Otherworld

by Jason Segel

  “Yep,” Todd says, pointing at the visor that’s still in the suitcase. “The visor shows you another world, but the disk makes it real.”

  “What does the person wearing it see?”

  “The future,” Todd says proudly. He looks over at Martin. “Play him the video.”

  Martin pulls out his phone and calls up a video. Then he hands the device to me.

  On the screen a field of green-and-golden grass is swaying in a breeze. A few cottony clouds float across a blue sky. I realize it must be a park. Gleaming white towers dripping with flowering foliage surround it on all sides.

  “What is this?”

  “That’s where our patients go. That’s the White City.”

  I bring the image closer to my eyes. It’s one hundred percent photo-realistic. “That’s not CGI,” I say. “That’s gotta be a real place.”

  “What’s real anymore?” Martin laughs proudly. “We’ll pass your compliments along to our software colleagues.”

  “It looks like heaven.” I’m not speaking metaphorically. It actually looks like an image you’d find on some religious cult’s website.

  “Smells like heaven, too, apparently,” says Martin.

  “Yeah, I don’t know. My paradise has fewer flowers and more scantily clad ladies,” Todd says. Then he winks at me. “Sorry, that was unprofessional. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

  I don’t know why, but Todd’s stupid joke sets off a brainstorm. “Wait—how many people are already in the White City?”

  “At the moment, about three hundred people are taking part in the beta test,” Todd says.

  “Can they talk to each other?”

  “Sure, and more,” Todd says, arching an eyebrow. Apparently his mind never leaves the gutter.

  “Okay, then,” I tell him. “You can shave my head. I’d like to try the disk.” I’d let them shave every inch of my body for a chance to speak to Kat.

  Suddenly Todd’s fidgeting uncomfortably. I don’t think he was expecting me to take him up on the offer. “I was just kidding around about that. The disk is a prototype, and we don’t have any to spare. Plus, the boss is pretty particular about who gets a tour of the White City.”

  “I need to talk to Kat,” I say, fully aware that my desperation is showing now. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

  Martin puts a hand on his colleague’s shoulder. “Maybe the kid could come by the facility. As long as he doesn’t tell anyone, I can’t see how it would hurt.”

  Todd clearly isn’t having it. “Nothing like that has been authorized,” he says sternly.

  “Yeah, but imagine the feedback this kid could give us,” Martin argues.

  “No,” Todd insists, stepping back so that Martin’s hand slips from his shoulder. “Imagine what could go wrong.”

  Go wrong. I don’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean? Do things ever go wrong with the disk?” I ask.

  “Of course not,” Martin assures me. “Our satisfaction rate is one hundred percent.”

  “That’s right,” Todd says, his eyes locked on his partner’s. “Because we’re very careful about the patients we choose.”

  Martin turns to me and shrugs apologetically. “Sorry,” he says as Todd packs up the suitcase. “I tried my best.”

  And with those five words, my spark of hope is gone.

  —

  Five hours pass before anyone comes back into Kat’s room. At some point during the time I’ve been sitting here praying for something to happen, Kat’s mother must have given consent for her daughter to take part in the Company’s beta test, because the nurse who finally arrives brings a pair of clippers and a surgical razor. I watch as she shaves the back of Kat’s head. Kat’s hair is her signature. She’s always been proud of it. When the nurse lays her back down, I can’t tell the difference. But there’s a clear plastic bag filled with copper-colored curls, and the sight of it makes me nauseous.

  It’s all for the best, the nurse assures me. Kat won’t mind about the hair. I wish I could believe her, but I know it’s not true.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell Kat when it’s done. I hope like hell it’s worth it.

  Kat’s visor is on, and the disk has been affixed to the base of her skull. I watch her heart monitor sketch the same peak over and over again. Whenever her pulse speeds up, I know something’s happening in the White City. I hope she’s found the field the engineers showed me. The only thing it was missing was a fort. I wish I could be there to build one with her, but she’s gone to the one place I can’t follow her. At least, not without one of those disks.

  Around eleven p.m., I make a trip to the cafeteria for my second tuna fish sandwich of the day. A woman in a uniform is weaving around the tables, wiping them down with a rag that looks like she just used it to clean an outhouse. She doesn’t acknowledge me other than to leave a large dry circle around the spot where I’m sitting with the sandwich and a cup of coffee that tastes like a tire fire. Aside from her, there’s a guy who’s stationed himself in the corner with his back to me. Judging by his stiff posture and air of alertness, I’d guess he’s here in some official capacity, though I can’t find the energy to care.

  A television mounted on the wall in front of me is playing a talk show. The sound is turned down, but I watch the host as he goes through the motions. Monologue, move to the desk, crack a joke with the bandleader, introduce the first guest. I wonder what it’s like to do the same goddamn thing every day, day after day, year after year. I’ve been at the hospital for just under twenty-four hours, and I’ve already fallen into my own little rut. Bedside, bathroom, cafeteria, repeat. It won’t be long before I lose my mind.

  The first guest comes out on the TV and I hear the muffled thunder of wild applause. A youngish man emerges from between the velvet curtains on the right side of the stage. He’s dressed like he’s on his way to do flip tricks in a shopping mall parking lot. I own the same sweatshirt he’s got on. I bought it at Target to annoy my mom. Topping it all off is a goofy smile and a head of angelic sandy-blond curls. There probably isn’t a person on earth who wouldn’t recognize the face. It belongs to Milo Yolkin. He waves to the audience and they leap to their feet. I’m on my feet, too, searching for the television’s volume button. I find it and turn it up until the applause builds to a roar.

  The talk show’s host is a dapper man in his late forties wearing a beautifully tailored pinstripe suit. He arches an eyebrow and adjusts his glasses, pretending to scrutinize his guest while the clapping and whistles die down.

  “What happened?” the host asks with a perfectly straight face. “Couldn’t your dad make it to the show tonight?” The crowd howls. I barely crack a smile.

  The camera zooms in on Milo Yolkin, who fakes a chuckle. It’s clear that he’d rather be anywhere else. Up close, his famous face looks pale and gaunt. There are circles under his eyes that the show’s makeup artist couldn’t hide.

  “In all seriousness,” says the host. “How old are you—twelve?”

  “I just turned twenty-nine,” says Milo. They pause for the requisite birthday applause.

  “I’m pretty sure I have boxer shorts older than you,” the host quips. “What age were you when you started the Company?”

  “Nineteen,” Milo tells him.

  “And now it’s worth…”

  Milo blushes, and for a moment his face looks almost healthy. “It’s hard to say. The valuation changes every day.”

  “Okay, so let’s just go for a ballpark figure, then. Would you say it’s worth more than the GDP of Europe or Asia?”

  The CEO of the most successful corporation on earth just grins and stares at his shoes.

  I move toward the television set until I’m basking in its glow. I want to get as close as possible to the man who may have just set Kat free.

  “Fine, fine. Enough teasing,” the host declares. “This is probably why you don’t do shows like this, am I right?”

  Milo looks up and shrugs good-naturedly. I’m h
oping the lighthearted banter is about to end. Milo Yolkin wouldn’t be doing a talk show if there weren’t a very good reason. I don’t expect him to discuss the White City. The Company’s beta tests are always conducted in secret. My bet is he’s going to announce the new Otherworld wide release.

  “But I hear you’ve made an exception tonight because you want to tell people about a project you’ve been working on,” the host is saying. “Something very important to you. I believe it’s called Otherworld.” There are a few isolated hoots and whistles in the audience. I was right. “I see it already has a following. What exactly is Otherworld? It used to be a game, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Some people thought so,” Milo says. “Technically it was something called an MMO. That stands for massively multiplayer online game. But for those of us who played it, the original Otherworld was a lot more than that.”

  “Hell yeah!” someone shouts.

  “Friend of yours?” the host asks.

  Milo shields his eyes from the glare of the studio lights and tries to peer out into the audience. “Probably.” He grins, warming up. “Or enemy. I’d have to see his avatar to tell. I knew most people there. Back in my teens, I spent close to two years of my life in Otherworld.”

  Interesting. Who’d have thunk? It’s hard to imagine what the world would have been like if Milo Yolkin had never left Otherworld.

  “You must have been very popular in high school,” the host jests.

  Milo’s smile looks much less sincere this time. “Let’s just say the real world wasn’t very kind to me in those days,” he replies.

  The host adjusts his glasses. It’s clearly time to change the subject. “So what was the objective of the original Otherworld?”

  “The objective?” Milo asks. “There was no objective.”

  The host grins nervously. “Don’t all games have objectives? Isn’t the whole idea to win? Otherwise, what’s the point of playing them?”

  “What’s the point of being alive?” Milo replies, and I actually laugh out loud. But the host is left momentarily flummoxed. I guess he doesn’t know the answer. So Milo steps in to fill the silence. “The objective of Otherworld was to live the kind of life you couldn’t have in the real world. You could fight beasts, explore new lands, hoard treasure, or have sex. You could even start a chinchilla farm if that was what you were into. It was all up to you. Otherworld became my escape. When I was there, I got to be the person I wanted to be. The place set me free.”

  I’d love to know what young Milo Yolkin got up to in Otherworld. He’s twenty-nine years old now, and he still looks like an overgrown cherub. Did he run a virtual petting zoo? Spend his time rescuing digital baby seals?

  “Why did you stop playing?” the host asks, struggling to get the conversation back on track.

  In response to the question, Milo’s face goes cold. It’s moments like this that remind you that he’s not really an overgrown kid. He’s one of the most powerful men on earth. “One morning about eleven years ago, I turned on my computer and Otherworld was gone. The game’s publishers had decided there weren’t enough subscribers and they’d shut the whole thing down.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yep,” says Milo, and you can see he’s still seething at the injustice of it all. “By that point I’d built my own kingdom. I had an amazing fortress, and a harem, and serfs farming my lands. I was practically running the place. And then poof, suddenly everything was gone. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me. So when one of my engineers at the Company showed me some revolutionary new technology he’d developed, I figured the time had come to bring Otherworld back.”

  “Revolutionary technology?” the host asks. “What kind of stuff are we talking about?”

  “Well, it’s not something you can really tell people about,” says Milo. “You kind of have to see it—and feel it—to believe it.”

  That’s obviously the cue for a helper to appear onstage, pushing a cart covered by a white sheet. Grinning like a birthday party magician, Milo rises from his seat and whips the sheet off. Beneath it are haptic gloves and the new Otherworld VR headset.

  “These are for you,” he tells the host, holding out the gloves for the man to slip into. “The haptic technology is cutting-edge, but the headset offers an experience beyond anything you’ve ever imagined. We’ve only made and sold a few thousand prototypes so far, and you can’t play the new game without one.”

  “I can tell this is about to get very interesting,” the host says, eyeing the headset. “But how’s everybody out there supposed to know what I’m seeing?”

  “Oh, I think we ought to be able to bring it to life for them.” Milo puts the headset on the host, and a large screen instantly brightens behind them. Soon the audience will be able to see everything the host can see.

  “Should I walk toward the light?” the host jokes, his hands outstretched as if he’s feeling his way.

  “Not yet,” Milo says with a laugh. “Have you ever climbed to the top of a volcano?”

  “No, sir. I’m deathly afraid of danger,” the host jokes.

  “Well, now you can see what it’s like. All from the safety of your stage.”

  On the screen behind them, a scorched black land and a river of lava appear. The audience gasps. No one’s seen anything like it. There’s a loud boom and the host spins around. Bright orange flames are shooting into the sky from the cone of the volcano. Three vultures the size of pterodactyls are hovering above, waiting for the barbecue to begin.

  “Whoa, my gloves are getting hot!” the host exclaims. “Hey, look! I can see my hands!” He looks down at his crotch. “And the rest of me, too!”

  “That’s right. Now let’s cool those hands down a little,” Milo replies. Suddenly the scene shifts and the screen shows an endless expanse of frozen ocean. There’s a rumbling, and the host struggles to keep his balance as the ice in front of him collapses. Massive great white sharks are patrolling the water below. “What do you think?”

  “I think you and I have different ideas of fun,” the host says. “What about a nice beach in Maui and a banana daiquiri?”

  Milo laughs. “Okay then, let’s take you somewhere a little more relaxing. Otherworld’s most popular destination so far is the City of Imra.” The screen shows a curved street lined with ornate marble buildings that look like they belong in a Greek myth. A gorgeous redhead in a tight black dress passes by.

  “Wowza, look at those pixels,” the host says. “Who is that?”

  “Her name is Catelyn. She’s an NPC. Wink at her and see what happens.”

  “That has never once worked in real life, but let’s give it a go. Hey, toots, why don’t you come over here and tell me all about your acronym?”

  “NPC stands for non-player character,” Milo says humorlessly. “Though Catelyn is different. Special. She’s part of the system, but we’ve designed her to have a mind of her own.”

  What exactly does that mean? I wonder.

  The host whistles. “Can I play with that software?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Absolutely,” says Milo. “And she will play back.” The NPC comes over and takes the host’s hand. She looks as real as any woman in the audience. Her skin texture is remarkable—soft and dewy, with visible pores. And when the camera pans down to her hand, I can see the cuticles and the sun reflected in her bloodred nail polish. The detail is absolutely amazing.

  “Oh my God, I can feel her squeezing my fingers!” the host says with genuine surprise. “You know what this would be really good for?” He pauses and the audience snickers. “Foot massages. I guess you could say I’m a foot massage enthusiast.”

  The joke seems to sail right over Milo’s head. “If that’s what you’re into, I’m not here to judge,” he says. He clearly takes this all very seriously. “In Otherworld all of us can lead our best lives. Whatever those may be. It doesn’t matter how much money you have or how physically fit you are. The life you always wanted will
be within your reach. Some people will want to hunt or fight or explore. Others are going to want…foot massages.”

  On-screen, Catelyn cozies up to the host and plants a peck on his cheek. “Oh my God,” he mutters. Then he pulls off one of his gloves and begins rooting through his pockets. “How much do you want for this thing? A million bucks? My soul?”

  Milo beams. “You just need to subscribe to Otherworld and purchase a headset. The early-access app came out this past Saturday. We’ve let in two thousand players to help us work all the bugs out. Otherworld’s wide release should take place in a few months. Hopefully we’ll have managed to manufacture a few million of these headsets by then.”

  “I have to wait months?” the host groans. “But I don’t want to leave!” He blows a kiss at Catelyn and removes the headset. “Okay, so now that I’ve experienced it for myself, I have one question. How are people supposed to feed and relieve themselves? ’Cause nobody’s going to say goodbye to her to chow down a burrito or take a leak.”

  “You make a really good point,” Milo says. I suspect it’s not the first time he’s heard that. “I’m sure the Company will come up with something.”

  The show’s band starts to play to commercial and I think of Kat upstairs, her body hooked up to an array of tubes that provide all the nutrition she needs and eliminate the resulting waste products. The device that’s communicating directly to her brain is supposedly far more advanced than the headset that’s available to the public. If it works the way Martin and Todd described, the world Kat’s in feels, smells and tastes just as real as this one. What if she’s found the male version of Catelyn? What if she never wants to leave?

  It must be just after midnight. I’m halfway down the hall, heading back to Kat, when my legs suddenly stop before I know why. My brain catches up quickly and I see it. The door to Kat’s room is ajar. Probably just a nurse checking up on her, but I don’t know that for sure. So I tiptoe toward the room until I can peer inside. There’s someone standing over Kat’s bed. Slim and dressed in a hoodie and jeans, it looks a lot like the figure I saw at Elmer’s right before the floor collapsed. I drop my coffee and lurch forward, grabbing hold of the intruder’s sweatshirt. The yelp I hear is unmistakably feminine. Then the hood falls back, revealing an elegant head.