Overload? What was he saying? And fatal overload?
Now it was my turn to cry, "Wait!" to him. But even if he could have heard me, it was obvious that there was nothing he could do about remaining.
"Advice," Mr. Rasmussem called down at me as the clouds foamed about him. "Kenric and Sister Mary Ursula don't work well together."
Who in the world was Sister Mary Ursula?
Mr. Rasmussem's voice was fading despite the fact that he was obviously shouting. "And next time, don't forget the ring."
"What ring?" I shouted back up to him. All I could see, far above, were the bottoms of his sneakers.
"And whatever you do, don't..."
But, naturally, I couldn't make that out.
SUBJ: URGENT—Emergency Situation
DATE: 5/25 03:37:02 P.M. US eastern daylight time
FROM: Nigel Rasmussem
TO: dept. heads distribution list
BACKGROUND: The Rochester, New York, facility has been compromised by unauthorized persons who have forced entry and damaged equipment *while it was in use*.
See attached file for damage assessment and equipment specifics.
The intruders have been removed and arrested by local authorities. Security believes them to be politically motivated local individuals working spontaneously in an isolated incident rather than organized terrorists, BUT TIGHTEN SECURITY IN ALL GAMING CENTERS NONETHELESS.
See attached file for background on CPOC political lobby group.
At the time of the raid on the facility, 2 gamers were in the VR arcade and were not harmed, one group of 4 TI gamers had just gone under and were successfully retrieved by the premises technologist, but a lone player was already fully in total immersion and the technologist believes serious bodily harm would result from disconnecting this gamer before successful completion of the game.
Access code #703-592-B-3 to monitor subject's vital signs.
Note: Gamer Is a 14-year-old minor beLieved to have limited gaming experience.
Using the residual power in the grids, contact was made with the gamer to apprise her of the situation, though on the advice of Lisa in psychology, the risk was downplayed so as not to cause nonfunctional anxiety. Once that power drained, contact was obstructed and cannot be reestablished.
CURRENT SITUATION: We do not know exactly how much time we have and we need all possible Input from all available technologists with all possible speed. We require estimates, advice for repairing the equipment in minimal time, contingency plans to disconnect the gamer in case of systems failure before game completion.
Legal is working to make sure we are covered, but I DO NOT want R.E. to be the first VR company with a fatality.
CHAPTER FIVE
Simple Math
What kind of cheesy outfit was Rasmussem that crazies could walk in and endanger innocent kids? A picture flitted through my brain of the Rasmussem Gaming Center receptionist—the last defense between immobilized semiconscious kids and crazed CPOC members taking out their frustrations on Rasmussem's equipment. She'd probably been too wrapped up in her nails or in a game of Free Cell to notice the intruders. And what about those idiots at CPOC? Wasn't their whole purpose to protect kids? Did I not count because they considered me some sort of evil deviant for having come in here?
You're wasting time, I told myself.
I tried to work it out in my head: Rasmussem's engineers said I should have had five hours for the supposed safety zone. Since Heir Apparent took only half an hour to play, that should have given me ten tries ... Except those CPOC demonstrators had caused enough damage that however much time I had, it was less than that. And time before ... what? What did "overload" mean?
Stop it, I told myself. Panicking is not going to help. Think calmly; plan things out.
Would my brain literally fry, getting so hot that I would feel fevered, or like I was stranded in a desert, or like I was being cooked alive?
Don't be melodramatic, I told myself.
It would probably be more like an electrical shock.
Or an epileptic convulsion.
Would I—immersed in the game—feel it? Would I know it was happening?
I tried to drag myself away from that line of thinking. Lots of drastically wrong things could be happening inside a person's body without that person even knowing. It wouldn't necessarily hurt.
On the other hand, I knew that the Rasmussem technology sometimes made it so that a sick person who didn't even know she was sick would—while playing the game—feel sick. The gaming-as-diagnostic-tool scenario.
Not that I felt sick yet.
Did I?
I felt all clammy and my stomach was in a knot and my throat was tight and my chest hurt, but that was probably from the tension. Probably. I touched my forehead and didn't think I had a fever. Or at least not yet.
At the most, I would have had ten tries, feeling like thirty days, which would have been a long time to feel sick. But Mr. Rasmussem said I had less time than that—"much, much less," I remembered him stressing. What was much, much less time than thirty days—half of that? A quarter?
Did I, in fact, have only one try?
No. He'd said, "Next time..." So, at least one more try. I hoped.
There is a possibility, I told myself firmly, that you will make it. You need to play smart and maximize your chances.
Nigel Rasmussem had talked about infinite possibilities of ways to play Heir Apparent correctly.
I might stumble on one. In ... whatever time I had left.
If I played carefully.
I was so preoccupied, I wasn't aware of anyone approaching until someone grabbed me from behind—which I guess was a pretty good indication I wasn't playing carefully enough. Someone spun me around, and I saw that I was facing a group of about twenty of the castle guards.
Something about them was spooky. I mean, in theory, weren't they there to guard me, the officially named heir apparent of this realm? Surely it wasn't proper guard etiquette to come up behind the person who's scheduled to be crowned as your king, to lay hands on her and spin her around. And several of them had swords or knives drawn.
I glanced around. Maybe something had happened, I thought. Maybe they were here to rescue me from some danger?
Right.
"She's too weak to be a proper king," said the guard who'd spun me around, the guard I'd ordered to release the boy accused of poaching. "She'll be the death of all of us."
And with that he stuck a knife into me.
It didn't hurt. I felt fizzy, like an ice cube in a glass of ginger ale, all covered with carbonated bubbles. My knees gave out from under me, and my eyes grew heavy. When I opened them again, I was on the hill above the cluster of huts that was the village of St. Jehan, and my mother was calling, "Janine! Janine, come back to the house."
So much for playing smart.
CHAPTER SIX
"Do Not Pass Go; Do Not Collect $200"
OK, I thought, that brings me down to ... what? Whatever I'd had before minus half a day.
Never mind, I told myself. Just play smarter this time. Nigel Rasmussem had given me two hints: And next time, he'd said, don't forget the ring. OK, I'd be on the lookout for a ring. And, Kenric and Sister Mary Ursula don't work well together. I'd be on the lookout for Sister Mary Ursula. I would concentrate on being a good heir apparent so that I would win thè game, and I wouldn't distract myself by keeping a running calculation on how much time I might or might not have left.
Just as last time—until I did something different, everything would be just as last time—Dusty, my dog, leaped on me and began licking my face. "Down, Dusty!" I ordered. "Stay. Guard the sheep."
Dusty lay down and either guarded the sheep or went to sleep.
I ran down the hill. "Hello, Mother," I said. I glanced at her hands. No rings. Of course not, she was a simple peasant woman, and peasants don't wear jewelry.
I asked, "Who's this?" Even though I k
new Sir Deming's name and business, my character wouldn't.
Sir Deming was just as rude as last time. Waving his handkerchief as though to dissipate the smell I brought with me, he asked, "Is this the lass?"
Who cared what he said? I saw he was wearing a ring.
Aha!
"My, what a nice ring," I said, talking over my mother, who was telling me to stand straight and not fidget.
Deming looked as though he suspected I was a ring thief as well as a sheepherder, and he crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his fingers under his arms.
In games, certain events are keyed to certain actions. It was probably too early for me to actually get the ring.
I listened, antsy with impatience, while I was told, once again, that I had been living with foster parents; I learned, once again, about the death of King Cynric, my father.
When Deming said that the dying king had sent for me, I eyed his hand and asked, "Did he send some token?"
"He sent me," Deming said in his snooty, snotty manner.
OK, maybe it was still too early.
I didn't bother asking about my half brothers or the queen—we could discuss them on the ride to the castle, without taking any extra time.
Once again my foster mother wept when I left, saying that my foster father would be heartbroken to miss saying good-bye to me. (Yeah, yeah. In my experience—in two worlds now—fathers were just big sentimental softies.) If I had felt rushed the first time, now I knew myself to be in a race. No time to waste on characters who were there just for the scene-setting.
This time as we rode away on Deming's horse, I asked Deming all sorts of questions about my new family, to show I was interested. Deming, of course, was not interested.
"Who's Sister Mary Ursula?" I asked.
Again Deming gave me a suspicious look. "Interfering old busybody," he said. "Has she been in clandestine contact with your family?"
Oops. I realized I shouldn't give away that I knew things I shouldn't know yet.
"No," I said.
"Then where have you heard her name?"
"I can't remember," I said.
Deming snorted.
I still didn't like him, and he still didn't like me.
As we approached the castle, I once again tried for the ring. "I can't help but notice the interesting design on your ring," I told him. "What do you call that?"
"I call it," he said, "the letter D."
D was his initial—not mine; not King Cynric's. Maybe this was the wrong ring after all.
When we got to the castle, I traded in Sir Deming for Counselor Rawdon, who was not wearing a ring. OK, so it had to be one of the royal family. That made more sense, anyway.
Queen Andreanna and her three sons, Wulfgar, Abas, and Kenric, were just as charming as last time, lounging about the thrones in the Great Hall, looking down their noses at me.
"Hello," I said. Last time I had approached timidly and hesitantly, wanting to make friends. I was determined not to make that mistake twice. Going for brisk, confident, and assertive this time, I said, "May I offer my condolences—"
"This girl," the queen said to Abas, "smells like a goat."
Back to that again. I wouldn't let myself get caught up in that argument.
"Excuse me," I said in a tone that would have gotten me a lecture from my grandmother, "I believe the king died and named me his heir. That makes you my subjects. Obviously, you're so overcome by grief at the death of your old king that you're forgetting yourself. I will forgive you this once, but from now on you are to show me proper respect."
"'Proper respect'?" the queen snapped. "Abas, show her the respect she's due."
Luckily for me, sarcasm was a bit beyond Abas's mental grasp. He began to bow. This gave me time to take a quick step back.
"Kill her," Queen Andreanna clarified for her son.
I remembered Kenric's reasoning from last time. "Too many people have seen me already," I said.
Abas had unsheathed his sword and wasn't even slowing down.
I ducked behind a pillar.
"Everyone would know who killed me," I called back to the queen. No use trying to reason with Abas. If the queen didn't call him off, my attempts at logic certainly wouldn't.
For such a big guy, Abas was incredibly quick and agile. He jabbed with the sword, left and right of the protective column, and sooner or later I was going to move too slowly, or he Was going to correctly anticipate my next dodge.
I said, "You'll be in trouble for killing the appointed heir." That sounded feeble, even to me.
Abas's sword caught on the trailing edge of my dress that swirled a second slower than I did. With his free hand, he caught hold of my hair and dragged me from behind the column.
"She's probably right," Wulfgar drawled.
"Probably," the queen agreed equably.
Her voice was the last thing I heard.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shuffle and Deal Again
Janine!" my foster mother's voice called. "Janine, come back to the house."
I couldn't believe it. I'd wasted another half day. "What was the matter with me? Surely, the programmers at Rasmussem didn't intend for their game to be so complicated that a reasonably intelligent fourteen-year-old couldn't get beyond the first hours of a three-day game.
Was my brain overloading already? Was the damage the CPOC saboteurs had inflicted making me stupid?
All in all, I preferred to believe that I just wasn't playing this game as well as Rasmussem's average teenage gamer.
"OK, OK," I told Dusty as she once more licked my face. "Sit. Stay. Guard."
At the foot of the hill, I again rushed my mother and Sir Deming through the introductions. Did Rasmussem have to start me at the very beginning every single time?
Deming told me the king had named me his heir. I acted surprised. My foster mother wept that I had to leave. I told her to give my love to my foster father. I spared a thought for my real-life father, who'd given me the Rasmussem gift certificate. Gee, Dad, I thought, you shouldn't have.
When I was introduced to Counselor Rawdon, I interrupted him when he said he'd take me to meet my family.
"And what are they like?" I asked, though I knew well enough. "Are they to be trusted?"
"'Trusted,' Princess Janine?" Rawdon repeated.
"Do they present a danger to me?"
"Well..." Rawdon said, and I was sure he was going to give an evasive answer. But he said, "Probably."
OK, I liked that honesty. "Should I take steps?" I asked.
"Assuredly," he told me.
For a counselor, he wasn't very forthcoming with counsel.
"Would, for example—just in theory here—would it be a good idea to have my family confined?"
"It might," Rawdon agreed. "On the other hand, you are new here. An unknown element. The soldiers who would have jumped to your late father's orders might not be so quick to respond to you." He smiled and added, "In theory."
"I understand," I said. No royal beheadings on the first morning.
I sighed, suspecting that I wasn't imaginative enough to figure out half of what needed to be figured out. I was already in a rut: hill, Deming, Rawdon, family, death by various unpleasant means. I said, "Perhaps I should dress more suitably before I meet my royal kin. So I don't offend them."
"Certainly," Rawdon told me.
After I was scrubbed and coiffed—that was the word Lady Cynthia, my newly appointed lady-in-waiting used, coiffed—and perfumed, I was given a beautiful gown of burgundy-colored velvet.
I almost did feel like a princess as Lady Cynthia brought me to the Great Hall.
The guards blew their fanfare, opened the doors for me to walk in, closed the doors after me.
And nobody was there.
Oops.
Apparently my royal kin didn't like to be kept waiting—even more than they didn't like me smelling of sheep. Who could have guessed?
I went out the way I had gone that first time with Ke
nric. No sign of the royal family in the courtyard, although one of the guards was raking the dirt. I started to go over, then realized what he was doing: covering up blood. With a sinking feeling, I remembered the peasant boy accused of poaching. Apparently by taking the time to bathe, I'd missed the opportunity to keep the guards from chopping his head off.
It was just a game, but I didn't like the turn it had taken.
"Guard!" I called the man over to me so that I wouldn't have to go any nearer.
"Princess Justine," he said.
I didn't correct him. "Where's the queen?" I asked.
"I believe she and Prince Wulfgar are in the topiary maze."
Maze. I sighed. "I don't suppose you know the way through?"
He looked surprised that I would ask such a thing. "It would be more fun if you figured it out on your own."
"Show me," I ordered.
The hedges were boxwood, which is a smell that always makes me think of cat pee. The bushes were full, so that I couldn't see through them at all, and they were about seven feet high, which is about two feet taller than me. I was just thinking that I should have been paying closer attention to the turns, when we found ourselves in the center, an open area with a pair of stone benches, and sitting there—drinking tea—was Queen Andreanna. But the guard was mistaken: With her was her youngest son, Kenric, not Wulfgar.
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