Nexis

by A. L. Davroe

  I scream until I’m panting, and then I settle down, realizing that there is no point in screaming at a Broadcast that is long past. Sparks. Everyone thinks I’m dead. But how? Why? Why am I here? Why am I still alive? What’s going on? Why on earth would someone lie about my death?

  I have to tell Delia I’m not dead. She’s been mourning me, worrying her poor little macaw-inspired head. I have to see her and make her understand why I haven’t been around, why I’ve been hiding away. I can’t let her think I’m dead. How awful.

  Both nervous and eager, I attempt to dial Dee for a vis-call. The line abruptly goes silent, which means that Tasha is blocking me.

  “Why are you blocking me from visual calls?”

  In the instant before she responds I worry that she’s been hacked or has picked up some kind of malware, but then she says, “The parental controls on your G-Chip have been adjusted.”

  “What? But why?”

  She doesn’t answer; she’s not programmed to ruminate on possibilities. I frown, dread pooling in my stomach. Confused, I link up with the hover-chair and maneuver it toward the door. I need to talk with Katrina, figure out why I’m being blocked, and if she won’t come to me, then I’ll go to her. I need to contact Dee, and Uncle Simon, and Bastian. I need to be able to call out.

  The door closes before I can get within ten feet of it. Frowning, I command it to open. It doesn’t respond.

  “Tasha?” Even in my mind, my voice sounds strangled and a little frightened. “Why are you locking me inside?”

  “I have been forbidden to let you leave this room.”

  “What? For how long?”

  “Indefinitely.”

  Sudden panic rises in my stomach. “I’m a prisoner?” Being held by someone who is a complete stranger. A stranger living in my house and changing my G-Chip? This cannot be happening.

  Tasha doesn’t answer.

  Gnawing my lip, I sit and stare at the door. Can I break out? The sharp, earsplitting headache I get in response answers me. Circuits, there is no way out. Which means I can’t hack my way, either; my chip will turn my brain to goo long before I get past the first firewall.

  The chair gravitates back toward the window. Whether Tasha or some subconscious part of me guides it that way, I don’t know.

  I pull up Dee’s latest message and reread it.

  The respond button has been locked—as has every other social networking option on my flex-bracelet. I’m completely cut off. I blink at my bracelet in disbelief.

  Then it hits me like a ton of scrap metal. “She’s really keeping me prisoner,” I whisper out loud. But why?

  A few moments of deliberation leaves me with one option. She must be trying to steal my inheritance. And that means she’s never going to let me have restorative surgery on my legs.

  If there was ever a time for me to get restorative treatment for my legs, now would be best, when Dad’s trust fund for me is large enough to cover it. But if Katrina is keeping me prisoner, making people think I’m dead, that means she’s intending to use the power of guardianship over me and my estate to use Dad’s credits for her own devices. Without legs, I can’t get out. If I can’t get out or call out then I can’t go to anyone for help or fight her for ownership of my home and inheritance. I could be held like this until one of us dies.

  Feeling sick again, I propel the chair forward once more and slam the door with my fist. “Katrina,” I scream. “Katrina. Let me out. You can’t keep me like this.” I slam again. No one comes. I keep slamming and screaming. “Let me out. Let me out. You can’t just lock me up and steal away my life. Let me out!” I pound one last time, then collapse to the side of the chair, panting and heart hammering.

  Eventually, Tasha says, “This room is soundproofed.”

  “Right,” I breathe. “I’d forgotten that.” Dad had the room soundproofed so he could focus. She stuck me up here so she didn’t have to hear me scream for vengeance. Or for mercy.

  Overwhelmed with the prospect of being trapped for the rest of my life, the chair glides back to the window, which would be my only means of escape…if I had legs to climb out of it.

  I stare at Dee’s words, over and over. I’m trapped. I will never be able to get out. Even if I could get the door to open, the hover-chair would get me maybe ten, fifteen feet from the house before the remote power connection with Tasha snapped. And then what? Crawl on my belly among the droids? Even if I screamed, would someone honestly come to me? A legless Natural girl sprawled in the street? They would think I was a discarded Doll.

  My best friend thinks I’m dead. My family thinks I’m dead. For all intents and purposes…I am dead.

  Part Two:

  Flowers Grow on Ella’s Grave

  Unsent Letters to Delia

  Dee,

  This has been the fifth letter I’ve attempted to write you in almost the same number of hours. I’m overcome with so much anger, guilt, and betrayal that I can’t seem to focus my thoughts enough to get it all down in a note to you, but each attempt seems to get a little clearer so I’ll keep trying. Even though I know these words will never get to you, I feel it’s important to write you. You need to know that I love you so very much and I think of you often, even if my silence has not and will continue not to reflect that. I still want you in my life, even though I am no longer allowed to be in yours.

  I’m horrified by your grief at my death. The notes you have sent trouble me—as did your behavior at the memorial service. You’ve never been a violent person, nor have you ever been cross to Nina. You have to try to stay strong, to not lose sight of what makes you a caring, wonderful person. Please don’t push away the people who love you. Yes, they sometimes leave us—I know that more than anyone—but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t continue to love. As Meems keeps telling me, you need to persevere. Stay strong and I shall try my hardest to do the same.

  Also, please forgive me…

  As I’ve said in my previous notes, I’m sorry I didn’t try to contact you sooner. I can only blame my state of mind for not thinking to even reach out to you. Perhaps I was ashamed. I don’t really know the reason. Please don’t take it personally, as I didn’t reach out to anyone. Not Uncle Simon or Bastian… You were the first one I tried to contact.

  In some ways I’m glad I did not try sooner. If I had tried to talk to you any earlier, I would have discovered my false death and this imprisonment weeks ago. Feeling the weight of this reality—I fear what depression I might have fallen into so close to learning of my father’s death and dealing with my new injury. Finding out so late that I am imprisoned and dead to the world outside is a terrible blow, yes, but after dealing with what I have recently endured, I feel much stronger and better up to the challenge. Losing the people on the outside is not like losing Dad was. You’re still alive, after all, and that means more to me than you being with me. I only hope you find happiness. In return, I shall do the same. I’ve already started. I finally went into Nexis, Dee. You’d be proud of me for finally swallowing my pride and doing it. It’s wonderful in there, and I hope you go in soon as well, if you haven’t already. I’ve even met a new friend. Well, perhaps a friend…

  To be honest, I’m a little frightened. I don’t want to replace you, but I’m already growing lonely with only Meems to talk to. You know I love her, but she’s so matronly sometimes. I don’t feel like I can talk to her about some things like I can with you.

  I’m going to be trapped here for a long time it seems—why else fake my death? I hope you’ll forgive me making a new friend, allowing someone new into my life when it has always been just you and me.

  This boy…he doesn’t make me feel the same way I do when I’m with you, so I don’t think you need to worry. I don’t know if what exists between him and me is even friendship at all. It’s all so intense. And I’ve never wanted to please someone more. Not even with Quentin. H
e makes me feel strange, Dee. The way he looks at me… I can’t stop thinking about him and I want to go back into the game. Even though I feel so drawn down and low after learning everything I have today, I just want to go back in. I’m anxious to see him, to see him grin again. Is that a good thing?

  Forever Your Best Friend,

  Ella

  Chapter Seventeen

  Post-American Date: 7/3/231

  Longitudinal Timestamp: 1:18 p.m.

  Location: Free Zone, Garibal; Nexis

  I’m already walking, my hand in the dry, callused palm of the boy I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since yesterday. I smile at the back of his head as he leads me toward a squat building with a neon red sign that says DINER.

  “You’re still here,” I say.

  He glances over his shoulder. “So are you.” He looks away. “Must be my charm.” His hand twitches in mine, squeezing a little tighter, and I can’t help the breathlessness that suddenly overcomes me. I want to laugh. I want to vis-call Dee and tell her. But I can’t do that. Not anymore. And that makes my heart suddenly heavy. So I squeeze his hand back, promising myself that I’ll be a better friend to this boy.

  As we enter, I’m accosted out of my malaise with cold blowing air, all sorts of strange smells and noises, and the odd sight of someone standing in the center of the room singing into a stick-like thing that seems to be projecting her voice.

  Cocking my head, I stare at the tall woman wearing a sparkling red dress that spreads at her high-heeled feet. She’s got jet-black hair and very pale skin.

  Another woman, this one older and more run-down looking, comes around the kiosk with a meaningful expression on her face. I hold my breath, but when she smiles her teeth look relatively normal, so I smile back.

  I look from her to the singer and then back again, uncertain if she’s part of the show. This one is wearing a bright white shirt and black shorts that reveal much of her shapely, bare legs. She plants a hand on her hip. “Well, here comes trouble.” She’s talking to the boy.

  He grins. “Hi Patty.”

  She nods toward me. “You got yerself a little friend?”

  Lifting our intertwined hands, he shrugs. “She’s hungry.”

  “Ain’t we all?” She reaches into the kiosk, pulls out some kind of portfolio, and tucks it under a tan, muscular arm. “Come on.”

  We follow her to the end of the aisle. I slide into the seat, and he sits beside me. My attention goes back to the woman singing near the front door.

  “You want the specials?”

  I glance up. “Hm?”

  Patty glances over her shoulders. “Ain’t you ever seen a say-lon singer before?”

  I blink at Patty. “Say-lon singer?” I wonder if this is another one of those terms that Dad would say got “lost in translation” over the years. “What’s she doing?”

  Patty plants a fist on her hip. “What’s it look like she’s doing? Kiara’s entertaining the customers.”

  “Entertaining?” I cock my head and listen to the raw noise coming out of Kiara’s lungs. “She’s terrible.”

  As the boy starts giggling, Patty rolls her eyes. “Not compared to everyone else who auditioned. You’re an Outsider, ain’t ya?”

  “Well, I’m certainly not from around here.”

  “Probably an Aristocrat, too, by how clueless ya look.”

  I straighten, indignant.

  A good-natured light ignites in Patty’s watery blue eyes. “Don’t get yer panties in a twist, short stuff. Look.” She points toward Kiara. “That girl there, she’s singing for real with her natural voice. She ain’t Customized nor Modified or whatever else you people do to the people who entertain you. Do you even have people entertaining you anymore? Or is it all synthesizers and electronics?”

  I frown. “We have cyberstars, of course.”

  She scoffs. “Cyberstars, she says.” She glances at the boy and shakes her head. “What’s that then? Androids?”

  He nods. “They’re the most efficient form of entertainment. Twice the vocal range of a human and you don’t need to worry about sore throats or drug addictions.”

  She throws her hands up in the air. “Shame it is. Absolute shame.” Then she draws a sharp breath. “Soups for today are chicken noodle and clam chowder. Waldo’ll be around for your order in a bit.”

  As she walks away, I look to the boy, uncertain of what I’m supposed to do. He leans over, taking the portfolio, and opens it in front of me. “This is a menu. You look through it and decide what you want to eat.”

  “Um, okay.”

  I hunch down and stare at the meaningless lists and pictures before me. I turn one page. And then another and another.

  Overwhelmed, I glance at the other customers. They’re all bent over plates and glasses. I look back at the menu. Caesar Salad. Tuna Sandwich. Roast Turkey with Stuffing. Spaghetti and Meatballs. Nothing makes sense. Not the numbers or titles, though I can at least understand some of the vegetables. I know that tomatoes and lettuce are grown in hydroponics. Though I’ve never tasted either.

  A boy with a name tag reading “Waldo” comes to the table. “You ready to order?”

  “The usual,” the boy with me says.

  Waldo looks to me, expectant. I bite my lip, uncertain, and turn to my new companion. “I don’t know what to get.”

  He gives me a gentle smile then looks back to Waldo. “Make that two.”

  As Waldo walks away, I scroll through the screens on my bracelet, trying to find something else to talk about with this boy. The screen flips to a new map—a series of concentric circles. “What’s this?”

  “That’s Nexis. The whole thing.” He points at the first layer. “This bit here is called Utopia Zone. It’s the primary drop point for new players. Players have their own private immersion area where they can acclimate themselves.”

  “That’s the forest area I woke up in?”

  “Yeah. Pretty cracked, right?”

  I sit back. “So, why aren’t you all living there instead of here? Seems like it would be way nicer to live there.”

  He closes his eyes. “We can’t. Utopia Zone is literally a Virgin Earth area. You could remain there, but you can’t change the land in any way. We wouldn’t be able to develop at all if we all stayed in the forest. Besides, no other players can go into your square of the forest, so we’d never meet anyone else.”

  I scrunch my brow. “Why’d he make it like that?” I ask, more wondering to myself than anyone else. “It’s like a tease.”

  “I suppose it is. But it’s nice having somewhere to just get back to the basics—somewhere that will never change, right?”

  I nod. Utopia Zone is Dad’s way of making an eternal natural world—something the players in the game could enjoy but not destroy. “Okay I get it. So, what’s this one?” I point to the second, larger sphere.

  “That’s the Free Zone. It’s the area where all the gaming takes place. No matter what kind of game you’re playing there is a place for you in the Free Zone.”

  I narrow my eyes. “It can’t have everything.”

  His grin is a slow thing that ignites his eyes and makes me squirm. “You wanna bet?” He lets his low words and his expression sink in, making me sweat a little under my vest before moving on like it didn’t happen. “This system mutates every millisecond, creating new characters, new scenarios, and new story lines. There are over one hundred thousand individual playing fields in Free Zone and more or less can be added as needed.”

  I blink at him. “That would allow for infinite gaming possibilities.”

  He nods. “It’s necessary to make sure every player gets to play exactly the type of game that would appeal to them.”

  “Then how are you and I here? How are those people here?” I point to the other people in the diner. “We can’t all be play
ing the same game; it’s statistically impossible that we’d all desire the same gaming experience.”

  He scoffs. “Is it? Who is to say that that woman right there,” he points at Kiara, “isn’t playing a very different game than you or I? She could just be living the dream of being a say-lon singer, or maybe she’s a spy or an assassin. Just because she’s in the same setting as we are doesn’t mean she’s playing what we are. Take me.” He points at his chest. “I’m playing a quest game; that waiter, Waldo, could be playing a simulation game; Patty, the owner, could be playing a strategy game. And those people there,” he points at three men in a booth on the far wall. “They might not even be real. The AI simulations in this game are topnotch—populated from the personality programming we use in our androids back home, except here they have no limits; you can’t tell the difference between a person the game created and a real person’s avatar.”

  I twirl a curl, thoughtful. “So what happens when someone wanting to play a first-person shooter game lands in a simulation town? Are they just allowed to blow other gamers’ heads off?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No. Don’t you get what I’m saying? The game wouldn’t let that happen. If shooting random townspeople was the kind of game someone wanted to play, the game would put them in a sphere with only AI. Another gamer’s avatar wouldn’t end up on that level unless they wanted to be there, maybe as a law enforcement agent or something.”

  I lower my brow. “It sounds kind of sick to me that someone would be able to just go around killing as they pleased.”

  He looks away. “Some people really like that kind of thing.”

  “It’s cruel.”

  “It’s just AI. The people in there aren’t real.”

  I think of Meems. She’s not a real person, she’s AI driving a mechanical body. It wouldn’t be okay if someone just shot her. “Still,” I say. “It’s not right.”

  He’s quiet for a long time; I can feel his eyes on me. Eventually, he reaches out and taps the map out of existence. “Hey,” he says, trying to get my attention. I give him a sidelong glance. His pinched eyes and quirked lips indicate that he has picked up on my mood. “Are you upset?”