"I..." He waved a hand, as if swatting at a pesky fly. "I don't know. It seems good at first, but after a while something changes. No matter how hard I work on the relationship, no matter how hard I try to please her –"
"She gets bored."
"I wouldn't say bored, exactly." Brad's handsome, all-American face sprouted angst-riven lines. "Impatient. Not treating me with the same respect I treat her."
Alex crawled off the board and accepted Brad's strong arm to the next instrument of torture – the machine a scowling Brandon had just vacated – the overhead press machine. She dropped down on the seat and willed strength into her arms, pressing up the weight-free bar with a stentorian groan. Where was Jessica Jones when she needed her?
"Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?" she asked.
"I see myself in the mirror every day."
"I'm talking full frontal nudity." When Brad frowned and made another fly-swatting gesture, she asked, "So what did you see? How's your body look? Your 'package'?"
Brad's face colored. "I look okay."
"Six-pack? Well-defined chest? Good legs, arms? Nice cock?"
Brad's face acquired a deeper ruddish hue.
"If you have a micropenis, I apologize. Seriously."
"No." He glowered in her general direction. "I'm average. Well, maybe a bit more."
"And you're getting a double major in physical therapy and computer science. So your job prospects are fairly decent."
Brad shrugged. "With any luck."
Alex ground out a few overhead presses with the ten-pound lowest weight setting and slumped back in her seat. The only positive thing she could see coming from this conversation was that her "personal trainer" might not notice if she skipped a set.
"You're saying I've got a lot to offer," said Brad. "The girls I've been with weren't exactly dumb, Alex. Or blind. They knew that."
"But do you?" She noted his blank look. "Know it, that is?"
"Know that I have a lot to offer?"
"Bingo."
Brad's stud-muffin features wore an uncomfortable, near-repulsed expression. "I'm not really into ego-trips. But yes, I think I have a lot to offer the right woman."
"You mean one who isn't blind, deaf, and dumb?"
He smiled a little. "If you think I'm so great, why won't you go out with me?"
"I'm not that into guys."
"Oh. But I thought you said you weren't gay."
"I said it's complicated." While Brad stood there looking befuddled, she added: "Look, do yourself a favor and forget about me. I'll be wheelchair-bound in a few years. You, on the other hand, have a future so bright you'd need shades to view it. Forget shades, more like welding glasses. So if you want some probably shitty advice from someone who knows next to nothing about so-called 'relationships,' I'd suggest stop worrying so much about pleasing these little sluts and focus on pleasing yourself, on taking care of your own shit. You might be surprised how your precious little sluts respond."
"I really don't appreciate you calling them 'sluts.' You sound like a typical misogynous guy."
"Don't worry your pretty head, Brad. I'm misanthropic, too. I don't believe in discrimination."
Brad departed a few minutes later, shaking his pretty head with its tangled golden locks, not even bothering with his usual departing good-wishes. Brandon rolled over, grinning.
"Did Bradley Pitt make another pass and you had to shoot him down again?"
"Not so much. He was just looking for reasons why his relationships with the unfairer sex always go sour."
"You mean, beside his dull personality?"
Alex shot him a look and rolled with him out of the Rec Center gym.
"You have unwanted admirers in both realities," said Brandon. "How long do you think Athena will take to solve the First Stage?"
"I have no idea. I don't even understand how I solve this shit. It's not all a straightforward logical process, I'm sure of that."
"Yeah, when I see you work I feel trapped in mere linear logic. I don't think I would've bought the California state carving. In fact, most of what you did – revealing you stole that money to the lady, riding up to the Crazy Horse statute – I wouldn't have done. But I guess that's why you're competing to be a virtual god and I'm stuck here studying to be a lowly computer scientist."
"Don't knock yourself too much. I'd be better with you at my side."
"No need to throw me a bone, Alex. I know you're the man."
"I meant to say is that with you as my token Afro-American at my side I can always sacrifice you to get ahead in the game."
"Thanks. That's more like it."
In Brandon's van, they cruised out of the campus. Alex noted the time on the dash.
"Let's not dally," she said. Driving fast in Jefferson was akin to drag-racing over speed bumps. "I got about fifteen minutes before I need to be back in my avatar."
"No problem. Any ideas about what's going to happen in Las Vegas?"
"Other than me solving Stage Two, not really. I'll keep my eyes and ears open, look for the usual suspects."
"I could show up there and give you immoral support." He added hastily, "Not to help. Just observe."
Alex had been waiting for that. "Not a good idea, Bran. I'll be in constant motion, and you even blink at me wrong and they might disqualify me."
Brandon stared gloomily down the road. "Yeah. You're probably right."
"You're giving me plenty of support right now. And we can brainstorm everything as it goes down." She glanced at her friend, whose dour expression hadn't lightened. "I could really use your help, Bran. Despite appearances, I'm not all-seeing."
He released a soft snort. "Hey, let's not be sacrilegious. By the way, how much do you think it would be worth to become the god of the Omniverse?"
Alex stretched her shoulders. "I'd guess millions."
"I'd say so. From what you told me, you'd have the power to create worlds within the Verse at next to no cost. That alone could be worth millions, if not more."
Alex nodded, exploring the mind-bending possibilities for a few idle moments.
"Yeah," she said, "but I'm not going to think about that now. I need to put everything I have into this game. One step at a time."
"I hear you."
Chapter 6
LAS VEGAS. SIN CITY. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. The most honest but fake city in the world. The City of Broken Dreams. The shrimp capital of the world. Somehow, Alex found the last the most fascinating. Maybe things stayed in Vegas because they couldn't escape the Shrimp People?
Alex stepped out of her van – now a Ford Econoline – into blazing heat on the top open floor parking lot. Leaving her suitcase in the van for now, she sprinted from her van to the entrance, bounding too high in the air until she lowered her center of gravity and emphasized the vertical over the horizontal in her strides. 3x strength would take a little getting used to.
She arrived with a big smile at the doors – I could probably get around town faster on foot than by car – and descended several floors to the lobby, the location of the giant, creepy, burgundy crystal-sculpture mutt that looked vaguely St. Bernard-like.
"Is there something you can tell me about the dog?" she asked the check-in lady.
"It was created by the artist Jack R. Slotken," the woman replied, with a slightly puzzled face. "It's made of glass crystal. I'm afraid I can't tell you much more."
"Do you have something to give me that's connected with it?"
The woman's expression grew more puzzled. "Uh, no. I'm not sure I understand what you're asking."
"Me, neither. Thanks."
Alex stuffed her keycard into her wallet and strolled over to the crystal sculpture. She searched the surface of the sculpture and its supporting stand – a block of granite – for significant images or words. The only thing that struck her as odd was the name of the artist itself. Jack R. Slotken. What the fuck kind of name was "Slotken"? Sounded like a promiscuous gay Ken doll.
She sub
vocalized a command to search the real internet for the creator of the dog sculpture, if it existed in this or another real-world casino. A private image of the sculpture appeared in the air in front of her under the heading: William G. Shriner's Crystal St. Bernard Donated To Wynn Casino. Below, the text continued:
Speculations have been made that the artist had run up a $60,000 gambling tab and that an agreement was reached to settle the debt in return for Shriner's famous sculpture.
Shriner, known for his love of blackjack, roulette, slots, and keno was a regular visitor from his home in Los Angeles...
A scornful smile formed on her avatar's full lips. Subtlety, it seemed, wasn't exactly these clue-designers' middle name. So Jack (Blackjack) R. (Roulette) Slotken (Slot-Keno). Did that suggest an order of play for her? She was "betting" it did. No time like the present to find out.
Alex walked into the gaming area. She'd been in a real casino exactly once as a kid. Her parents had "won" some "fabulous" vacation getaway to Vegas over ten years ago. What she remembered most from their stay was: 1) cigarette smoke; 2) noise; 3) the pool. The pool had been cool – mostly deserted because, she assumed now, the guests had been occupied smoking, gambling, and of course eating shrimp. That was all coming back to her now as she moved through the aisles looking for blackjack tables.
There were quite a number of them, most occupied by one or two players, a few empty. Alex found it harder than usual to tell the sims apart from the avatars. Maybe the soul-sucking aspects of gambling reduced people to somnambulistic simulacra of people? Whatever the case, Alex wasn't picking up the feverish miasma of desperation, exuberance, and suppressed emotion she remembered from her childhood visit. The air felt dead. Still, she knew a decent percentage of the gamblers here were avatars. The Verse casinos were famous for paying out better percentages than the real life ones. Plus you didn't have to worry about parking or the dangers of secondhand smoke.
Alex wandered between the blackjack tables searching for signs and portents. An object on a table, a name, word, gesture, or person's appearance. Anything related to the clues or terrible poem. She gave a small prayer of thanks to her dad and the gambling gods that she'd played some Blackjack as a kid and had even played with the probability math a bit.
"You lucky son of a bitch!" a man grumbled at a table she was passing. Obviously an avatar – not likely a sim would speak those words with such bitterness – and probably an older guy (a young dude or gal wouldn't say those words). His avatar was young and good-looking in the detailed manner of an upscale but uninspired modeling job. The object of his grumbling was the man sitting two seats from him – another improbably youthful and good-looking gent wearing a self-congratulatory smirk as he received a short pile of $20 tokens.
Alex dropped down on a seat two stools from the "lucky son of a bitch," earning her a glare from the unhappy speaker.
"Plenty of empty tables around," he growled.
"You're remarkably observant."
"That was a hint, smart ass. Frank and me" – he tapped the other man's shoulder – "are having a friendly little competition."
"Don't let me stop you," said Alex. "But when I heard the words 'lucky son of a bitch,' I knew this was where I wanted to be."
"Fine, asshole. In that case, consider yourself now in a bind."
Invisible strips wound around Alex's arms and legs. A binding invocation. She exerted a small portion of her strength. The amount of give suggested a Power Three. Conventional binding spells ran from 1 – 10. Without her enhanced strength or any of the various counter-spells her normal avatar possessed she'd be stuck. Fortunately, her current strength was sufficient to snap at least a Power Four, maybe more.
Shifting Dionysus's body so breaking free wouldn't injure the dude sitting a couple of seats from her, she doled out her strength until the invisible restraints silently snapped. She leaned her forearms on the table and winked at her would-be assailant.
"Change please," she said to the dealer, setting out five of Olivia's twenty dollar bills.
The other man stood up, his face roiling in a reasonably decent facsimile of fury. "I got plenty more where that came from, pretty boy."
"Don't strain yourself, old man," said Alex. "Wouldn't want the sludge lining the arteriosclerotic vessels in your fat, middle-aged body to break free and stroke you out in your VR module, would we?"
"You goddamned snot-nosed little prick –"
"Gentlemen, please," said the dealer. "No hostilities of any kind are tolerated in this casino. Don't make me call security."
"Ease up, why don't you, Jimmy?" said the man between them, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "The kid ain't gonna interfere with us."
The asshole lowered himself back onto his stool. Funny how they assumed her age (not to mention her sex!). She was making assumptions, too, but with one crucial difference: hers were intelligent. The dealer slid ten $10 chips to her and dunked her one hundred dollars in the table's cash slot.
They all placed their bets – Alex the minimum $10 – and the dealer, a tall sim that could've doubled for a butler with his white cravat and light-blue suit, dealt them all two cards. Alex held on 18. The two men went bust. The dealer held at 17. Whoopee! She'd just won $10! She let the bet ride.
Alex debated how to continue. Nothing but instinct had attracted her to this table. The "bitch" caught her ear – a common term for a female dog, after all – but that was a stretch. And an avatar wouldn't normally offer clues in a game. Maybe this was an exception, and the two guys were shills acting out a role. She had nothing better than to follow what appeared to be a clue, no matter how lame.
It didn't take long to spot an apparent pattern: her first two cards' total dropped by one point four times in a row, then reset on an apparently random number. 18, 17, 16, and 15 followed by 12, 11, 10, and 9 followed by 19, 18, 17, and 16. After a 5, 4, 3 total, Alex raised her next bet to $10,000, banking on the pair of aces needed to produce a 2.
The pattern held. She received two aces. The dealer showed a five. She split the aces, anteing up another $10K. The table's favorable 3:2 Blackjack payout on split Aces along with a multiple-card draw gave her decent odds of coming out ahead. The dealer hit her with a queen and – yes, 16K! – but her eyes grew wide when he dealt another ace. Did the table rules allow her another split? Yes, they did. She added another $10K to the third split ace.
The other two players watched in stony silence as the dealer dropped a seven and a nine of Alex's remaining cards and then promptly went bust. Alex sagged back with a long release of breath and a happy smile, 48K richer. And she got to keep it, the 50K Stage One prize, and the final 150K! Over 200,000 OD even if she didn't win the grand prize and spent a few grand here. Probably a lot more, since even if she didn't win, the odds were good that she'd solve other stages and pocket their winnings. Yet she knew that would be a pale victory to emerge from this game with some money and awards. In fact, despite her rational side, she suspected she'd feel like a total loser walking away without drinking the nectar of the gods.
"Now wait just a frickin' minute," growled Jimmy. "I've been watching Brad Pitt's cards here and there's no fucking way in hell those hands are normal!"
"I agree," said his friend. "At first, I didn't think anything about it, but his hands have been decreasing by one in a series of four."
Alex had to give him credit for noticing.
"I can't control the order of cards, sir," the dealer informed them with realistically cool disdain.
"No shit, digital brain. But the people who own this casino sure as hell can. They could program those cards to fly out of your ass and sing 'My Way.'"
Alex snorted out a laugh, which surprised "Jimmy" into momentary silence.
"I'm out," she said to the dealer. "Give me two thousand worth of $100 chips."
"Yes, sir."
On her way around the table, Alex paused to set a pair of $100 chips beside each of her fellow players.
"For the trouble, gentleme
n," she said. "And thanks for the Brad Pitt comparison. Though I would've preferred Chris Hemsworth or maybe Jan Michael Vincent."
Both men made startled grunting sounds.
"Damn it, kid," said Jimmy, "you're okay. Sorry about the guff."
Alex walked away with a canary-eating smile. What was the saying? A god showed kindness. As Xerxes said in 300, "I am kind."
Next up, roulette. Other than James Bond movies, of which Alex had been an unconscionable fan, she had no idea of how to play the game. Something about calling out numbers and collecting bets with a garden rake. As she approached the roulette wheels – she recognized the "wheels," at least – she skimmed through a Wikipedia summary of the game.
About the only thing she was sure of was betting on the number 4. That meant something called a "straight bet," which had the highest payout. And a "single zero" wheel allowed a higher bet than the traditional wheels, which maxed out at $5000 per bet. The payout on a straight bet was 35x. She had in mind to place a 25K bet. If she won, that would be an insane amount of money – $875,000 OD. If she lost, she'd still be well-ahead for today.
At the single zero wheel, Alex placed her bet marker on the number four.
"Hold up!"
The croupier paused with his finger over the wheel button and Alex turned to see Jimmy rushing up, one hand thrust in the air, flush-faced and breathing much harder than anyone his avatar's age would. Alex guessed he was in a high-end Robust module, the last and most advanced of a dying breed of VR's motion enabling machines (MEM) that permitted maximum physical movement and stimulation. When this dude ran he actually had to run, and she had the feeling her speculation about him being fat, middle-aged, and arteriosclerotic weren't far off.
"I want to place a bet on what he's betting," he huffed.
"Certainly, sir. What amount?"
He turned to Alex. "What are you betting?"
"Twenty-five thousand."
Jimmy shook his head, staggering and ashen-faced, as if on a listing ship. "A bit rich for my blood. Ah, crap. I'll go ten. Ten thousand."
"Very good," said the croupier. "If you have a credit or debit card or a casino card, we can confirm funds."
The Goddess Quest Page 9
