by Lisa Tuttle
‘I guess so,’ said Rose. She was too tired to argue, otherwise she would have explained that Gran had the wrong idea about e-mail being impersonal. Communicating via the Internet was about as personal as you could get, short of talking to someone face to face. It was true that you could disguise yourself, change your name, pretend to be someone else, and the person on the receiving end would never have a clue – but that wasn’t impersonal. It was more immediate and involving, and playing games could be most revealing. Just thinking about it made Rose itch to sit down at the computer, and as soon as she could, she escaped to her bedroom and the little laptop with modem which had been her parents’ parting gift to her.
On-line, doorways to countless worlds opened before her. There were so many places she could go. First, she wrote to her parents about her first day at school, going into detail about her classes, because she knew they would be interested, and making gentle fun of her grandmother’s obsession with knowing the names of the grandparents of everyone she met. It was a short letter, just to keep in touch and to encourage them to respond. Next Rose went in search of her brother. There was a message from him, posted three hours earlier, ‘Meet me in Illyria’ it said, followed by a website address.
Rose felt a prickle of excitement, and her tiredness vanished. She was ready to go adventuring.
As children, she and Simon had constructed imaginary worlds in which they played out long, involved, continuing fantasies. This had been their solution to a life which might have seemed isolated and underprivileged to many – without television, often in remote areas, cut off from friends. They had been happy in their make-believe worlds. Simon had outgrown their games before she did, and for a while she felt, as he retreated into his studies, that she’d lost him. But when their father had bought a computer and gone on-line, a whole new world had opened up before them.
The Internet turned out to be full of virtual worlds, fantasy landscapes invented by the people who populated them. There you could be whoever or whatever you wanted. It seemed to be the grownup version of their childhood games, and to Rose it had felt like coming home. Even when Simon was physically far away, he and Rose could still ‘meet’ electronically every day. E-mail and virtual chat-rooms were great, but what they enjoyed most was exploring new worlds.
These virtual worlds were known to their users by the generic term of MUD – short for ‘Multi-User Domain’. Unlike the computer games you could buy, and which Rose had never found very interesting, MUDs were in the process of constant change, directed by the people who used them. And they were constructed entirely of words.
Rose would type in an action, for example, I walk into the forest. In response, her screen would fill with lines of text informing her what she saw, heard, smelt, or encountered: The forest is dark and chilly. You can smell moss and damp leaves. There is a rustling in the undergrowth, and a squeaking sound directly to your left. Rose would respond – perhaps by running away, or walking towards the squeaking – in order to find out what happened next. If she met someone else in the forest, the ‘I’ she typed would appear by the character name she had chosen on their screens, along with whatever description of herself she had provided. ‘Spoken’ dialogue would appear on the screens of everyone participating, but it was also possible to ‘whisper’ to one named person alone.
Rules differed from world to world, but generally you gained knowledge and power by exploring and making active choices. Rose thought that the experience of entering a MUD was like dreaming in concert with other people; all of you were both the authors and the participants, the playwright and the characters in an evolving drama.
Wondering what Simon had found this time, Rose typed in the access codes he had given her.
Welcome to Illyria! If you would like to enter, press Y. Rose didn’t read any further – she pressed Y.
If you are a citizen of Illyria, please enter your name now. If you are exploring Illyria for the first time, please choose a name and enter your description.
This was it: the moment of hope and fear, giddiness and exhilaration, like standing at the top of a ski-jump ready to go. She took a deep breath. Then she remembered that she would have to choose a name Simon would recognize, so they could find each other. She wasn’t going to go in as herself – she never did that, she always created a game persona – but if she was too clever, Simon might not know who she was. So she chose a name from their own long-running games, a name they’d each used in turn, one which Simon would know immediately.
Rose put her hands back on the keyboard and typed ROBERTO.
4 The Challenge
Orson=Orsini? Rose pondered the coincidence. Cyberspace was a huge, international area. The Internet linked the world. She had encountered people who lived in Denmark, Japan and Finland, as well as plenty scattered throughout America and the British Isles, but she had never met anyone who lived close enough for a real life visit. Yet it seemed such a strange coincidence to have fallen head-over-heels for a boy named Orson and, the very same day, to have made a new friend who called himself Count Orsini. The link between the two names had made her feel a special warmth for whoever was calling himself Count Orsini, so that she had impetuously rushed to his rescue.
At lunch-time the next day, Rose saw Orson sitting by himself at a table. Impulsively, she walked towards him. Why shouldn’t she just ask him? ‘Pardon me, but haven’t we met before? In Illyria?’ She stopped, embarrassed: what if they hadn’t, if he didn’t know what she was talking about, what would he think of her? Perhaps she could say, ‘Excuse me, this may sound like a strange question, but do you know anything about computers? Ever heard of a virtual world called Illyria?’ As she dithered, two boys seated themselves at Orson’s table. She didn’t want to speak to him in front of his friends. But she could still sit at his table. She might hear him say something in that wonderful voice …
‘Rose! Over here!’
Looking around, Rose saw a girl she recognized from a couple of her classes, although she couldn’t remember her name. Feeling gratitude for the friendly gesture, and pleased to be rescued from her uncertainty, Rose went to join her.
‘I’m Bethany,’ said the girl. ‘From English and math? This is Jennifer, and this is Megan.’
‘I’m in your English class, too,’ said Jennifer. ‘And chemistry. Isn’t it awful, the way Mr Babcock mumbles?’
‘I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so,’ said Rose, sitting down beside her.
‘I just love your accent,’ said Megan, leaning across the table.
‘What happened in English today?’ asked Bethany. ‘Why’d Ms Elder come and pull you out?’
‘Oh, to take a placement test. I’m probably going to move into a more advanced class,’ Rose said.
‘Huh, a brain,’ said Bethany. ‘I’ll bet you’re a big computer-head, too.’
‘Well, I don’t know much about programming, but I do like going on-line.’
‘There’s a school computer club,’ said Jennifer helpfully. ‘Maybe you should join.’
Bethany made a gagging noise. ‘Puh-leeze! Have some pity on the poor girl – she doesn’t want to get involved with a bunch of nerds!’
‘And what’s wrong with nerds?’ demanded Jennifer.
‘Nothing, if they’re like Orson. But most of them aren’t.’
‘Orson.’ Rose didn’t realize she had spoken the name aloud until Jennifer responded, explaining, ‘Orson’s my brother. He’s a senior. He’s the president of the computer club.’
*
Illyria, as Rose learned when she finally, on the bus going home, read the page in her orientation pack devoted to the computer club, was a MUD which had been started in the previous school year and was still under construction. The high school website was a new initiative funded in part by ‘a generous grant from the Mason Corporation’ and in part by the state board of education. Access to the MUD was strictly limited to students from the twenty-six participating on-line high schools throughout t
he State of Georgia. Rose wondered how Simon had come to hear of it, let alone managed to discover the secret password which allowed entry.
When she got home, she fended off all offers of sweets and treats from Gran, fidgeting impatiently between gulps of a cool drink, unable to concentrate.
‘I’m sorry, Gran, I’ll tell you everything later, only now I really need to talk to Simon.’
‘Can’t it wait until the rates go down?’
‘Not with the time difference – I’m afraid he’ll be in bed.’
Gran sighed, but nodded in the direction of the phone on the kitchen wall. ‘All right, darlin’, go ahead.’
‘No, I don’t want to call him – I want to go on-line. You know, the computer. I was too late last night, but I’d bet anything he’s on the Net right now.’
‘On the Net,’ Gran repeated. ‘No, don’t try to explain! You go on. Give Simon my love if you find him.’
‘Thanks, Gran.’
Si: Greetings, Sis! Where were you yesterday? I waited for ages :(
Ro: Sorry. I had to fill the rest of the family in on my big First Day At School. Took some time, especially with Gran wanting to know the name of everybody I met so she could check them with her Social Register of Grannies. When I finally got to Illyria, you’d gone. Now tell me how you found out about Illyria … it’s not supposed to be open to the likes of you!
S: Chuckle The master hacker strikes again … Seriously, limited access works in theory, not in practice. You give hundreds of people a password, it’s not a deep dark secret. I got it from a new friend … he’s a university student in Georgia. Maybe he found out about it when he was still at school; I don’t think he hangs out there himself. Anyway, I’m sorry I missed you. Did you enjoy yourself?
R: Yes! Although I didn’t realize it was a local website until I finally got around to reading my orientation booklet today! There I was assuming that the school computer club would be a waste of time, and it turns out Illyria is the school MUD! I’m definitely going back there – how about you?
S: Probably not. I don’t belong there, you know. It’s a playground for you kids.
R: Big man! Too grown up for games?
S: Of course not. But Illyria’s private property. Why should I trespass when there are plenty of other places for me to explore? We can meet anywhere.
R: Want to go somewhere now?
S: Actually, I was just about to sign off and get some kip. I’ve an early lecture in the morning. How about tomorrow? How about Vampyre World, for a change? Or JungleMoo?
Rose winced, remembering. Time zones weren’t supposed to matter in cyberspace, but real life wasn’t so accommodating.
R: I’II be late home from school tomorrow; I thought I’d try out for the drama club …
S: Woah! Our Rose a star?
R: I doubt it, but I have to do something. Everybody signs up for something after school.
S: That’s good. You’ll make friends.
A wave of loneliness suddenly washed over Rose. More than anything she wanted to actually see Simon, hear his voice, to have him physically in the room with her, not just his words on the screen.
R: Do you really think so?
S: Absolutely! You can’t spend your whole life in cyberspace or with your relations, you know. You have to get out in the world, do things … Try a sport. Did I tell you I’d made the fencing team?
R: Simon, that’s great! Will you teach me?
S: I would if I could, but haven’t you been paying attention? You need to find somebody in the real world, over there in Georgia, to help you. You can show me what you’ve learned when I come over for Christmas. Now I’d better go. We can get together this weekend, OK? Give Gran a kiss for me.
R: She sends her love.
Only after she signed off did Rose realize that she hadn’t mentioned Orson or Count Orsini. She’d intended to ask Simon’s advice. But although she had always confided in Simon, her closest friend, and although she longed to talk about Orson, a new wariness made her hesitate. She decided that, on the whole, it would be better to wait and say nothing. She wished she had a girlfriend to confide in, but she would work this one out for herself.
*
Later that evening, after Gran had taught her to cook sweetcorn fritters and smothered pork chops, and they had eaten the results of the lesson and tidied up the kitchen, Rose went back to Illyria. This time, when she arrived, she asked the gatekeeper programme for the names of the other visitors. She felt a jolt of excitement when Count Orsini’s name appeared.
Location? she queried, and sent Roberto off to meet him.
*
Roberto entered the tavern and looked around the long, low-ceilinged room, lit up by the wavering light of flames: there was a log fire blazing in the hearth at one end, and candles on the rough, wooden tables. It seemed to be a busy night, with most of the stools and benches occupied, and a cheerful roar of laughter and conversation filling the air along with the smell of spilt beer, woodsmoke, burning wax and warm, unwashed humanity.
‘Roberto! Over here, my friend!’
Turning, Roberto grinned as he caught sight of Count Orsini. Even in a crowd, it was impossible to overlook the red-bearded giant.
‘A flagon of your best ale for my friend here,’ the Count bellowed to the tavern-keeper.
The tavern-keeper presented Roberto with a foaming tankard, and was rewarded by the Count with a few coins. ‘Another for yourself, good sir?’
Orsini shook his head. ‘Later. Leave us alone for now.’
‘As you wish, sire.’ The tavern-keeper bowed and backed away.
‘Have you met these good folk?’ Orsini asked Roberto, gesturing towards the couple who shared his table.
The woman was Oriental, beautiful yet bizarre-looking in heavy, starkly-coloured make-up, wearing the elaborate, layered silk costume which was typical at the royal courts of Heian Japan. The other was a blue-skinned dwarf, aggressively ugly.
‘I haven’t had the pleasure.’
‘Then allow me to introduce the Lady Purple and Blue Dwarf,’ said Count Orsini.
Before Roberto could reply, a sudden commotion caught everyone’s attention.
The heavy wooden doors of the tavern were flung open, and a wild-eyed young man – a peasant, by his attire – ran inside, shouting: ‘Dragon! DRAGON!’
Someone screamed. There was a babble of voices.
Count Orsini leapt to his feet. ‘You have your flute?’ he asked Roberto urgently.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Come, we may need your skill again.’
There were several others, closer to the door, who made it outside ahead of them, but even the tall, soldierly-looking man with his sword drawn shrank back at the sight of what awaited them on the village green.
Roberto, whose flute was in his hand, had expected to see the dragon from the cave. But the beast which awaited them outside was built to another scale. It was far bigger than any man. It could have ripped off the roof of the tavern without too much difficulty. It could have crushed them all underfoot and, from the way it was looking down at them with a glittering eye, it probably intended to do so. Its long, green, spiked tail twitched, knocking down a small tree.
‘Godzilla,’ said Roberto in a low voice.
‘Amen,’ said Count Orsini. ‘Do you think your music would have any effect on that thing? Because I think it would have my sword for a toothpick if I gave it the chance.’
Roberto raised the flute to his lips and, a little apprehensively, began to play.
The dragon did not move for a moment or two. It appeared to be listening. Then it tilted its head very slightly, as if to hear better, and a dreamy, rapturous expression spread across its scaly face. The fierce golden eyes grew gentle, and the nictitating membrane flickered across them once, twice. It was working! Roberto continued to play the most soothing melody that he knew, aware of a few stifled yawns and relaxing bodies from the spectators, themselves charmed out of their te
rror by the music.
Then all at once it was Roberto who was blinking, not from tiredness, but to make sense of what he was seeing. The air seemed hazy, as if shimmering with a desert heat. The great beast was rippling; it was shrinking and changing shape. Where the dragon had been there now stood a woman. She was six feet tall, dressed entirely in close-fitting leathers, with a featureless leather mask concealing her face. Two golden eyes stared out of the eye-holes, their fierce glow the only reminder of the now-vanished beast.
‘CyberQueen,’ said Orson, his voice sharp and unwelcoming. ‘What’s going on? What was the point of that little trick?’
She cocked her head, eyeing him unpleasantly through her mask. ‘That was no “little trick”. I am the dragon. You don’t suppose I really look like this?’ She indicated her voluptuous yet powerful leather-clad form. ‘The CyberQueen is merely one of my avatars; the dragon is another. And since I can’t trust you not to slay me in one form, I’ve had to switch to another in order to speak to you – little though I wish to do so!’ She turned her attention way from Count Orsini and looked at Roberto. He thought that she was smiling at him from behind the distorting mask.
‘I like the way you handle your flute, musician. I could happily listen to you play all day. But I was afraid that if I let myself fall under your spell a second time, you might not be able to stop your aggressive friend from killing me.’
‘You nearly killed me,’ Count Orsini objected.
‘I didn’t.’
‘You did! I was nearly blacking out!’
‘I would have let you go as soon as you passed out. Anyway, what did you expect? You were trying to steal my treasure; I was trying to protect it. And you would have killed me, too, if your lovely young friend hadn’t stopped you.’ She glanced at Roberto in a way that was unmistakably flirtatious, despite the weird mask.
