dead ringer for the Kishka. I can feel the blood draining from my face. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Nasha’s brow crinkles as she studies my face. If it is a joke, she doesn’t seem to be in on it. “Is something wrong with you, Simon?”
“No,” I say, trying my best to appear calm. “He just looks like me as an old man. What did you say his last name was?”
“I didn’t,” Nasha replies. “His name is Arnold Dalton.”
I definitely wasn’t expecting some fancy British-sounding last name.
“Was his last name always Dalton?”
The question piques Nasha’s interest. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“I guess he doesn’t look like a Dalton to me.” Holy. Shit. I don’t dare turn my head toward Kat. If Nasha’s employer hasn’t figured it out, I’m not going to clue them in. The man I’m staring at looks like a Diamond.
* * *
—
We’ve been belowdeck for so long that I’ve lost track of time. I assume it’s night when we’re told to get some rest and the four of us are escorted to separate cabins. Kat protests, but her complaints fall on deaf ears. Either Nasha’s employer is deeply religious or they don’t want us talking among ourselves.
My cabin isn’t much larger than one of the capsules the Company used to store bodies. There’s a metal bunk bed with a small desk beneath. The ceiling is too low for a human my size, and when I lie down, my feet dangle off the end of the bed. I close my eyes, but my mind won’t turn off. I haven’t slept without Kat since we were rescued. I think my sanity might rely on her.
“That Prince kid sure has a handsome uncle.”
When my eyes open the room is filled with smoke. I lean over the side of the bunk and find the Kishka sitting below, his wingtips propped up on the desk.
“Who is he?” I ask. “Your brother? Your cousin?”
“Oh come on, he’s better looking than that,” the Kishka scoffs.
“Stop kidding around!” I order. “Something really fucking weird is going on. Is any of this real? Are we in another simulation?”
The Kishka takes a draw on his cigarette. The room is already so hazy that when he exhales I can barely see his face.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters! There are too many coincidences. Someone made all of this up. I’m living someone else’s bad plot.”
“Isn’t that what fate is?” the Kishka asks. “A story that’s already been written? Someone else’s bad plot?”
That stops me. “What are you trying to say?” I demand.
“Nothing you don’t already know somewhere deep down inside,” my grandfather responds, exhaling another cloud of smoke. By the time it begins to clear, he’s gone.
* * *
—
The boat arrives in Key West shortly after one in the morning. We’re met at the dock by a black SUV and driven to the airport, where we’re whisked away on a small private jet. As with the boat, there’s nothing to indicate who the plane’s owner might be. Nothing has a name on it—not even the box of tissue in the bathroom or the bottles of water that are handed around.
A few hours later, not long before dawn, we touch down at Teterboro Airport in northern New Jersey. Aside from Nasha, no one has spoken to us throughout the journey. In fact, everyone we’ve encountered has avoided meeting our eyes. I’m almost enjoying the anonymity when it occurs to me—it might be a long time before I’ll be able to show my face in public again.
The sun’s rising when we pull up in front of a nondescript building in a part of town I assume is Queens. Along the way we passed bus stops where people were already lined up for the ride to work. Their shoulders were hunched, and you could see the exhaustion on their faces. There’s a million-dollar bounty on my head. If someone ends up claiming it, I hope it’s someone like them.
Nasha guides us up two flights of stairs to a plain beige door. It opens to reveal a spacious apartment. Everything inside it looks brand-new—from the tasteful pillows on the massive sofa to the dust-free blinds on the windows. It’s like a safe house for exiled royalty. Nasha gives us a quick tour. There are two bedrooms with en suite bathrooms and king-size beds. In a third bedroom, four multidirectional treadmills have been assembled. The refrigerator is stocked with everything we might possibly want to eat.
“What? No beer?” Elvis asks.
“Get some more sleep,” Nasha orders. “I’ll be back in the afternoon. Simon will be visiting Rikers at six this evening.”
“Six?” I blurt out. I thought we’d at least have some time to plan.
