No Life to Lose

Just ... why now? the woman said, holding on to the car door for support. And please slow down.

The driver made no answer, but the engine growled in a way that made it clear he had stepped on the gas.

I've never interfered with your work, the woman said. You know that. But this affects all of us.

It does, the driver agreed. In a way you couldn't possibly understand. If I choose not to leave, it will be the end. For not just the people in this car.

You're right. I don't understand. Resignation in her voice. Please promise me this won't affect the children.

In this world, there are no such convenient promises. The man's flat expression didn't change. He pushed the pedal harder once again. If you were foolish enough not to know that, I would never have married you.

Stop being a pompous ass, said a voice from the back seat. "And slow down."

Be silent, boy, the driver said, dark eyes reflecting off the rear view mirror. N—

Look out!

The driver's eyes shot back toward the road. A moose had climbed the embankment, staring morosely from the center of the lane. A small twist of the wheel, just enough not to lose the rear end, and they were around the left side of the moose and safe.

Or they should have been. A patch of black ice caught the left front tire. Instead of correcting back to the lane, the car slid into the cliff face with a screech, then rebounded off and toward the embankment. It sailed over in a moment of perverse silence, hovering midair like Wile E. Coyote. Then it slammed into the downward slope, bounced, rolled, and skidded on its roof. Directly ahead was a lone tree, standing just a little bit out from the rest of the forest.

Impact.

The wheeze of the engine was terminal; a final cough and it was silent but for the drip of leaking fluids. The scent of motor oil and gasoline was strong, mixing with another metallic tang in the air.

Blood.

Part 1: The Game

Chapter 1

Rolling sushi was hard work.

James still felt the burn in his forearms at the end of every shift. A few shifts per week at only four hours per shift made it tough to get into a groove. The constant eye-watering aroma of vinegar didn't help. It clung to his skin and never fully fled until after a long, hot shower.

James rolled his wrists and shoulders, then hung his apron on the rack at the back of the shop. I'm heading out, he called.

Aight, Prez! Yuuhei shouted, cashing out the front register. Off to the big white box again?

Yeah. See you.

Hang loose!

The back alley was chill and dark, the stink of trash from the bins almost corpse-like. The moon was behind a wisp of cloud. James hurried toward the street, pulling his collar up.

His cell phone buzzed. Probably another text from Dawn. He jogged across the street and slid into his Honda. As he started the engine, his writer's subconscious offered a haiku.

unread messages

unstable tower piled high

callous architect

***

It was nearing midnight by the time the Joseph Stenton Care Facility loomed up. James parked across the street. The cloud cover had increased, a bite of ozone hinting at rain. The only illumination was the streetlights. Even the care facility was dark, save the lobby.

Good evening, James, said the nursing station clerk.

Hey, Carol. James scrawled something in the guest log that might have been his name.

Carol smiled. Well past visiting hours again.

You won't tell on me?

Cross my heart.

Thanks.

James took the elevator up four floors and walked the lifeless corridor, hollow steps echoing. Over the years it seemed his shoes were gathering dark layers from the floor, piling up like unwanted text messages, each stride minutely heavier than the last.

Room 459. Last week's flowers still sat on the corner table. The slats in the blinds were open, though no moonlight trickled through. Only the anemic green of the heart monitor lit the room.

James sat in the visiting chair and took his mother's hand.

Had a shift at Tokyo Sunrise tonight, he said, squeezing her fingers in a ritual that always bore the same result. It's getting a little easier, but working with sushi turns me off eating it. A greasy burger would hit the spot.

James soon ran out of conversations he could have by himself, sat in the dark, and gazed at his mother for a bit longer. Lying in a bed for years had not greatly diminished her beauty. If you could look past the feeding tube and respirator, the only thing missing was the spark.

Well, take care. It sounded as stupid as every time before, but it was necessary.

The trip back to the lobby was faster. Outside, the wind had picked up. The macabre skittering of leaves was disturbing: unquiet revenants of autumn. James stood for a moment near the entrance.

Breathe in peace, breathe out everything.

Hey.

A feminine shape leaned against the wall, an outline but for the glow of a cigarette which fell to the ground and was stamped out. She stepped into the small pool of light from the lobby doors.

Dawn, James said. I thought you quit smoking.

I decided to worry about other things.

The wind died and the leaves stopped dancing. The calm that descended was comforting to James. Silence had become like a mother to him.

You look good, he said.

That's funny. Dawn tilted her head. I feel like hell. Her hair shimmered as it swung, long and dark, as beautiful as the night. Did you get my message?

I got it.

But didn't read it?

No. James felt a spatter on his nose and looked at the sky. Pathetic fallacy: nature had understood his mood and was responding in kind.

Storm coming in, Dawn said. We need to talk. Will you come for a coffee?

There's a reason I don't answer the phone, a part of him wanted to say.

Okay. Coffee.

***

The burger sat there, monolithic. James was starving but didn't eat. He stared, since it gave him something to look at other than Dawn.

I got an offer. Assistant professor, sociology. Dawn ran her finger around the rim of her coffee like it was a crystal wine glass that would sing. Tenured, obviously. Everything I've been looking for.

The burger was so large that eating it would almost require a fork, or a forklift. James let his gaze slide to Dawn's murky expression while she was safely looking away. After all these years, he still couldn't read her.

But?

It's at Berkeley.

California?

Dawn nodded at her coffee. California.

James picked up the burger and took a bite. It tasted like nothing. Not like cardboard, not like meat. Just nothing. Congratulations.

You could come with me. Dawn looked up suddenly enough to catch his eye. Together. We could go. Writers can work anywhere.

I'm a writer that can't get paid for writing. James took another bite. Ketchup and part of a pickle spilled out the back.

Burgers and lives: messy.

There are part time jobs anywhere. Dawn pushed her coffee away, final acknowledgement that she would never drink it. We could move in together. I would pay. Until you find something.

James put the burger down. It's not just about money, Dawn.

Then what? What is it about? For the first time, Dawn's voice rose. You're going to say no, we both know it. You've been hiding from this conversation for weeks and so have I. I could have tracked you down any time, come to your house or the library or the arena, but I didn't. And what for?

Dawn ran a hand over her eyes, closed them, opened them, breathed deeply. She looked up at the ceiling, down into her lap, and finally out the window, opaque as it was from the brightness within and the darkness without.

Just say it, okay? Her voice cracked on okay.

I can't go with you, James said.

There were other people in the restaurant; they ate, slurped soda through straws, had conversations. In the kitchen, deep fryers sizzled and employees shouted orders. None of it penetrated the silence by the window—until it burst like the clouds had, in a sad trickle.

Maybe long distance could work, Dawn said. Technology. Donald's been telling me. You know, virtual spaces.

The unfinished burger reposed in a grinning half-moon. James ate another chunk, making it lopsided and bloody with ketchup. The man in the moon was dead.

Technology, he said. How long do you want to live like that? What's the end point?

Eventually you might want to come. You might be able to come. Dawn tore her gaze from the window to nowhere. You—

If Mom dies, you mean.

I didn't say that ... I just thought—

That I might unplug her?

No, I didn't, I... Dawn wiped at her eyes, savagely. I wouldn't, please, don't say that. We could bring her. If it's money, I could help. Couldn't we?

Mom belongs here.

But why?

You know why.

She doesn't even visit anymore! She—

Dawn caught herself and took several slow, steadying breaths. She folded her hands on the table and stared down at them, and so did James. They looked small. Yet his urge to hold them was an instinct that could only be hurtful.

Okay, Dawn said. I guess we both knew how this would go. That's why I waited three weeks, sending stupid text messages.

Hey, James said. I'm not the one that's leaving. I'm just the one that's not going.

I know. Dawn nodded. I know that.

They stood. James held the door, but for the first time Dawn was stepping through a different door than he was.

I've always loved you, she said, making a half-turn toward him. But not enough to live this life. The hand that you're holding the tightest was never mine.

Good luck, James said. I wish you the best.

And I wish I could've had the James I see in your stories, Dawn said, voice jagged under the rain. All those dreams you put on paper. Why are they only on paper? A tear washed down her cheek and fell, mixing with the puddles and their staccato twinkles. I wanted to be with you when they came to life. But along the way, I guess we ran out of wishes.

She walked into the night.

saltwater raindrop

disappear into the ground

final empty page

Interlude

How are we doing in Pakistan?

As expected. DE-16 reports all infrastructure in place and good to go. The op begins next week.

And Syria?

Repercussions are as anticipated. It's not an exact science, but so far it's within the predictive boundary.

Good. Get things get moving. We've got bigger fish to fry.

Chapter 2

James missed his own street twice in the dark and rain. The second time, not turning around sounded plausible—just keep on in a straight line until the edge of the world.

But he couldn't.

Dripping on the doormat, James debated between bedroom and bathroom. He opted for a shower to sustain his drooping eyelids long enough to watch something mind-numbing, then sank into the couch with a soda in one hand, reaching for his laptop with the other to queue up a show.

The screen burst to life. Quirky and melodic keyboarding accompanied upbeat female J-pop through the intro of Ryu and the High School Beat Box. Hard to go wrong with Ryu—the teenaged boy who was secretly a dragon—and his after school club, the Beat Box Variety Show. Every club member boasted prodigious musical talent to go with their adolescent angst and difficulty fitting in.

James made it as far as the third episode before his eyes inevitably closed. The only dream he could later recall was of music and laughter, though the laughter came from somewhere he searched for but never found.

***

James woke to insistent beeping from his laptop. He squinted at it. Ten hours of sleep in one shot, empty soda in hand, and he still felt exhausted.

A flashing notification told him messages were waiting. He clicked wrong and got an anti-virus window, rubbed his eyes, clicked again.

D.Marsh.UCC: prez you there

D.Marsh.UCC: prez

D.Marsh.UCC: come on man its fuckin noon already

D.Marsh.UCC: am i talkin to myself i hate talkin to myself

J.F.K.1995: Okay, alright. Don't call me Prez.

D.Marsh.UCC: love you man (not in a gay way) but dont use JFK if you dont wanna be prez

J.F.K.1995: You gave me this screen name. I knew nothing about computers.

D.Marsh.UCC: bygones man, dont dwell

J.F.K.1995: What do you want? I'm sleeping.

D.Marsh.UCC: get your ass up im comin over

D.Marsh.UCC has gone offline.

When Donald arrived, James was shirtless in the kitchen pouring orange juice, the air redolent of charring toast.

Nasty, man. Donald slapped him on the back, nearly spilling the juice. Don't eat that burned shit. Let's do burgers.

I like seared toast. James steadied his juice, then rubbed his forehead. I had a burger last night.

Sushi?

Tokyo Sunrise yesterday. Not in the mood. James took a sip and made a face. The pulpy kind again. He poured it into the sink.

What are you, pregnant? Why so picky? Greek then. Vasili's.

Donald grabbed James by the arm and started dragging him toward the front closet. It was impossible to resist; the man was incongruously muscled for a short guy who spent fourteen hours a day programming. Did he have an exercise machine on his swivel chair?

Why the rush?

Sleep half the day and wonder why the rush. The things this guy says, I'm tellin you.

Donald's presence in a room always afforded the vague sense that somewhere a sitcom laugh track was playing. His mannerisms eerily echoed his grammarless internet personality.

It's Saturday and I'm not working. What's wrong with sleeping in? James half put his shirt on and was half shoved into it by Donald. And what about my toast?

***

James liked his Honda Civic hybrid. It was eight years old, in decent condition; it went from A to B; it went from zero to sixty in some number of seconds. But compared to the beast of a Benz he rode in now, it was dinkier than a child's Hot Wheels.

Annoyingly, Donald didn't even care. He was no fanatic, able to state the engine's precise displacement and the length of the chassis in millimeters. He probably didn't even know how many valves it had. The car was barely six months on the market, but within a year, it would be traded in for something else. For Donald, it wasn't about a love for cars. It was just because he could.

James couldn't resent it. Drowning in opulence now and then wasn't so bad.

Dawn catch up with ya? Donald asked.

We talked.

After a night of rain the city should have felt refreshed, but it was as grimy as the day before, the sky just as polluted. Pathetic fallacy again: in New York and in James Franklin Kirkpatrick, even the rainbows were dim.

Good. Donald cleared his throat. The creak was audible as he gripped the leather-clad wheel too tightly. You going?

You know I'm not, James said. Why do you even know about this already?

Come on, Prez. Donald's grip loosened, but only so he could start tapping like a nervous drummer on coke. The news is from like weeks ago. You never answer your damn phone.

Let's not get into it. James watched ugly scenery crawl by, speedometer stuck at 50 in a car that could do 190. Welcome to life.

Don't be that way. Talk to me.

I'm happy for her. California beats the hell out of this dump.

Look, I'm no friggin guidance counselor, but I known you since the Jurassic and there's no way you're feelin this cool. Donald's fingers quietened on the wheel. "What's the deal? You gonna live this way forever?'

What way?

With nothin to look forward to, man.

It wasn't that bad, was it? Writing, working, visiting his mother, watching anime, reading manga ... alone, since Dawn's schedule never lined up with his. Breakup or no, nothing would even change.

"What are you looking forward to, then?"

"Me? Takin over the world, man. Then you'll be callin me Prez. Donald chuckled. But seriously, I love my job. Creatin things. It's a rush to look at somethin great and say fuck yeah, I did that. Fingers tapping away again on the wheel. That and chicks. Who doesn't look forward to chicks?"

James had written a great deal over the years, but couldn't remember experiencing that fuck yeah moment. He was often under contract: informational articles, business documents, not exactly fist-pump material. The few projects he began on his own initiative usually went unfinished.

Ironic. Dawn claimed to see something in his writing that he himself never had.

But seriously, I love my job. Creatin things.

It was a sad realization that James didn't really know what Donald did or why he took such pride in it. Donald Marsh, VP of something or other at UCC; at 29, one of the brightest stars in American computing; son of the CEO, but by all accounts, achieving everything fully on merit; the programming prodigy.

Programming what?

I'm not a very good friend.

Where are we going? James asked.

You're gonna experience my glory first hand. Donald paused. Not in a gay way. A hearty cackle. And after Vasili's. Beats fuckin charcoal toast.

***

UCC headquarters was huger than huge, majestic in a hyper-modern way, all steel and glass at weird slanting angles. The entrance was a few short seconds from where they had parked in Donald's space; a personal spot next to the door in a lot the size of a Pacific atoll attested to serious corporate status.

The lobby was huge and high-vaulted, echoing with each step. The centerpiece was a massive wire-work globe, possibly not the earth, over which hung the letters UCC in shining chrome. A plaque on the front read: (re)building the world.

A sharply dressed man sat at reception, hair so severely gelled that James recalled an old vid of the Cowboys winning the Superbowl and dumping Gatorade on Jimmy Johnson; the liquid had flowed over and off like his hair was shellacked.

Mr. Marsh, good afternoon, the man said. What brings you here on a Saturday?

Do me a favor, Jimmy, Donald said, nearly causing James to snort. Get Pedro to round up this stuff. Donald handed Jimmy a slip of paper. Gimme thirty. I'm givin the fifty cent tour.

***

The building was as impressive inside as out.

Cubicle City was exactly as it sounded: a vast honeycomb of cubbyholes for tech support and customer service. "These guys just go uh huh, mhm while people bitch till they get tired and hang up, Donald said. Least that's how it seems."

Next, the Data Farm: row upon row of rectangular servers stacked twenty-five high. LED lights winked like eyes on every unit.

James stared into the distance. How many are there?

Someone knows, but it ain't me. Stopped countin years ago.

Level two was mostly R&D, a sealed laboratory viewable only through vacuum-partitioned glass. James felt the briefly babbled technical explanation fly up and over his head and keep right on going. The rest of the floor was given over to cubicles for programmers and offices for the team leads.

This is where guys start gettin important enough for pictures.

Pictures?

Of their families, man. Only way they'll ever see 'em. Donald howled at his own joke, slapping James on the back.

It struck again how little James understood of what his friend had been doing all these years. Donald had been groomed from childhood to work for UCC and rise quickly. No one doubted that he would succeed his father as CEO. Yet James had never been to this place.

Better late than never.

The top floor was half conference rooms and executive offices, half recreational facilities. There was a gym with treadmills and bikes, free weights, and several universal exercise machines; a room full of ping pong tables; even one with beanbag chairs artfully arranged in front of a theater-sized screen.

What—no swimming pool?

On the first sub-level next to the warehouse. Too heavy for up here, man. Donald's look said he was completely serious. Stole this rec shit from Google. Throw in a few luxuries and guys'll chain 'emselves to the sled and pull ya laughin all the way to the bank.

Donald's corner office was, shockingly, one of the least ostentatious areas of the building. It did boast a rug: handcrafted by artisans, worth its weight in platinum-filigreed gold etc., and surely Donald had no idea what material it was or even what continent it was from. Behind the rug sat a hardwood desk, and atop it an array of three monitors and two picture frames. On the walls hung prints of famous works of art, and a plaque congratulating Donald C. Marsh on being the youngest ever member of the Universe Creation Corporation's executive board.

Donald was explaining something on the computer, but James found his eyes drawn to the frames on the desk. One pictured Donald as a young adult, uncomfortable in suit and tie. Beside him was his father, sporting a wide executive smile. From the well-dressed people in the background, some company function or conference.

The other frame featured Donald in his usual getup of slacks and shirt with unbuttoned collar, a genuine grin on his face. He had one elbow up on James, who stood in the middle with a queasy smile. On the right was Dawn, hooking James by the other arm. She was svelte in a black dress, composed, but her eyes sparkled.

James recognized the time and place. His twenty-first birthday. Donald was older, already owned a house in which the party had taken place, and had been drinking for years. James, a far cry from the wild party animal, had experienced his first beer that night. And his second, and his tenth. He had a vague recollection of Dawn sponging off his forehead while Donald lay passed out on the floor.

Donald elbowed him in the ribs. Don't space out on me, man.

Sorry.

I can see the technical shit's borin ya. Hell, it bores me and I wrote it. Donald peered into one of his monitors for the time. Should be all set. Let's roll.

***

Back in the lobby, a squat man with a Latino vibe was at the reception desk.

You get it all? Donald asked, inspecting a conspicuous pile of equipment.

All, the Latino nodded. I go back to work now.

What is all this? James asked.

Donald popped open a box and had a look inside. It's yours. Donald motioned to Jimmy-not-Johnson the receptionist, dutifully in place behind the desk. Have it loaded up, will ya?

In a truck, Mr. Marsh?

The Benz.

Jimmy picked up a desk phone. He mumbled into the receiver in that circumspect receptionist way, relaying information without disturbing the surroundings a hair more than necessary.

Efficient place you run, James said. By the time the words were out of his mouth, two minions had emerged with a dolly and were loading the boxes on to it.

Thanks Jimmy, we're out. Donald nodded at James to follow the minions already on their way to the door.

As James raised a hand to defend against a blast of November air, Donald's earlier words finally computed. What do you mean, it's mine?

Donald looked blank. Huh?

The stuff.

Oh. Yeah, it's yours.

Why is it mine?

Cause I'm givin it to ya.

"Why are you giving it to me?"

The two of them piled into the Benz. The minions retreated, disappearing back to infinity as quickly as they had emerged. Donald shut the door and drew his seatbelt, sitting for a moment without starting the car.

I dunno, man. Listen. I never see you chill out except when you're watchin that anima-whatever crap that I hate. So here's the deal. Donald slapped the steering column. "We're settin you up with a bitchin system and unlimited pass to Shattered Land. Gonna give you a little taste of badassery."

"Shattered Land? Badassery?"

Don't tell me you never heard of it. You call yourself my fuckin friend?

James had to think. The game you made. I remember you telling me ... something.

I told you a trillion times. You got a mind like a sieve for shit you don't care about. Donald started the car and backed out of the space with fervor. I had the boys fix you up. You'll be in game and rockin face within the hour. You can thank me later.

***

The sun was lowering in the sky as James sat on his couch, watching Donald wrestle with a custom-built generator that had required a second trip to UCC to retrieve. The one hour time frame to get rockin face had come and gone—as had two hours, three, and four.

Shit, Donald muttered, reaching for the wire cutters again. "Sonuva."

James didn't understand what was so difficult, but he had gleaned that not many home units existed and that he would be one of the few to experience Shattered Land outside of the proprietary UCC game centers.

Are you sure it's okay for me to have this?

Donald leaned back and wiped the sweat from his brow. His shirt was turning gray from accreted grease and wire shavings. Stop askin, it's pissin me off. I designed this junk, I can do what I want with it. James saw a knothole in that tree of logic, but the time to nitpick was probably past. Anyhow, it's done.

Okay. Great. I guess. Now what?

Donald sat on the floor, glowering at the generator which had become his private nemesis. First, we eat. I'm fuckin starved.

***

After downing a bottle of Asian beer and scarfing a few mouthfuls of noodles, Donald acquired the fulfilled air of a man convinced of a job well done.

Alright. Donald beckoned for another beer. Let's talk shop.

Shop? James said.

Yeah. Ever played any games? Any clue about online shit?

Digging that far into memory was no mean feat. "In my teens, a little Infinite Quest."

Okay. Donald slurped up noodles and dabbed with incongruous gentility at the drops on his chin. Lotta similarities. Only you see it in your head.

In my head, James echoed.

The computer outputs to your brain. Donald tapped his chopsticks against his noggin. All the sensations and crap. Your brain interprets it as signals from your body. Don't get me started or I'll talk all night. Point is, it's like another world.

James finished his own beer in a long swallow. The waitress appeared with another before he had set the bottle down. She looked like Dawn. He picked up the next beer and drank.

What do you actually ... do? In the game.

Donald shrugged. Think like a character in a movie. Power, treasure, kill the dragon, save the chick. Or if you ain't into that, just sit by the river and knit hats outta flowers for all I give a shit. Donald leaned back, bowl and beer both empty and a satisfied cast to his expression. Thousands of people, every minute of every day, playin their own way. That's the beauty.

***

Put the headset on and you're good to go.

Donald hovered, hands on hips. James sat on the couch pondering the device. Under the room's halogen glow it gleamed like metal, but felt like plastic. On the inner ring was a series of electrodes.

How does this work, exactly?

Donald rolled his eyes. Are you kiddin me, man? Even if I knew all the details, which actually I do, for one thing it's proprietary.

I'm not going to sell it.

For another, these babies make rocket surgery look like bakin cupcakes.

Rocket surgery?

Yeah.

Okay, then. James held the device above his head like an ominously dark halo.

Come on man, I don't got all year. Donald was almost hopping from foot to foot. Let's rock.

James still hesitated. I've seen way too many movies and animes to put a strange device on my head without worrying.

Shit, man. Give it here. Donald snatched the unit and flopped onto the couch next to James. He set the device on his head, rolled his shoulders, and pressed a button on its side.

All James saw was diodes lighting up, Donald's eyes closing, and the hand that had pressed the button slowly settling downward. Twenty seconds of complete silence followed.

James reached out and poked Donald on the cheek. No response. Then the lights on the device winked out.

Satisfied? Donald said, reaching up and taking the headset off.

Nothing happened.

Did too. I jacked in, stood around like a dumbass, and logged out. Just to show it ain't gonna kill ya. I swear you're an old woman. Convinced?

James considered. No.

God man, what now?

I have an aversion to unavoidable death. What if there's a fire while I'm ... jacked in? I burn to death?

Donald rubbed his chin. That's why normally people go to a game center. There's regulations. But home units got safeguards. It's wired into the fire and carbon monoxide alarms. They go off, you'll get booted.

I poked you while you were under and nothing happened. What if someone breaks in?

And what? Rapes you? Are you a nine year old girl? It ain't like you'd be any safer if you were awake. But if there's physical disruption past a certain threshold, you get the boot.

What about—

I will fuckin kill you myself. Put the Goddamn headset on.

James laughed and fixed the unit over his head. What now?

Donald fussed and adjusted for a few seconds, then tapped the side of the headset. Push this button. Someone's waitin on the inside to help since you don't know shit all.

I'm glad I won't have to flail in the ocean of my ignorance.

Push this button so we can be glad together. I'm gonna head out, do a few things, then jack in myself.

See you on the other side, James said, and pushed the button.

Chapter 3

The world went black.

Panic ensued. There was a moment of nauseating upheaval, like an astronaut's first moment of free fall around the earth. James had an irresistible urge to tear the headset off and scream. But his hands wouldn't move.

His hands weren't even there.

Then, just as suddenly—calmness. And the darkness was just dark.

At the leisurely pace of a weekend stroll, a new world began to form.

Sounds: chirping; the sigh of a subtle breeze; dimly and distantly, a tinkling of water; closer by, a high-pitched growl.

Scents: blossoms; pollen; a hint of ozone, like a storm rolling in—or like one had passed, and what remained was the freshness of forgotten rain.

At last James could see, shielding his eyes against a brilliant but lowering sun. Ahead was a clearing which held a garden planted with flowers, among which flew a living kaleidoscope of butterflies. In the center of the garden was a stone fountain, graceful in its lines and in the gentle spray of water it produced.

Something in his jeans pocket started buzzing.

A cell phone. On the screen, a flashing message.

Welcome to Shattered Land! To access system options, communicate with distant users, or to exit the program, utilize this personal communication device. Enjoy your stay, and remember to play responsibly!

James poked around on the screen, then looked down at himself. Wrangler jeans in a fantasy world?

Beneath a tree whose willowy branches spread wide before drooping to head-height, a sound came again: midway between a growl and a bark, assertive, but high and thin. A puppy as guard dog.

James put the phone away and walked toward the sound. A small animal bounded into view, worrying at a stick on the ground, just like a dog. But it certainly was not a dog.

For one thing, it had six legs; for another, it was bright blue, with the bioluminescent sheen of something from a National Geographic documentary. From the way bark was sloughing off the stick, its teeth were sharp.

Intimidating, if it hadn't been the size of a Chihuahua.

Come on, bring it here, said a voice.

The animal gave an anthropomorphic chuff of acknowledgment, picked the stick up, and waddled toward whoever had called. James rounded the tree to have a look.

That's my good boy. You're my good boy, aren't you?

A young woman sat against the tree, dappled in shade. Her jet black hair fell in a wave to her shoulders. She wore a simple cream summer dress over white tights, legs crossed like a child during story time. The tiny blue animal nestled in her lap, rubbing against her hand.

Okay, go get it! She threw the stick and the creature shot after it with a sinuous side-to-side motion.

Then the girl looked up at James. Hello!

Hi. Awkward. Uh, I'm—

James Kirkpatrick? She pushed off the tree and stood, smiling.

Yes.

Donald said you'd be coming. She held out a hand and James shook it. I'm Kanade Aizawa.

That's a musical name. Figuratively and literally.

Kanade's large eyes widened. They were as black as her hair. You speak Japanese?

Not fluently, but I spend a lot of time with Japanese shows and comics.

Me too! I love anime. Are you a half-and-halfer?

Irish-American and Japanese.

That's great. Kanade beamed. What would you guess I am?

It seemed obvious from her name that on her father's side, she was Japanese. Dark eyes weren't much of a clue, and black hair was normal for a Japanese, but the waves implied she was at least a quarter Caucasian, as did the sculpted bridge of her nose. Her flawless English with just a hint of Noo Yawk had to be fully native.

Your father was Japanese and your mother was half, but you were raised and educated in New York.

Kanade's grin went lopsided. That was pretty precise for a guess.

But the question is, how good was it?

Hmm. Kind of close, kind of not?

The shining blue creature turned from cavorting through the field, sidling up to James to sniff around his shoelaces.

I have to ask, James said, gesturing down. Just what is this?

Kanade's expression melted to gentle affection. She knelt and placed her hand on the creature's head. This is Wigglewaggle, she said. He's my friend. He's a phosphorescent hexaped.

Wigglewaggle. For the way he moves.

Kanade looked up, smiling. Right.

James knelt. The creature was just as bizarre up close. It had the elongated face and snout of a lizard, with large and expressive eyes that swiveled in unison for binocular vision. A thin membrane over its nostrils slid aside with each breath. Veins pulsed beneath translucent skin over organs slightly more opaque than the surrounding flesh.

You can pet him if you like, Kanade said, stroking Wigglewaggle's tail. Its skin began to ripple slightly. He won't bite anyone that has good intentions.

James slowly reached out and touched the creature's head with his fingertips, then his palm. It rubbed back in response, cool, dry and slightly rubbery.

Question.

Yes?

Does this creature live in caves?

Kanade blinked. Well, they can live anywhere if you take care of them, but originally they come from caves. How did you know?

It glows. James rubbed his chin with the hand that wasn't still absently petting the creature. Semi-aquatic, lays eggs, and eats small fish and insects.

Yes, yes and yes.

Endothermic, obviously. Though it seems at home in this field despite that.

That was an amazing profile of a hexaped for someone who logged in for the first time five minutes ago.

Just logic.

The only thing you couldn't have anticipated is his special ability.

James felt one corner of his lip turn upward involuntarily. Like in a battle manga?

Pretty much. One day, he'll do something amazing.

And that is...?

A secret, Kanade said, and smiled.

mysterious world

like but unlike the other

magic no less real

***

They sat in the grass for thirty minutes. Wigglewaggle waggled around, chasing sticks and jumping at flying beetles, while Kanade explained the functions of the game phone. James tried to listen, but kept getting distracted by the world.

The rustle of the dry leaves and grass that Wigglewaggle waddled through; the call of faux gulls and songbirds; the tinkling splash of the fountain; the specific warmth of the sun as it streamed through the canopy. All the sensations so easily filtered out in the real world were dangerously pronounced.

Was this what everyone felt, their first time in this place? Or did they feel it every time?

The world itself was a drug.

I'm not boring you, am I? Kanade said.

James looked over at her, then back to the sky. Not at all.

Something's up.

Just thinking Donald will be logging on any time, and doubting he'll be happy to chill with us under this tree.

You know him well. The amusement in Kanade's voice was palpable. Sorry, I got carried away chatting and relaxing.

Don't apologize. James stretched, more out of instinct than discomfort. He felt more refreshed than he could remember. But I guess we should ... something. What do people like Donald do here?

As opposed to ... people like us? Kanade asked.

Indeed.

Most likely ... an event.

Kanade stood and offered a hand. As she pulled him up, James felt something wash through him. A wave of energy. His limbs became lighter, and his senses—if possible—sharper. It was nothing as simple as the effect of holding the hand of a pretty girl.

What was that?

A little pick-me-up. Kanade smiled. We need to hurry and get ready for the event, or we'll get yelled at.

She set off at a brisk walk that was nearly a jog. James fell in alongside. Wigglewaggle scurried along frantically until Kanade picked him up.

Event, James said. You said that before.

Kanade tapped a finger on her lip as she walked. We'll be playing by Donald's rules. I don't want to spoil it for you.

I see.

Do you?

"No. I'm sure you've read enough manga to know that I see usually means I don't see."

Kanade laughed, musically. It suited her; Kanade was Japanese for a musical performance.

We have to get you set up, she said. Donald won't hold back just because you're new.

Her measured gaze was sizing him up—whether for equipment or a coffin, James decided not to ask.

***

Their first stop was a place that Kanade called her house. James sat on a stone bench inside the door for only a few seconds. Kanade went upstairs and immediately came back down, now carrying a purse.

From there, with Kanade humming a maddeningly familiar tune, they walked through the town, passing a multitude of buildings and people. Lots of people. Some were standing in groups and chatting, some walking around, some running; one that James pretended not to see even flew past on broom like a cartoon witch.

They entered a wide market street lined with stalls and carts. The variety of things for sale was astounding, as was the eclectic throng of barkers and merchants.

Are these people all players?

In this area, most are NPCs, Kanade said.

NPCs?

Kanade slowed her pace and smiled. Non-player characters.

Artificial intelligences?

Right. The game needs shopkeepers and pedestrians as much as heroes and villains. Most players want to do something more interesting than sell pomegranates, so the NPCs do those jobs.

No one would be crazy enough to log in to a magical universe and then sit under a tree doing nothing, James said.

Kanade burst out laughing. Right?

They passed more stalls with owners hawking wares, some of whom gave quite elaborate sales pitches. One called out to ask if James was really going to travel the dangerous wilds defenseless in a t-shirt and blue jeans.

Was that an NPC?

It was.

For it to recognize and assess what I'm wearing is pretty amazing, isn't it?

UCC is known for the most advanced AI in the world.

UCC. You mean, Donald?

Well, his company. He didn't do it alone, but most people say his genius made this possible.

How can you tell which people are NPCs?

Donald wants to reach a level where it will be impossible to know, but these merchants aren't there yet. If you talk to them about something other than what they're selling, you'll sense something missing.

They arrived at a cylindrical building resembling a grain silo. It gave the impression of being carved from