by Peter May
He turned his head to look at the note and had to screw up his eyes to read it. Welcome back, it said. And Janey sat up, lips stretched back across her teeth in a roar of mirth. Michael let out an involuntary exclamation and teetered backwards, stopped from falling by the steadying hand of the DC.
For a moment he was incapable of grasping what had happened. He could hear laughter ringing in his ears, and Janey reached out to place both her hands on his face, amusement and sympathy in her eyes all at the same time. “Oh, my poor baby, I’m so sorry.” But she didn’t sound sorry. She could hardly stop laughing. “Welcome back to the fold. This is your party, Mike.”
Suddenly music was blasting out, and more people were crowding into the room. Someone put a bottle of beer in his hand. “Hey, Mike. Time to get drunk.”
***
There must have been a hundred people or more in the house now, and more still arriving. Loud music pounded out across the hillside from open windows and doors. None of the neighbours was going to call the police, since half the police force was already here.
Someone had taken a video of Michael’s moment of zen, when Janey had sat up and startled the hell out of him. It was playing on a loop on Janey’s widescreen TV, and everyone coming in crowded around to look at it and laugh. It had taken Michael some time to see the funny side, and he was still not sure that he did. “You cruel bastards!” he had roared at the assembled, only to elicit more laughter.
He sat now in Janey’s big leather armchair in the corner of the room, a beer in his hand. He had lost count of how many he’d had. Someone was going to have to drive him home. Janey had changed out of the red-dyed tee-shirt and was draped across the arm of his chair, leaning against him, an arm around his shoulder, a beer in her free hand, swinging one of her legs like a child. She’d had more than a few herself. “You don’t know how good it is to have you back, Mike. I really missed you, you know that?” And he remembered telling Angela just the day before how he intended quitting as soon as his contract was up. A contract he’d signed less than a week ago. He felt a stab of guilt. But Janey was oblivious. “Hey,” she said, suddenly sitting upright. “Nearly forgot. I found some pics on an old memory stick that I took of you and Mora just after you got back from your honeymoon. Forgot I even had them. Wanna see?”
Michael had thousands of pictures of Mora, but there could never be enough. He was excited by the thought of new ones. Fresh images, new insights. “Yeh, I would, Janey. Can you give me copies?”
“Of course.” She jumped up. “Come on through to the den.”
He followed her through the partying crowd to a small room at the back of the house, where she kept her computers and all her media equipment. She had a video projector in here for watching movies that she projected onto the far wall, and a state-of-the-art, five-speaker sound system. She unlocked the door to let them in and closed it behind them. A small desklamp burned on the desktop next to two computer screens, and she dropped into a chair in front of them.
“You can never have enough screens,” she said. “I’d have eight or ten, if I could afford it. Different stuff running on each one. So that whatever I wanted access to, all I’d have to do is turn my head.”
Michael took in the comfortable recliner strategically placed for watching projected movies and picking up the best sound. The fact that there was only one spoke volumes about Janey’s social life. Michael felt a surge of pity and affection for her. She was, he knew, a lonely soul. And she deserved better. He pulled up a chair beside her at the desk as she opened her iPhoto software from the dock at the foot of her screen. All of her most commonly used programs were lined up along the dock. As she scrolled through them, magnifying each in turn, he noticed the green hand/eye of the Second Life logo.
“Second Life,” he said.
She turned to look at him. “You’ve heard of it?”
He smiled. “I’m going in.”
Her face broke into a girlish grin. “You’re kidding me. I’ve been in SL for over a year.”
He looked at her blankly. “Why?”
She laughed. “I love it! That’s why. I probably spend 90 percent of my nonworking, nonsleeping time in there. It’s totally addictive, Mike.” She paused and her smile faded a little. “What are you going in for?”
He avoided her eye for a moment. He hadn’t told her about being in therapy. “I’ve been seeing a therapist, Janey. To help me get over Mora’s death. It’s been a lot harder than I ever imagined.”
She put a hand over his and squeezed it. “I know.” And after a moment, “But what’s that got to do with SL?”
“My therapist has been experimenting with virtual group therapy sessions in Second Life, and she’s talked me into trying it.”
“Wow. Cool. Michael, you’ll love it.”
But Michael was still doubtful. “I don’t know, Janey.”
“Mike, you will. You haven’t been in yet?”
“No, I just set up my AV tonight.”
Her face flushed with excitement. “Oh, God, then you gotta let me help you. You’re going to go in there and walk into walls and wave your arm around like an idiot. It’s easier if you have someone to take your hand and walk you through it.”
He grinned. “Like you.”
“Exactly like me. What’s your AV name?”
“Chas Chesnokov.”
She repeated it aloud, as if trying it out for size. “Hmmm. I like it, Chas. I’m Twist O’Lemon.”
He laughed out loud, and it felt good to be laughing again. “You’re what?”
She grinned. “I know. Stupid, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter. Just call me Twist. Oh. My. God. Mike, this is so exciting.” She put a hand on each of his shoulders and made him look at her. “Now, this is what you do, okay? As soon as you’re in, you send me an IM, and I’ll take it from there.”
“What if you’re not online?”
“Well, if I’m not at work, chances are I will be.”
He looked at her. “What do you do in there all that time, Janey?”
Her grin widened. “Oh, you’d be surprised what you can do in Second Life, Mike. But I think you’ll be even more amazed when you find out what it is I do. It’ll be my little surprise.” She swivelled back toward her screens. “Okay. Mike and Mora.” She double-clicked on an iPhoto folder and selected the slideshow option.”
Immediately, Mora’s face filled the screen. Smiling, enigmatic. Those soft brown eyes. And Michael felt the pain of losing her all over again.
CHAPTER TEN
It was his other favourite time of the day. When he and Mora would sit under the trellis on the terrace and play chess, the taste of coffee still in his mouth. The light was crystal clear, so luminous, as it slanted across the island below, cutting sharp shadows among the palm trees. He sat there now, the players ranged across the checkered board in front of him, contemplating his next move.
But, somehow, today his concentration was less than absolute. He had spent an hour when he got in the night before, drowsy and maudlin from too much beer and lack of sleep, going through the photographs that Janey had burned for him on to a CD. He had found his focus shifting from Mora to himself. Only three years had passed, but he looked so much younger. Perhaps he had simply aged more in the six months since her death than in the previous thirty. But it brought home to him with a sudden clarity that his life was slipping away. All the more rapidly since he had affixed himself to a place in the past that he could never go back to. He knew he needed to haul anchor and move on, to catch up with his life and take control of it again before he lost his hold on it completely.
And now, as he sat looking at the chess board, he realised, almost for the first time since she’d gone, the futility of sitting here pretending she hadn’t. Fantasizing that they were still playing. And Angela’s words came back to him. That is truly self-defeating, Michael. You have to stop this game. You’ll never get over her if you persist in giving shape and form to her ghost like this. He felt tears well in hi
s eyes, and he swept his arm across the board in a sudden gesture of defiance and frustration. Chessmen went tumbling across the terrace like so many lost dreams. It was no good. He simply couldn’t go on this way.
He got up and wandered back through the house, weaving among the packing cases and extraneous pieces of furniture. Soon this would all be gone, and he would have to find himself an apartment somewhere. Just ordinary old Michael Kapinsky, with an overdraft and a credit limit like everyone else. No more money, no more Mora, no more house.
On an impulse he went into his office and sat down in front of the computer. The eye of the Second Life icon seemed to be staring back at him from his computer desktop. What the hell! He had to go in sometime. He loaded up the software and was presented after a few moments, with the Second Life welcome screen.
He stared at it, with a strange sense of déjà vu. A scattering of trees across a rolling green coastline, an expanse of dark blue ocean. He had seen it before. And now he remembered where. On the computer screen of the murdered accountant in Newport Beach. Arnold Smitts. Had Smitts been in Second Life, too? It seemed like an extraordinary coincidence. And yet Angela had told him that there were 14 million inhabitants in SL, so was it really that much out of the ordinary? What struck Michael as odd, he realised, was that a man like Smitts would spend time in a virtual world. It didn’t seem in character with either the man or his profession.
He shrugged the thought aside and tapped in his name and password and hit the Enter key. He was in.
He stared at the screen, fascinated as a whole other world began to take shape in front of his eyes. A blue sea coruscating off to a clear horizon. Buildings to left and right. Trees swaying on a spit of land extending into the water.
A figure in jeans and a white tee-shirt stood, hands at his side, head tipped forward. Above it was a tag with his name. Suleman Perl (Away). He certainly didn’t look all there.
There were other figures wandering about, gazing left and right, up and down. They were the standard avatars from which Michael had made his choice the night before.
And there he was, Chas Chesnokov, standing with his back to the screen, stark naked and bald, before suddenly he grew hair, and a black shirt and charcoal jeans covered his modesty. A message appeared. Welcome to Orientation Island, a special place where new Residents can learn several basic skills.
More AV’s started appearing in the same space. Bumping and jostling, eager to take those first few steps. More newbies being born. More new residents logging in every minute. A population explosion that mirrored the real world.
A pop-up window was now offering Chas a simple exercise. To walk to a flashing red target using the arrow keys on his keyboard. He made the walk, and did a little involuntary dance of joy when he got there. Great, you made it! said the window. To learn more about other ways to move in Second Life, walk across the bridge to the city where you will find out how to drive a car and fly!
Chas set off across the bridge. He passed a young girl in jeans and a white top standing with her arms and legs spread. Her tag said, Yuno Orly. She ignored him, and Chas carried on across the bridge, walking straight into the brick pillar at the far end of it.
Yuno: Hahahaha
Her name and laughter appeared in text at the bottom left of his screen. He turned around to see Yuno Orly laughing at him.
Yuno: It’s lag.
Chas: Lag?
Yuno: The computer can’t keep up, and you go crashing into walls and falling off buildings. Hahahaha.
She made a little jump in the air.
Yuno: You learn to compensate after a while.
Then she turned away
Yuno: C ya.
And she walked briskly back across the bridge. Chas watched her go, then looked around. He was in a city street, a skyscraper towering over him. He saw a sign with an arrow on the other side of the street, next to a fire hydrant. Flight Training Institute. Steam was issuing from a manhole cover in the middle of the road, and further along a steam roadroller and an orange buggy lay in an odd tangle, half on the sidewalk.
Almost for the first time, Chas became aware of a strange, droning, ambience in the air. Like the sound of a breeze blowing through the winter bare branches of trees in a wood. He swivelled to look around. Across a short stretch of water, at the far side of another bridge, was a huge glass dome. The Search Center, a large sign told him.
Abandoned in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, he spotted what he recognised as a Segway. Chas clicked on it and immediately found himself riding the vehicle. He turned left, then right, then tried to head back across the bridge. But he missed it, veering across a stretch of grass and out over the water. It was a strange, disconcerting feeling, like floating on air. He came to a stop and hovered for a moment.
A notice appeared on his screen. Vehicle is outside city limits. Deleting.
And suddenly it was gone. Chas dropped like a stone, through the water, to the sea bed. Above him he could see the reflection of the city distorting on the rippled undersurface of the water. How the hell did he get out of here? Another notice appeared, as if reading his mind.
Don’t worry, your avatar won’t drown. Walk back onto land or click the Fly button to levitate your avatar.
He looked down to a toolbar at the bottom of his screen. He clicked on fly and found himself rising until his head broke the surface of the water. He flew clear of it, then headed for the glass dome.
Flying was a truly exhilarating experience, something he had only ever done in dreams. He soared across the water, arms reaching back behind him, the wind whistling in his ears. From up here he had a clearer view of where he was. A series of islands linked by bridges to the central point where he had first landed. Each island provided lessons in mobility, searching, changing appearance, communication. Molten lava was erupting in bursts from a thermal lake at the top of a rocky outcrop. When he reached the dome, he clicked to stop flying and landed with a thump at the entrance.
Inside were huge detailed maps of the region into which he had been delivered: a bewildering array of islands with names like Robinson, Capelli, Tharu. He had no idea how to get to any of them or what to do if he got there. There were more instruction windows appearing on his screen, but he was growing impatient now and scrutinised his toolbar again to find a search option.
He typed in Twist O’Lemon. Up came a profile with a picture of a male AV with long, straight, red and blond-streaked hair and a bare chest. He frowned, wondering if he’d entered the name wrong. But it was the name Janey had given him, and he’d made no typos. The information on the profile told him that this AV had been “born” almost exactly a year ago. There was a window listing Groups of which Twist was a member, and a short paragraph about her.
Here to have fun, it said. Check out my agency if you need help. Just IM me for a fast response.
What agency? Chas wondered. He opened the Send Instant Message window.
Chas: Hi, Twist. It’s Chas. Are you there?
After a moment a reply appeared.
Twist: Chas! You’re here!! So cool. I’ll send you a TP.
Chas: A what?
Twist: Teleport. Hang on.
A blue window appeared in the top right of Chas’ screen. Twist O’Lemon has offered to teleport you to his or her location. Join me on Jersey Island. He clicked to accept. There was a loud whooshing sound. He dropped to his knees and stood up, and found himself in what appeared to be a large office lined with bookcases. Huge blue windows all around cut high up into brick walls that rose to a wooden ceiling. Paintings hung on some of the windows: a fist with the middle finger raised, followed by a large U; a strange, multicoloured eye that peered back at him from within its frame. Below stood a sofa and several soft armchairs. A grand piano separated two desks, each with computers. Behind one of them, bubbles rose through turquoise water in an aquarium where colourful tropical fish drifted languidly by. Above it hung a large gold crested logo for the Twist of Fate Detective Agency.
Whatever Chas might have been expecting of Second Life, he could never have imagined any of this.
Twist: So what do you think of my office?
Chas turned to see the long-haired, bare-chested young man from Twist’s profile sitting at the piano, hands drifting up and down the keyboard. He became aware of soft piano music in the air.
Chas: Who are you?
Twist: LOL. Can’t you read? It’s me. Twist.
Chas: But you’re a man!
Twist: In SL, yes.
Chas: But why?
Twist: Cos I got fed up being harassed all the time. Guys in here are much bolder than they are in RL. A good-looking girl never gets a moment’s peace—and all the girls in here are good-looking, Chas. So I decided to be a man. And anyway, this way my clients take me much more seriously. Even if I do go around with a bare chest.
Chas looked down and realised that Twist was also bare-footed.
Chas: What clients?
Twist: Of the agency. Didn’t you see my logo?
Chas: You’re not seriously telling me you’re a private detective?
Twist: Sure, I am. Get lots of work, too. Harassment cases. Stalking. Fraud. Infidelity.
Chas: Infidelity?
He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.
Chas: Who’s being unfaithful to who?
Twist: Hahaha. Chas, SL is just like RL. People have relationships. Get married. They also cheat. And jealous partners come to me to find out who with.
Twist stood up from the piano.
Twist: Anyway, now that you’ve come into SL, you can be my partner in the agency. We can be a team.
