“Thank the Voices. Home. Finally.” Phil was beyond tired. His pedaling had slowly dwindled to half spastic jerks.
“Careful with your balance.”
“I know. I know.” He huffed.
“Bicycles take even a Traveler time to learn. Stretch before bed.” That was me talking, not Carver. I was almost forced to do stretches every time I exited the ARC or risk problems. “Make sure the younger kids don’t try to run off without supervision.”
“I know. I know.”
Neat. I was really getting into this role of being a nagging old man. Though my behavior wasn’t entirely accurate for a Carverism.
“And money up front when working.”
“I know!” The youngster’s head was hanging down in that sulk children do.
“And you’ll need a map.”
“I know!” Phil paused and blinked a few times. “Wait. What? You never said anything about a map.”
“Here. I can’t be doing this forever.” I handed over one of the maps Carver had. During the last five days, I’d verified that this one actually displayed information. The rest were at Carver’s house. That place was filled to the brim with notes and bits of information.
“Wait, what?”
“Ehhh.” I ignored Phil and slowly lowered myself out of the cart, cane and a tentative foot first until my landing was secure. Then everything shifted onto tired hips.
“What is this all about, geezer?”
Phil’s questioning tone was ignored while my feet shuffled toward the door. Sunlight had nearly completely vanished. Hopefully everyone was doing all right with their individual training methods. That cave would probably be the worst of the trials. Though Wyl likely had a few tricks up his sleeve to keep Shadow guessing.
“Geezer?” Phil sounded urgent.
I thought he was Shadow the fifty-second. That was the count James had given me.
“Geezer!”
The next mystery was Mylia, standing in the doorway with an upset expression. Even these tired eyes could make out a half frown and hip tilt of annoyance.
“Phil, you leave him alone and go get the littles ready for bed!” She pointed one finger at him, then gestured to the back of her orphanage.
“It’s Jane and Jill’s turn!”
“Help them, or I’ll whack you!”
Mylia wasn’t getting any better these last few days. A few weeks ago, she’d seemed pleasant and polite, but now she was tired and irritable. I let the whole woman’s issue slide right out of my mind and hobbled up to the door.
“Mister Carver.”
“Mylia. You wanted to see me?”
“I wanted to ask you what you’re trying to make these children do. They’ve been driving me bonkers for days with your silly story request.”
I imagined a serious expression across her face but couldn’t really make one out in the blurry light.
“Mh.” I clanked the cane against her walkway gravel while pondering what to do.
“Seriously, after all this time, why would you make such an absurd request?”
“I have my reasons.” Many reasons, in the form of quests and desperate attempts. None of that would be sensible to tell Mylia. My tired eyes glared at the woman.
Stress was wearing her down, and all of it was likely from me. I sighed. One hand reached inside Carver’s robe to check on one of his trophies. This was a prize I’d found while digging around for a proper sword. Anything that might help me with the [Maze of Midnight] mission. Too bad there had been no such weapon lying around his house. Old Man Carver’s list of belongings didn’t even include a long trail of twine to lay out.
His best gear was probably off in some invisible inventory pocket that was unreachable to me. Drat. I bet he had some superb equipment. Oh well, that was why I’d gathered four players for this escort quest. Plus it felt very game-like to give newbies this sort of chance. Apparently the Voices thought so as well, or I wouldn’t keep getting pop-up boxes for my actions. I had a feeling that they could kibosh the whole thing any time they wanted to. Especially that Drill Sergeant who’d shouted spittle into my face. That guy would probably pull the plug immediately given a choice.
I sent a mental prayer to the future robot overlords and once again boasted about my polishing skills. Hal Pal would probably get a kick out of this whole thing. For an AI, it had a surprisingly wide range of amusement. One day after work, I’d caught the robot shell viewing kitten movies with a confused expression. That had been an interesting van ride home, with me explaining to a computer why kittens were cute.
“Whatever your reasons are, it’s no good to the kids. They loved your stories and now you’ve stopped telling any.”
“They’ve never tried to tell you stories?”
“Well, they do.” Her frown was extremely obvious as her eyes gazed into the distance. She was probably remembering prior experiences with the little ones. Children always babbled about something.
“All I’m asking them for is a story. A new one, about anything they want it to be.”
“I don’t understand why. Why change things now?”
“Because things change, Mylia. They always have, and always will. Someone has to be able to tell stories if I…” I had become too invested in the moment. That wasn’t Carver speaking; it was me. I dared to look at my progress bar and noticed a small red negative mark. William Carver didn’t like to admit his own mortality. Well, screw him. Mortality existed. That negative point was one I would argue to the grave.
“That’s no good, Mister Carver. What will the children do if you go away?”
“Life goes on, Mylia. We don’t always get to say good-bye.”
Mylia looked worried, but made no move to leave the doorway. She was clearly blocking my entrance into the orphanage. Either Mylia was blocking me out of annoyance or worry about our conversation being unfinished.
“Here. I found this. It seemed like something you should have.” I pulled out a necklace of scales. The scales were heavy things, they almost tore off my arm to lift. Carrying them around in my robe all day had been torture.
“What are these?”
“Yours. To do with what you will.”
There was no mistaking the fiery spark in her eye. Mylia was slowly growing upset, even beyond upset. Her face had almost twisted to inhuman rage. My old eyes could make out some details against the fading light. There was a ripple on her forehead, and for a moment, both eyes gleamed a golden hue.
Carefully using [Identification], I gained a bit more information, which confirmed a hunch. Mylia was somehow a half-dragon. That was why talk of my dragon-slaying days had upset her so much. I’d applied every badly written movie plot available to this situation over the last few days in order to reach this conclusion. Clearly it had been a logic leap on my part.
That, and one of the players I’d sent on a quest to do reconnaissance said she salivated over meats but refused to eat any. I figured her to be a carnivore of some sort but had never seen her eat anything that looked as though it came from an animal. Had the computer generated a half-dragon vegan or something? That would be a neat reason for her to be so peaceful with humans.
My follow-up question was simple. What the heck was a half-dragon NPC doing running an orphanage? I had suspicions and maybe three days left to solve them, assuming this dungeon went well.
“What do you suggest I do with this?” she asked.
The scales in her hand had come from William Carver’s one dragon kill. They had theoretically been ripped from the soft spot under its chin.
“Give them the respect I never did.”
“Oh.” Her face twisted, and this time it wasn’t anger. Not completely. The redness that had been building up washed away to a pale tone. Her eyes widened.
“There’s a price.”
“What is it?” Even her words turned almost soft. This was more like the Mylia I had first met. Calm, happy. I felt as though things were going in the right direction.
�
��One day, I expect you to tell a story as well.”
“And what tale would you expect of me?”
“Yours.”
I’d stunned the NPC speechless. Go me! My quest bar took a jump with that declaration. Offering the trophy scales in exchange for progress with Mylia was exactly what the AIs expected. Too bad now I was losing progress due to staying out past nightfall.
“Do we have a deal?”
“I’ll…” She looked at the scales in her hands again. This time, she was almost cradling them. “I’ll think on it. Good and proper this time, Mister Carver.”
“That’ll have to do.”
There was another pause, far more pleasant as Mylia seemed lost in thought. After a moment, she gave a small smile and stepped aside. Guess the gesture returned me to her good graces.
“Will you be staying?” she asked.
“Not tonight, Mylia Jacobs. I’ve lived long enough to know when a woman needs her space.”
Her smile faltered for a moment, but then she nodded.
“I’ll be off then. If the Voices are kind, we’ll talk again soon.”
Only as I turned away did it occur to me how fatalistic that came out. There was a very good chance Carver could make it through everything that might happen. Sitting on a bench all day to survive was still an option. Yet Carver hadn’t been that sort of person. He sat on a bench to help new players, not to avoid trouble.
I let the autopilot function take a meandering path home and logged out of my ARC. There was only so much prep work I could do within the world of Continue. The rest was notes that Phil could deliver around town tomorrow right before the dungeon attempt. Old Man Carver’s penmanship was barely legible.
My house was quiet save for the ARC’s hum of energy. Everything was in its place. Nothing had been moved or touched. I thought that was the worst part of losing my fiancée. The portion of-of everything that used to be filled with her. Those first few nights utterly alone had been awkward. Loneliness didn’t hit until a few weeks later. Soon I started purging reminders chunks at a time.
Clothing was the easiest to get rid of. Books went next. She had owned a small shelf with honest-to-god paperbacks. Most of them were scientific in nature—blueprints of spaceships and other things. The feel of paper helped her study easier. She had wanted to go on the Mars Colony Projects with a blazing intensity. There was no room on such a thing for a number-cruncher like me, but if she’d gone, they would have trained me in something too. I would have swept hallways for her.
I grabbed a coffee and stared out of my front window while wondering about the roads not traveled. Trying not to dwell on the choices made to lead where I was. “What if” was a dangerous game for those who suffered. What if I had made her stay home one extra day? What if I had convinced her to go on a plane or take the tunnels? Even an hour later on the next train out?
Any number of actions could have changed the future. Therapy had helped me through some of the sadness. Most of it was time to grieve and realize that I had no way to predict disaster. I was no seer who could foresee the future. I was no psychic who could sense impending doom. I was a sad man with a belly that had gotten too big in a house that was too quiet.
This whole chain of thoughts was really Awesome Jr.’s and SweetPea’s fault. Their sappy, shy love story was enough to dig up wounds. They clearly played this game to be with each other, or at least Awesome Jr. did. Hopefully he confessed his feelings sometime tonight. If things went right, they would walk out ready to challenge the world tomorrow. I smiled. Dungeon crawling would be a neat first date. Carver’s journals stated adventures with pretty ladies almost always resulted in happy endings.
“Mh.” Great. Carver’s grumbling had invaded my quiet coffee contemplation time.
“Mh.” I made the noise again. A smile grew on my face. Being grumpy in real life might be kind of fun. It was better than being a sad wounded puppy.
“Grr!” I tried to scowl like HotPants did, but ended up laughing at myself. That woman was a bundle of misplaced anger. I would find her later on, once I was me and not Carver, then tell her that I wasn’t an NPC. Crud. Was there a non-disclosure clause on my time as Old Man Carver?
My single serving of coffee was almost done. Experiments with caffeine and long-term ARC immersion had been inconclusive. For my dance program, the energy helped keep me focused. In Continue, nothing was clear. The time perception warp was playing havoc with my senses. I’d set up alarms first thing when I went back in. To make sure I didn’t somehow play ‘til dawn then attempt to go to work. Even a quick catnap in the company van would barely solve that problem.
I stood to grab another cup. The timer on my watch gave me an hour before Carver woke for the morning. I would play the game personally to ensure Carver got a nap as well. Otherwise staying up for the [Maze of Midnight] would be near impossible.
The second cup was saved for mulling over HotPants as a person. She clearly had some issues in the real world. Abusive ex-spouse, if I were to guess. Everything gave hints as to her nature outside the ARC: a general distaste for being given orders, the desire to learn self-defense, short temper. Maybe I was overthinking her. She could be a naturally violent person. Or simple rage issues due to a bad divorce.
They weren’t all as straightforward as Pie Master. That man had shouted for joy at being able to learn cooking. He had gone on for almost an hour about how the real world had lost its flare when it came to meal time. Pie Master loved desserts the most. Half his reasoning had to do with a grandmother who’d taught him to make a cake when he was eight.
Some people were that simple.
Shadow I didn’t even worry about. That man was set on an image. He would follow it out to the end. Voices, it was hard to call him and Awesome Jr. men. They technically were. From Carver’s point of view, the one I had been pretending to have for weeks, they were barely out of diapers.
“Heh.” Continue was fun and frustrating. Even this strange, unorthodox way of playing had value. It was a hobby that didn’t involve self-torture.
That last thought came out entirely too moody. I needed some music.
I fired up something with a swing to it and bobbed around my front room. Moving hurt more than on a normal day, but less than Carver’s standard fare. These exercise bracelets were doing a number on me. My abs ached in places they wouldn’t normally care about.
“ARC!” I was in another room, but the device would hear me. There was a repeater and projector in this room. Trillium employees had access to all the neat toys.
“Awaiting Input.”
“Fire up some reviews of the EXR-Sevens. And the user’s manual, whatever section that explains if I need to take them off or not.”
“Searching. Data retrieved. Displaying.” The projection ball in the top of my front room took over one of the walls with an image.
“Visual only.” I cut off the ARC’s automatic playback of the text. My music was more important. Reading and jiving at the same time was second nature. Even if moving made me wince from sore muscles.
According to the information, my EXR-Sevens could just stay on. Trillium had configured the things to recharge using wireless signals. That was super neat but not new. My watch operated on the same thing. Heck, this technology had been in the works decades ago. The real kicker was how EXR-Sevens measured biometric data for an entire body adjustment program.
I guessed the ARC wasn’t merely a pretty box with games and porn. No. This machine measured a person’s current status, their responses, and progressed differently for everyone. Some of the reviews went on to suggest a superhuman software that would automatically adjust your body over time. People hoped soon to plug in and be the Hulk a few years later with no effort required.
Turned out the EXR-Seven wasn’t a cure-all. The body needed a resistance of some sort to build mass, but the bands succeeded at burning calories. Combine it with a diet and the jump was still very good. It was a shame, but humanity hadn’t invented a method for
the perfect body. It was still a matter of exercise right and eat clean.
Trillium forced people to play physical programs of some sort to keep the EXR-Seven functioning. According to the user’s manual, they would shut off if you slept all day or watched movies in the ARC. Not a complete freebie, but still useful. My niece did manage to keep herself in shape. I glanced over a couple of other advertisements and even saw the official one from Trillium. It played like a late-night infomercial.
“Before EXR-Seven, I was a complete butterball. Now all the ladies want me!”
The vocals overrode my music and annoyed me. I waved at the mute option and stared downward.
I patted my gut and chuckled. “Soon. Bah. Maybe I should eat better too.”
Nonsense, food was good! Though I bet there were programs that could offer me tasty alternatives at my normal food stops.
An alarm cut out the music. Morning was approaching in Carver land! I had a full day of trying to figure out penning memos with a quill.
“Oh!” I set the coffee cup into my sink and shuffled eagerly to the bathroom.
Quickly I washed my face and cleaned up a bit. This next haul inside Continue would be at least four hours of real-world time, or a day inside. More, if this dungeon was a longer adventure.
Darkness preceded my transition to William Carver’s body.
“Yo, Grant Legate. Just the man I was hoping to see.” The words sounded vaguely like every frat boy in existence from my college years.
“Mh?” I spun, looked down at myself, back up, and back down in confusion. Then my eyes traveled around the room. Finally, it dawned on me that this was not William Carver’s body but my own.
This was the trial room, or Voice playground, or space between. I would figure out a neat name one day. “Oh. Here again.”
“You’re the Traveler who’s taking care of my man Wild Willy.” The voice was vaguely familiar.
“That’s new.” One eyebrow went up. I squinted into the blackness of this place, trying to pick out which Voice was talking.
“Leeroy?”
Continue Online The Complete Series Page 31
