by A. L. Davroe
His eyes focus on the gun, on my arms, and then back up into my eyes. “Stop aiming at me, and I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me and I’ll think about not aiming it at you.”
Sighing, he lowers his hands, shoving them into his pockets. I glance from one hand to the other, uncertain if he’s going to pull something out of his pocket to use against me. Would he? After kissing me like that? He looks away from me, walks to the edge of the fountain, and sits down.
I toss a stray curl out of my eye. “Isn’t it kind of dumb to turn your back on someone who has a gun on you?”
Crossing his arms, he gives me a cool expression. “Isn’t it kind of dumb to pull a gun on someone you don’t want to shoot?”
I narrow my eyes at him. Am I that obvious? “Who says I don’t want to shoot you?”
He lifts a brow, gives me a long, weighted glare, and then looks off over the square. “You don’t. Besides, seems to me like you and I now have the same enemies. Shouldn’t that make us allies?”
Allies? With him? The idea makes my stomach feel warm. But he almost got me killed back there. Pretty and tingly and purr-voiced…he could be the death of me. I lift the gun from where I’ve inadvertently lowered it and aim it back at the space between his long-lashed, pretty eyes. “That’s your fault.”
“It’s the game’s fault.”
I don’t know what to say to that, and suddenly I don’t feel so sure of what I’m doing. Feeling sick, I back away from him and lower the gun. He’s right; I really shouldn’t point it at him, especially when I’m so wound up. I might accidentally shoot him, and that’s the last thing I want to do. Damn him for knowing it, too. I stare at the gun in my trembling hands.
“I shot someone,” I whisper. In my mind I can hear the gunshot, see the blood and brain spattering out of the back of the Knight’s head.
The gun slips out of my fingers, hits the ground, and goes off. BAM. Screaming, I jump back, startled, as the bullet ricochets off to one side. In the next instant I’m sinking to my feet, sobbing. “I killed someone.”
Guster’s hand clamps around my shoulder. I don’t acknowledge him, even though I feel his hand all the way to my very last nerve, only continue sobbing harder, my tears stinging skin that has gone dry in the harsh desert climate of Garibal.
“Hey,” he says gently, grasping my other shoulder and trying to get me to look at him. “Hey, you didn’t kill anyone. No one got hurt.”
I shake my head, disbelieving. “I saw him die,” I whimper. “I saw the blood. I saw it. And then he just…” I pause, recalling the horrible vision of the Knight dying before me. “…exploded.”
“His avatar got killed, that’s all. That’s all we are here, just avatars. Our real bodies are outside in Real World.”
I try to let his words sink in, but my brain wants to deny those precious words. “But,” I say, shaking my head, “it felt so real.”
He grasps my chin, tilting my face so that I’ll look at him. “It’s supposed to be like that, right?” He smiles his reassurance. “It wouldn’t be the best virtual-reality game around if it didn’t.”
Again, he’s right. Logically, no one should be able to die playing a VR game. So no matter what my eyes tell me, my brain has to win this battle. Sniffling, I try drying my eyes with the back of my hands, but strange stringy stuff just gets caught on my face. I blink and pull my hands away. There’s silver string like the kind that came out of the sky and guided me to Garibal wound around my hands. Grimacing, I rub my hands on my thighs.
“Here.” He leans forward and places a clean white cloth against my cheek, gently wiping away the dirt and tears. Or perhaps my heating cheeks are burning them away. Then he sets out on my arms, pulling away silver fibers and wiping away blood. “Look at your arms,” he mutters, his eyes examining the cuts I got from rolling through the glass.
They do look pretty bad, though I can hardly feel them. All I feel are his warm hands. He searches in one of his pockets and pulls out a vial filled with vibrant green liquid.
“What’s that?”
“Healing potion.” He pulls the stopper out with his teeth and spits it to one side. He puts it in my shaking hands, holding them around the vial so I don’t drop it. “Drink.”
I lift the vial to my lips and then pause, my eyes going to his again. The cautious, don’t-talk-to-strangers part of me is still wary enough of Guster that it thinks I should question a strange drink from a strange boy. But when I look into his eyes and I feel his hands around me…I feel safe—like he could never hurt me. Logically, if he wanted to hurt me, he would have done it already, right?
I take a sip. It’s colder than it feels in the vial and has a horrible, salty flavor.
“The whole thing.”
“I would prefer it if medicine actually did taste like Dr Pepper.” Grimacing, I down the rest in a single gulp and cough. I can feel it in my body, like something cold and alive climbing through my veins, seeping into my skin from the inside out. Any moment, I expect my pores to start oozing green slime but, as I watch my arms, the cuts disappear, leaving nothing but healthy tawny skin. Amazed, I glance up at him.
Guster frowns at the empty vial and sticks it back in his pocket. “That stuff is expensive. You owe me. First you try to shoot me and then you put me a hundred pennies in the hole. You’re lucky you have a high Allure rating.”
I feel heat prickle up my spine and look away, embarrassed.
Reaching out, he picks up his gun. “Don’t ever drop an early revolver like this; you could have killed someone.” He puts it back in my hands.
I stare at the gun, hating it for how it makes me feel so weak and stupid. I turn it over in my hands, examining it. “I shouldn’t even know how to fire something like this,” I reason. “What the heck happened?”
He stands, examines one of the silver strands that is now tangled in the cloth he used to wipe my face and arms. “Spider silk.”
I let the words sink in. “Spider?”
He chuckles, deep and low, sending a shiver along my thighs. I whip my head up, confused. Planting his fists on his hips, he stares down at me. “You can keep that revolver if you promise not to point it at me again. You’re going to need a weapon, at least until we can find something more suitable for you.”
“We?”
He cocks his head. “You wanna fight those Knights on your own? Especially after you killed one of their buddies and looted his armor?”
I struggle to my feet. “I didn’t loot anything,” I growl. “And I thought you said I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Not a real person, no.” He reaches out and takes my hand, flipping my arm downward and slapping my patch.
“Ouch.” A millisecond later, my body is encased and everything has a rose-colored digital overlay on it. I look down at myself. I’m wearing armor like that of the Knight’s, but this one seems smaller, better fitted to my frame. “What the…”
He drops my arm. “You didn’t kill a real person. But you killed that guy’s avatar, and you got this as your reward. Pretty cracked spoils.”
I fumble with the raised patch on my skin—dismissing the armor. Taking a deep breath, I go back to the more pressing topic of why the other Knights would think I killed their friend if Guster claims I didn’t. “Can’t he just start at the beginning of this level or something?”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that. You die in the game, you can’t come back and play the same character ever again. Everything you did as your character, everyone you knew, you can’t come back to it. It’s gone.”
I scrunch my brow. “You don’t remember it or something?”
“Oh, you remember. But the game just won’t tolerate it. You can’t come back as the same character; you have to be someone else, play a whole new game. And if you try to make contact with the same people or places you knew as your previous
character, the game will try everything possible to prevent you.”
“That seems stupid. So what if you want to come back to the same thing you knew? What’s the big deal?”
Guster bites his lip in thought. “Come here.” He holds out his hand indicating that I take it.
Wary, I outstretch my fingers then draw them back. “You going to slap me again?”
He rolls his eyes and quicker than I can see, his hand lashes out and grabs my outstretched fingers. I blink at him, astonished, but he just grins at me and leads me to the edge of the square.
Beyond the square with the fountain there’s a dusty street with dozens of people. Against the walls of brick and whitewashed stucco buildings, strange tents and booths have been set up. In each tent there is something different. Bolts of brightly colored cloth with intricate patterns, crates of fruit and vegetables, cages of strange animals, odd bundles of plants, stacks of baskets, twinkling bits of jewelry, weapons. Everyone is shouting and milling about. No one seems interested in what’s being shouted at them, but their eyes scan back and forth, obviously looking for something.
“There.” Guster points to a couple standing next to a stall filled with baskets of spices. The man has his arm around the waist of a woman holding a baby.
“Okay…” I don’t get why he pointed them out.
“That baby isn’t a real person.”
Startled, I blink at him. “What?”
He glances at them. “Those two people have a life together here, have a baby here, but for all we know one could be the wife of a wealthy Aristocrat and the other could be a Disfavored man destined to rot in a jail cell for the rest of his wretched life. Yet here they are. And there is the result of their happiness.”
“You mean, you can have a baby here? The game makes one for you?” Meems had said people could have a new family, but I hadn’t thought about marriage or babies.
Guster nods. “You can have anything here. That’s why the game is so wonderful. I dare say it’s probably destroying a life or two in Real World, but people should be allowed to be happy, don’t you think? If that man really is Disfavored then he’d never have the opportunity to fall in love and marry a woman so beautiful. All the pretty girls are sold to brothels and Doll Houses in the Outer Block. Likewise that woman would probably never know real love. Everyone knows Aristocrats don’t marry for love.”
I stare at the couple and their baby, understanding exactly what he means. I would never be able to walk again if it weren’t for this game. Circuits, with the way Katrina keeps me locked up I’d never be able to do anything if it weren’t for this game. I think about all the experiences I’ve had since coming here. This place is a dream come true. “So, if it does all this awesome stuff, why can’t you go back to it if your avatar is killed?”
Guster smiles to himself. “That baby will never know about the outside world. She’ll grow up and maybe fall in love with someone who came from Real World. Maybe they’ll have their own children. How would that child’s perception of her world crumble if her father, who she saw killed, suddenly reappeared? There have to be rules, Ella. Even here, there are rules. It’s a game. You play it. If you win, well, bully for you. But if you lose, you lose. Not even a game created to make everyone happy will reward sore losers.”
I shake my head, marveling at my father’s world. “This game is crazy.”
“The game has no limits. It will create whatever is needed to maintain the illusion. The dead remain so, and the game has no problem creating people who don’t exist just to enrich someone’s gaming experience.”
I turn away from the market and look back at the empty square. “Including making a quiet, undisturbed place to talk?”
He shifts beside me; I can sense the heat of him standing close to me. I step away, turning back toward him. “What about you? Are you real or just some piece of AI the game created to guide me?”
He meets my questioning eyes, his own sparkling in the late afternoon light. He looks and feels real, but then so does everything else here. “What do you think?”
I stare at him for a long moment. He’s too good to be true, but I don’t say that. “I think you’re too convenient.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “Well then, that makes two of us.” He brushes past me and heads back toward where his machine is parked beside the fountain.
I follow after him. “I’m serious.”
He spins around, pinning me with a hard expression. “So am I. How do I know you’re real? Just because one of us tells the other we’re real, does it really mean anything? Could one demand the other tells about what life’s really like in Real World? What’s to keep us from lying about that? What’s to make the other believe it when we tell a truth that the other can’t or won’t believe?”
I stare at him, handsome even in his anger. Can I really believe that someone so intelligent and earnest is a phantom a game made up? What’s to keep me from believing exactly that? It seems too strange and exhilarating that he randomly found me and so readily wants me as an ally. I swallow, hating that I’m even asking it. “Why did you start talking to me? Why’d you just pick me up and take me under your wing like you did?”
The skin under the bottom of his eye twitches and he looks away from me. “You’re a side quest.”
Chapter Nineteen
Post-American Date: 7/3/231
Longitudinal Timestamp: 7:18 p.m.
Location: Dome 5: Evanescence
Shooting upright, I tear the blinder and caps off. “What?” I growl.
Meems blinks at me, frightened by my outburst. “Ellani?”
Tears burn on the brims of my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood and try to even out my breathing.
Meems puts a hand on my arm. “Are you all right?”
I don’t look at her; I know I’ll burst out crying otherwise. I knew it was too good to be true. Why would any guy want anything to do with me unless it was part of some kind of side quest? What does he want from me? And what am I supposed to do about it?
“Ella?” Meems is shaking me.
I put my hands out, trying to get her to stop. “I’m fine,” I hiss. “Just leave me alone.”
Her hands recoil as though I’ve suddenly become white hot, and she drops them at her side. I hunch my shoulders. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Is the game not going well?” She’s using the mechanical voice, letting me know that she’s hurt and doesn’t want to forgive me so easily.
I grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
“Well,” she breathes. “I am here should you need me.” She moves off to the corner and stares out into space, withdrawing from me.
Sighing, I plop back down on the pillow and try to figure out what to do about Guster and Garibal and this game that my father created.
Chapter Twenty
Post-American Date: 7/4/231
Longitudinal Timestamp: 1:15 p.m.
Location: Dome 5, Garibal; Nexis
“A spider is, first and foremost, a builder. However, it is also a destroyer—a killer. Within men, there is an innate fear of the spider. But to some, (the wise ones in my opinion), the spider is a symbol of luck, illusion, wisdom, rebirth, and creation. My favorite saying from these wise people is, If you wish to live and thrive, let the spider run alive.”
Meems looks up. “What is that?”
“Dad wrote it here.” I point to the main holo-screen on his work computer. “It’s one of the files in his G-Chip.”
Reading these files, I feel closer to him—knowing what he knew, learning his secrets. At times, I feel nearer now than I did when he was alive. The files have consumed me since yesterday, given me a reason to stop thinking too closely about Guster.
“Have you tried looking them up?”
“I remember learning from Dad that a spider is a kind of eight-legged insect that catches its prey in some kind of woven silk net and, according to the Archive, Anansi is supposed to be a storybook character or something—a trickster who takes the form of a spider, but the things he talks about don’t always fit those definitions. I’ve tried looking for more information about it, but I can’t find anything else. It seems that many of the Anansi stories were lost in the war. I’d ask on the Internetwork but, one, I can’t get on and, two, I doubt anyone would know. It’s not like they teach this stuff in school anymore.”
Meems tips her head to one side. “I am aware of this. You are only taught Post-American history—the time after the Bio-Nuclear War, the resulting collapse of civilization, and the glorious history of Evanescence.”
The VR timer goes off, but I ignore it, choosing instead to pay more attention to the files.
“Your alarm just went off,” Meems says.
“I know. I heard it.”
“That means you can go back in the game now.”
Trying to seem indifferent, I lift a shoulder. “So?”
Forehead crinkled with concern, she leans forward. “Do you not want to go back in? You wanted to before. You were so eager yesterday.”
I prompt a mind-to-text note to open. I’m intending on telling Delia about reading about television—which I’m assuming is the ancestor to The Broadcast. She’d like to know that Anchors like Zane have been around forever, but he seems like the best one. “Not anymore.”
“What changed your mind?”
I puff out my cheeks. I don’t want to talk to Meems about this. She’s just an android; she’ll think I’m silly. I glance at the message forming in front of me. I could write Delia a letter about Guster. But would that help anything? Without a response, I still won’t have any input. I have to talk to someone about Guster or I’ll burst. “I’m his side quest,” I mutter.
