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Games & Fate
Games & Fate
Games & Fate
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Games & Fate

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From silicon germs to digitized souls, the future is here...

Read book two of the Beverly Hills Book Award Winning Glide Trilogy, a mesmerizing tale of love, loss, and second chances. Set in a future filled with dazzling and perilous inventions, the trilogy has been read more than 6,000,000 times on Wattpad, received a starred review from Publishers Weekly (book 2), and has been queried for a future motion picture.

In Games & Fate the real world loses its luster, giving way to rich augmentations until a wildly popular role-playing game—driven by its own set of neo-commandments—governs everyday life. As the line between real and virtual vanishes, an unlikely alliance of teens and outcasts offers humanity its only hope.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherBill Gourgey
Release dateSep 16, 2017
ISBN9781370939480
Games & Fate
Author

Bill Gourgey

Critically acclaimed author, Bill Gourgey, has been praised by reviewers and readers for his entertaining and thought-provoking projections of modern science and technology. His books include the Glide Trilogy, which won the Beverly Hills Book Award in Science Fiction, and his Cap City Kids young adult mystery-thriller series about talented but disadvantaged teens who take on Washington, DC.A former IT consultant to Fortune 500 companies and managing partner at Accenture, he has designed and developed software for the communications, utilities, finance, and high tech industries. With a passion for both technology and creative writing, his sci fi and young adult mystery thrillers feature technology’s dual-edged promise. Gourgey has held board and advisory positions at various technology startups. He has been a panelist at Digital Hollywood, and speaker at Intervention Con. He is also the Managing Editor of The Delmarva Review, a literary journal.Gourgey is a graduate of Cornell University with degrees in Electrical Engineering and Materials Science, where he received numerous academic honors. He currently attends the graduate program in Science Writing at Johns Hopkins University. He lives with his family in Washington, DC and on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

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    Games & Fate - Bill Gourgey

    GAMES & FATE

    a novel by

    Bill Gourgey

    Table of Contents

    Title Page

    Copyright

    Dedication

    About Book 1

    Author’s Note

    Founding Principle

    Lachesis

    State of Affairs

    Hotel Isabella

    Goblins in the Hall

    What a Mess

    Diogenes’ Chamber

    Knightmare

    Soul Machine

    Seaville Burns

    The Path of Souls

    Leverage

    Boolean Queen

    Raphael

    Directives

    Ariadne

    The West Woods

    The Swing of the Stars

    Dr. Longe

    Conspiring

    ICU

    The Opponent’s Fate

    Touch of Fame

    Vital Signs

    Showdown

    Sight and Shadow

    Secrets and Buttons

    Knight’s Gambit

    Avenging Angel

    Most Wanted

    SPYDERs

    Bring Me the Rabbit!

    Abyssal Canyon

    Torn

    I Must Be Alive

    Selectivity

    Induction

    Prisoner’s Dilemma

    We Need to Talk

    Nu Cycle

    Isla del Tiempo Muerto

    The Surface of Time

    Confession

    Gabriel

    Stained Glass

    Commencement

    Exposed

    Captured and Connected

    Finding Ariadne

    Renaissance

    Casting Threads

    Citizenship

    Glide Suspended

    Hostile Takeover

    A Glimmer of Hope

    Vis Electiva

    Lost Thread

    Acknowledgements

    Glide Trilogy Lexicon

    Read an Excerpt from Germs & Fury

    Other Books by Bill Gourgey

    Jacked Arts

    Washington, DC 20008

    Copyright © 2013 by Bill Gourgey

    Copyright © 2017 by Bill Gourgey

    All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

    This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

    The first edition of this book was called Nu Logic, and while the name of the trilogy remains the same (The Glide Trilogy), each book in the trilogy has been released in a new edition with a new title.

    Cover Art—rendering of a Cyband and aRWI dashboard displaying Diogenes’ Chamber by Mass, a NY-based creative agency; title font, Niagara Engraved.

    Library of Congress Control Number: 2017913454

    Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1546901884

    ebook ISBN: 9781370939480

    For my folks

    Mary Ann & Archie

    and for

    Marilyn & Ed

    About Book 1

    Gravity & Fire

    When Maddy and Mike trespass Knot Hall, a grand seaside estate that appears to be in ruin, they set in motion forces that have been pent up since the dark days of the Academy—a nefarious organization led by the Prophet that brought civilization to the brink by unleashing war and plague to control the dwindling natural resources of an ailing planet. The Prophet, who has been imprisoned on a secret island, escapes just as the Neos, a new organization fashioned after the Academy, assert themselves by bending the considerable technologies of the future to their will—technologies largely devised by the genius inventor Captain Magigate. At last, the Captain must face not only the Prophet but also the ambiguous legacy of his inventions.

    Author’s Note

    Although the futuristic terms used throughout the trilogy are generally self-explanatory, a Glide Trilogy Lexicon (†) has been included at the end of this book—for amusement as much as reference. The cast of characters on the following pages may come in handy as well.

    Finally, unless otherwise noted at the start of a new chapter, all action takes place in the story’s present (Glide Age).

    The Main Characters

    Captain Magigate (ma ji gayt) — Famous inventor Dr. Domino Magigate (Dom); founded Cape Knot Labs; built Isla del Tiempo Muerto; lives part of the year in Knot Hall, his ancestral home in Seaville; had a sister, Lily.

    The Prophet — Senator Samantha Biggs (Sam); founder of The Academy; leader of the Special Senate; former CEO of Biggs Industries when it was known as the world’s leading drone and weapons manufacturer.

    Dr. Janot (zha nō) — Former Cape Knot colleague of Dr. Magigate; former knight; CEO of Pax Pharmatronix where he is known as Dr. Jeneuf; founder of Neology, where he is known as Diogenes, the Maker.

    The Knights — There were twelve knights in the original group that came from Las Arcas and served Captain Magigate in the days of their war against the Academy. They include Ipoh (ee pōh), Fortunato, Trinidad, Dr. Janot, Guiomar, Rico, Pepe, Simon, Iago, Mad Mona, Jaime Menos, and Tadeo the Chemist.

    Maddy — High school student at City School of Fine Arts (CSFA), where she is studying to be a painter; boyfriend is Mike McGrath; dad is David Langsley; stepmom is Barbara Marshall Langsley, renowned reporter (aka Blabs); known as Ginevra in Neology.

    Mike — Seaville High student; girlfriend, Maddy; dad, Fire Marshall, John McGrath; mom, Peg McGrath; known as Blaze in Neology.

    Lisa — Maddy’s best friend at CSFA; music prodigy; cyber genius; known as Raphael in Neology.

    Em — a cyber ghost who is connected with both the Prophet and Captain Magigate; known as Glimmer in Neology. Louisa is Em’s daughter, who took charge as Biggs’ CEO during the heady days of the Glide Age.

    Seaville Friends Lucy (Verruca), Tonio (Pi-Dog), and Renata (Hornet) are Mike’s closest Seaville High buddies.

    Dr. Longe — Acting CEO of Biggs; formerly Chief Research Officer of Biggs’ Romulus Park; friend of Louisa Biggs; Maddy’s doctor.

    FOUNDING PRINCIPLE

    The Ultimate Game is not Evolutionary Stable.

    —Diogenes, a.k.a. the Maker, founder of Neology

    The Past

    In the early days of the Academy

    Lachesis

    Abiding in neither Heaven nor Earth are The Moirae who give to men at birth a measure of good and evil.

    —Hesiod, Greek oral poet

    The Academy will have to act soon, Senator," Dr. Janot said in his trademark timbre, deep and deliberate like an orchestra signaling the approach of the Wolf. He leaned in toward the Prophet and pushed his rimless glasses back into their grooves on the bridge of his nose.

    The Prophet heard the doctor’s soothing voice, but his words drifted away and left no more of an impression than the distant din of earthworks from Aerome’s massive construction zones. She knew she should be paying close attention to Janot because he may never again feel compelled to volunteer so much information, but she could not stop thinking about Magigate: how he’d charmed her, how he’d disarmed her impregnable self-defenses, how he’d caused her to question her own motives. Almost a week had passed since their unexpected night together, yet her body and soul still tingled as if the encounter had been yesterday. The sensation delighted and worried her. With so much at stake, she had no time for romance and less for doubt. Even so, she could not deny that her evening with Magigate had awakened something deep inside, something more than lust. Not love (it was too soon, too sudden to be called love), but longing. She longed to see him again. Worse, she sensed the promise of love; it coiled around her in tightening spirals until every bit of her being begged for relief. That was the problem, the promise, as inevitable as a hard, ripe bud poised to bloom—an inevitability as palpable as fate. But was it really? She whispered Love to herself, trying it out, but Fate echoed back.

    Senator, Dr. Janot repeated, taking care not to sound officious, you realize, of course, the Academy will have to act soon.

    The Prophet shifted in her throne-sized seat and flicked uncooperative strands of hair behind the navy-blue shoulder pads of her suit. She smiled narrowly at her esteemed guest, but continued to daydream. Fate, she thought, laughing to herself, brought back memories of her youth, of a starry-eyed girl poised to slay the world. She imagined the second of the Fate sisters, her beloved Lachesis, pulling Clotho’s golden thread across her ruler, pointing to where Atropos should snip the mortal’s life. Ever since her adolescence, when she’d first studied the Moirae of ancient Greece, the Prophet had inextricably latched on to the ominous goddess Lachesis, whose choices determined the extent of everyone’s mortality. Clotho spun, Atropos snipped, but Lachesis measured. Benign though it seemed, Lachesis’ ruler wielded more power than Clotho’s distaff or Atropos’ shears. Unlike her sisters, Lachesis’ role was not mechanical, it required vision, which appealed to the Prophet even at a young age. Spinning and snipping were as visceral as birth and death, but measuring required more than instinct; it required sentience. It required an understanding of how the threads the sisters released wove themselves into the tapestry of life and told the narrative of civilization. Indeed, the Prophet’s early fixation with the Fates had manifested itself in an extravagant collection of ancient tapestries, like the one now hanging behind Janot, which depicted the tale of Odysseus’ return to Ithaca disguised as a peasant.

    Janot cleared his throat. His words seemed to have penetrated the Prophet’s trance at last. He sat across from her in a chair equally grand, separated only by a small, gilded table set with intricately carved chess pieces that faced off against one another with grim expressions. He and the Prophet were not playing—at least, not chess.

    They were in the drawing room of the Prophet’s estate, a Gothic complex perched on the highest hill, Mount Vista, inside the limits of Aerome, the new aerotropolis. From here, they could gaze upon the Academy’s recently completed control tower, which rose from the center of the circular city like the apex of a Masonic compass, circumscribing its bounds. Aerome’s massive airfields, hangars, warehouses, industrial parks, barracks, and residences all emanated from the tower in concentric circles across a flat plain that gave way to brown hills toward the north and beyond those, bald and barren mountains. To the east, a crenelated wall had been erected to demarcate the new city from the old. Las Arcas, a once-thriving, now-ruined metropolis had been targeted by the Special Senate† as the most logical location for its twin seat of government. Unapproachable from the west except by air, easily defended from all other points on the map, and far enough away from the nation’s capital to avoid fallout from a catastrophic event, Las Arcas had been an easy choice. But the local citizens had not ceded their city so easily. Riots and street skirmishes had impeded construction efforts until the wall was built to keep the undesirables in check.

    Magigate is on to something, Janot said, leaning back now that he had the Prophet’s attention. His pattern has always been the same. Whenever he is close to discovery, he disappears into his lab for days on end. Then he emerges triumphantly to announce some startling new invention. Janot grimaced, his dislike of his scientific colleague manifest.

    That would explain his silence, the Prophet said. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. Her gaze wandered to a nearby curio cabinet. Inside was a mysterious and puzzling artifact. The short, golden rod—a caduceus of sorts, with intertwining snakes—had simply appeared in her dressing room the night she met with Magigate. When questioned, none of the Prophet’s staff could explain its appearance, but there was something hauntingly familiar about it. One day, she expected to discover its secret.

    Janot studied the Prophet. We cannot allow him to succeed. This was only his second meeting with her, but Janot could tell she was distracted. Something had happened between her and Magigate. He frowned.

    Why, Doctor, are you so concerned with Magigate’s success? The Prophet snapped out of her trance. Her hazel eyes bore down on her guest, pinning him to his seat. What’s in it for you? Although she welcomed the services of an insider—not just any insider, but one of Magigate’s closest colleagues and a genius in his own right—she was too cautious to trust Janot. At least, not yet. Not until she understood his motives.

    Your offer was more than generous, Janot said coolly.

    That’s not what I meant.

    Dr. Janot clenched his teeth. He pulled a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his charcoal blazer and mopped fresh beads of perspiration from his bald head. His jaw muscles flexed continuously as he removed his glasses and applied the moist handkerchief to their lenses. You must understand, he said in a low voice. He massaged the bridge of his nose then restored his glasses. This is not easy for me. At last he looked up to meet the Prophet’s penetrating gaze. I once worshipped the ground Magigate walked on.

    What changed? The Prophet had no patience for self-pity.

    Magigate betrayed me! He stole my most prized virology research. The doctor’s tone hardened. You see, I had begun to model the behavior of organic and inorganic viruses into a single field theory that, like other—

    A strong accusation. Now that she was no longer daydreaming, the Prophet focused on her guest with unwavering scrutiny. She was no scientist and had no use for field theories or any other unnecessary details, but she needed an accurate assessment of Janot’s allegiance.

    Janot shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps, he said, but not an unjust one. If my suspicions are correct, Magigate has been exploiting a new theory I presented to him when he reached an impasse on one of his projects last year.

    Don’t the scientists at Cape Knot work collaboratively? Don’t you advance one another’s theories for the greater good? the Prophet asked, making no attempt to hide her scorn. Even the likes of Einstein and Newton benefited from collaboration with others.

    Of course. Janot’s eyes flashed in defiance. "But Magigate does not work collaboratively with anyone. He is content to take what others have done and keep it for himself. Does he invite them to join his efforts? Does he share his findings? Does he assist them in their efforts? Does he even stoop to mete out praise? No! The doctor, normally stoic, briefly revealed the heat and hue of his rancor. Magigate takes all the credit as if none of us existed."

    Janot paused to compose himself. I assure you, Senator, I may be the only one at Cape Knot willing to help you advance the admirable causes of the Academy, but I am not the only discontented scientist working within those hallowed halls. The others, however, do not see the virtues of your vision as clearly as me. Nor do they see how naïve Magigate has been. We are caught up in what may be the last great struggle for civilization. Would the Academy want the outcome to be skewed by some reckless genius who does not understand that he is merely a pawn to be played by the side that seizes upon his brilliance first? Or do I overestimate the stakes?

    The Prophet did not reply right away. She turned and stared into the heart of the city. From this distance, cranes, bulldozers, dump trucks, and even the buildings themselves looked like toys in a sandbox or pieces to a board game. Overhead, drones flew in formation, coming and going in great multitudes with the vigilance and determination of migrating flocks. Dusk settled on the city, but did nothing to temper the frenzied pace of construction. Lights peppered the landscape, forming patterns, first strands then matrices, until at last the valley shone like a nova. Aerome had no tolerance for the blindness of night.

    Dr. Janot’s characterizations only partly computed with the Prophet’s own impressions of the young Dr. Magigate. Naïve? Yes. Capable of stealing another’s work? No. The Prophet was a good judge of character. But she could not deny that this time her unfailing discrimination might be clouded by desire. When she turned back to her guest, she found herself under a lustful gaze that Janot quickly checked. It did not surprise her. The Prophet had that magnetic effect on others, especially men. And she used it to her advantage. Until Magigate, however, none had ever been able to reciprocate. Setting her feelings aside, she still believed that in the long run Magigate was the one to be trusted, not Janot. But she never dismissed means that might advance her toward her ends.

    Seizing her advantage, the Prophet leaned forward and pressed her hand warmly around Janot’s. She smiled as his body quivered predictably. Well then, Doctor, she said, since you seem to understand the stakes, tell me more about Magigate’s impending discovery and what we should do to stop him.

    It was late. No, it was early. Dr. Magigate sat in his lab, wavering. Wavering over a great many things—over what to do with his latest invention, Project Pi, now in its final stages of development; over how to pursue the more significant implications of Project Pi, which had the potential to rewrite the physics of the future; but mostly, Magigate wavered over the Prophet. Of all the momentous matters flooding his synapses, the Prophet, Senator Samantha Biggs, took center stage.

    The Prophet—Sam—dominated his thoughts not only because desire was an unfamiliar construct to Magigate, deriving from cranial regions (and non-) with which he had little experience, but also because it had led him into the muck of uncertainty. Before he met her, his path, his mission, his daily routine—from when he rose to when he lay down to sleep—all were clear to him. If someone else had asked him to collaborate with Biggs Industries’ new research arm, Romulus Park, he would have laughed and complimented that person on his or her sense of humor. When he finished laughing, he would have bored the offender with a lengthy monologue contrasting the mercantile aims of Romulus Park with the principled objectivity of his own Cape Knot Laboratories.

    Now, however, here he was considering in earnest just such a proposition: to lead Romulus Park. Magigate knew he should have refused, on the spot, Sam’s offer. But something had given him pause. At first, it was the shock of the request, but then another force took hold. Now, the mere thought of her made his fingertips tingle as he adjusted his apparatus and recorded fresh settings.

    For the first time in his life, Magigate sensed a fork in the road. Not another jog to the left or right where the general direction of his life would be about the same whichever way he chose, but a transformational choice—a choice between wormholes, each capable of transporting him into a very different dimension. Worse, he had the nagging sense that regardless of the course he selected, it might be preordained. Something related to Project Pi, to his exploration of spacetime, had stirred a powerful sense of déjà vu. He could not yet put his finger on it and that worried him.

    The fluorescent light above flickered and began to buzz. He looked up, but the failing light hardly penetrated the dense belt of thoughts and indecision swirling around his head. He knew that with Sam it would be impossible to separate romance from business. She could not agree to one without the other. Then again, could he? Should he defy his own principles and accept her offer? Or, should he turn her down and thereby deny his own feelings? What bothered him most was that his moral compass had been so easily corrupted by a single, impassioned evening. Worse, he took pride in his independence and individuality, yet he could not escape the feeling that fate was about to play a role in his life regardless of the path he chose.

    When he approached Dr. Janot on the matter—not coming to the point directly, but testing his trusted colleague’s willingness to merge the efforts of Cape Knot with a competitor’s—Dr. Janot had, as always, deferred to Magigate’s judgment.

    I know we can all count on you to keep the best intentions of Cape Knot foremost, Janot had said; his words had unintentionally stung. Magigate felt like he was doing anything but focusing on Cape Knot’s well-being.

    Nevertheless, each time he tried to push out thoughts of Sam, they snuck back in, riding on one grand theory or another. It was a function of how Magigate’s mind worked. By association and metaphor, he would test the adequacy of his hypotheses on parallel and seemingly unrelated tracks of thought. In fact, he had just finished concluding that manipulation of the Gravitational Constant might have the effect of altering time when he realized that he had left the Prophet’s estate last week feeling as if decades of his life had been collapsed into a single evening. Was it simply the intensity of his desire that accounted for the strange sensation? Or was something more at work? Preposterous as it seemed on the surface, he could not discount the possibility of the latter.

    After all, it was well known in the quantum theory that particles can essentially be in two places at the same time and that they can disappear and reappear somewhere else. The question at hand was whether quantum theory could extend beyond the realm of the infinitesimally small. No, the real question was had it already? If so, if people could learn to disappear and reappear, or be in two places at once…what did it mean?

    Magigate tugged at his scruffy chestnut beard in frustration. Here and there wiry white strands poked out of the mass like electrified worms. He tossed a homemade ball of rubber tubing at the buzzing light overhead, which struck the metal casing and momentarily stopped the noise and flicker. LUCKI, he said, addressing his homemade supercomputer nicknamed LUCKI for Learning Universal Cape Knot Interface, transcribe, translate, and correlate.

    Yes, Doc-tor, LUCKI responded in its flat, monosyllabic speech.

    Not for the first time, Dr. Magigate made a mental note to upgrade LUCKI’s outdated voice algorithm even though he found the steady cadence reassuring. He picked up his pencil and began to write in his journal, pulling at his beard now and then to release new streams of thought. LUCKI moved a robotic arm into place that hovered over the journal and, with its camera, recorded everything Magigate wrote. LUCKI then recast the scientist’s notes on his monitor, using highly advanced learning algorithms to interpret and cross-reference appropriate field theories, constants, and equations:

    On the matter of spacetime, it is clear to me that the Euclidean ideal will be greatly challenged by even minor alterations to the Gravitational Constant (GC) as recorded. In other words, the drag on spacetime that gravity exhibits may be amplified and converted into specific, repeatable patterns as the GC is dialed up or down.

    What interests me most would be spacetime shifts of the overlapping variety. In the simplest terms (two-dimensional notation), if the motion of vector (world line) A, traveling through spacetime (x,y) can be transferred to spacetime (x’, y’) by modifying the GC associated within (x,y) until it aligns with (x’, y’), can vector A be transferred to the new coordinates without altering its trajectory? Could my own world line—or Sam’s—be transferred in such a way?

    According to my calculations, it should be possible to in effect acquire and release spacetime as a way of transferring the motion of one or more world lines active at the point of origin.

    TRANSferring MOTION…TRANSMOTION?

    Euclidean perceptions of spacetime necessarily suggest that spacetime is more or less continuous like fabric. In this model, overlaps in spacetime would require folding the fabric (spacetime), which would be highly disruptive to any world lines active between the folds. When it comes to focused manipulation of the GC, however, an analogy more apt than the textile variety would be the game of checkers—or chess. (I’m thinking of that golden chess set on display in Sam’s drawing room.) But in this case, instead of moving the pieces, we move the squares. (Of course, the board itself—time—remains fixed. Or does it? What happens when a square from the future slips into the past? Is it possible, Sam, to remember the future?) Through a series of new experiments that I will classify as Temporanomics (Tempodynamics?), I intend to demonstrate (when I complete the first phase of Project Pi) the effects of world line isolation and the possibilities of Transmotion.

    Some points to consider in developing the apparatus and facilities to test Transmotion:

    1. Use four-wave mixing with a signal gravitational wave and a pump to filter and displace the signal. Reassembly will occur through similar filters at the destination.

    2. Establish symmetric spatio-temporal conditions at origin and destination to avoid going SPLAT on arrival. Are these configurations stations or ports? Transmotion ports? Temporanomic ports? Nome ports…Nomes. Call them NOMES.

    3. Nomes must be able to contain the intense bursts in gravitational flux to avoid undesirable shifts in surrounding spacetime fabric. The goal is to map and project only the spatio-temporal dimensions of the Nomes (a single checkerboard square), which could be left open at all times (walk into one Nome and walk out of another 3,000 miles away or 3,000,000 light years?), or controlled and activated by stationary consoles. Perhaps handheld apparatus would be more desirable to the traveler. After all, who doesn’t like the reassurance of a key? Or a remote control? Or a wand? A Wand. Everyone wants a wand. A NOME WAND! (How oddly familiar…)

    4. There is also the matter of temporal isolation. Although, mathematically, it is possible to move through spacetime that has already existed (i.e., the past), more thought and experimentation will be required to understand the implications of time travel.

    I will hold time constant for the initial scope of my Transmotion experiments, which will begin upon successful execution of Project Pi.

    Dr. Magigate sat back and rubbed his eyes. The notion of a Nome Wand triggered something. A memory? His gaze wandered to a short, golden rod carelessly buried beneath a pile of unused parts on a nearby table. He’d found it in his jacket pocket the night he met with the Prophet at her estate. But he’d had so much on his mind then—and since—that he’d hardly taken the time to consider it. He reached into the pile and pulled it out, twisting it in his hands. It occurred to him now more than ever that he might be right: his feeling that he’d known the Prophet for a lifetime might actually be true.

    State of Affairs

    No sooner had Maddy paid for her coffee—cream, no sugar—than the lights in the café flickered, dimmed, then flashed brilliantly. All at once the bulbs overhead and the Liquiglas† windows, which were charged by a small electric current, shattered. Glass rained down on the café. People screamed and ran for the door. By the time Maddy made it to the street, she had a small gash across her forearm, but no worse. Up and down the avenue, nearby shops appeared to be suffering a similar fate as glass blew out of windows. But as quickly as the violent surge erupted, it subsided, leaving a strand of darkened storefronts in its wake.

    The crisp, dry autumn air on this Friday afternoon chilled Maddy’s trembling body, and the late-October sky darkened, amplifying the effect of the blackout. Sirens blared in the distance. People scurried away, fearful that something worse might follow. Just last week a sudden methane gas explosion had killed several people in the financial district.

    When classes let out at Maddy’s high school fifteen minutes earlier, she was already on her way to the café, having ducked out early. Since she would be staying late in her art studio, she had decided to treat herself to real coffee. Although she’d only recently acquired the taste, it was clear that what they served at her student lounge barely qualified as liquid tar. Now, she clutched her warm coffee, which had miraculously survived the confusion, and hurried back to her school. Along the way, she passed a small platoon of armed security forces racing toward the scene. It seemed like Blabs was right, Aerome was slipping toward chaos. As soon as she got back to the safety of her studio, Maddy called her stepmother.

    No kidding, Blabs, Maddy said, anxiously swiping at and spinning the holo† of riots and street skirmishes that projected from her v.fone† bracelet. Scrolling beside the video was an article entitled, The Rise of the Neos by Barbara Marshall Langsley. You really think Aerome is under attack?

    Blabs had been an irreverent nickname invented by Maddy for her stepmother that, in time, transformed into a term of endearment. Not only did Maddy no longer despise her stepmother, but she found that she genuinely liked her, especially since she’d figured out that they really weren’t competing for the love and attention of her father. Of course, Blabs was the same take-no-prisoners journalist who could be all business when she wanted (the inspiration for her nickname), but ever since the harrowing events of the summer Blabs had dared to reveal to Maddy a softer, empathetic side. Plus, she was more hip than Maddy’s father, who was ten years older than his second wife.

    I’m worried, Maddy, Barbara said. She sounded worried. No one’s been able to pin it on Neology yet, but everyone knows it’s the Neos. And yes, I do think we’re vulnerable here in Aerome. You just experienced it firsthand. Apparently, yours wasn’t the only incident this afternoon. Fresh reports are trickling in now. I’m just glad you’re OK. The Authorities† seem to be at least two steps behind the perpetrators.

    It’s almost like your article yesterday predicted what would happen. Maddy looked admiringly at her stepmother. You even made the front page of the City Times! She grabbed a holo of yesterday’s headlines and held it up:

    City Times

    The Rise of the Neos

    Special investigative report—by Barbara Marshall Langsley

    Authorities across the globe are convening to discuss the formation of a new alliance to combat the devastating wave of attacks from an underground group known as the Neos, otherwise known to be a radical faction of Players in the wildly popular game, Neology. Numerous jurisdictions have already imposed curfews, and armed patrols are visible on the streets, presenting an image long thought to be a dark aspect of our past.

    It is an unprecedented state of affairs, Minister in Chief Spencer said in a recent interview with Nanosat News Network. We have not seen these kinds of brazen attacks since the days of the Soft War. Although no civilians have been targeted directly in the most recent rash, the disruptions to essential services are tantamount to open warfare!

    When the text gave way to corroborating video, Maddy pushed the article aside and reached out to symbolically hug her stepmother’s sim:u†.

    Barbara blushed and hugged Maddy back. Thank you, Maddy. She held her stepdaughter’s shoulders and stared at her with smiling eyes. I agree that the timeliness of my article is a bit unsettling. Barbara didn’t say it was even more unsettling that her stepdaughter had been in the middle of an attack the day after her article appeared. The coincidence was too striking for a jaded journalist.

    You always say, timing is everything. What does Dad think?

    Oh, David’s just impossible. He might be great in bed, but he has no interest whatsoever in world affairs, or anything outside his work and social clubs for that matter. But I think that’s why we get along—

    Oversharing, Blabs, Maddy interrupted, sweeping her hand over her head. I really don’t need to know about my dad’s sexual prowess.

    Barbara laughed. Sorry, Mads. I sometimes forget who I’m talking to. You’re too darned mature for your own good. She shook her head. But listen, I wanted to let you know that I’ll be away in Seaville this weekend.

    Seaville? Maddy said, drawing out the word and looking longingly at her stepmom.

    Barbara nodded and smiled. "The Drift has a new assignment for me. Apparently, it’s top secret so they want to discuss it in person."

    Ooo, Maddy said. Sounds juicy. She pressed a finger to her lips. Let me guess. Scandal? Corruption? Murder? No, wait! Maddy held up her hands. I know, there’s a funnel cake thief at the fairground!

    Barbara laughed. If only it were true. I miss the fairground.

    It was Maddy’s turn to laugh. You hate the fairground.

    Only during that infernal festival! But I would tolerate even that next summer if it meant the fairground were open again. The fairground is one of those venues that makes Seaville, well, Seaville. Barbara paused. Why don’t you come with me, Mads? I could use the company. Then she added, sing-songing the words, I’m planning on seeing Peg McGrath tomorrow morning. She winked at Maddy—in it was an invitation for Maddy to see her long-distance boyfriend, Mike McGrath. I can swing by and pick you up at school. Your father has a meeting or he’d be coming, too. She wrapped air quotes around meeting, implying that it was a social event.

    Maddy shook her head. Thanks. You know I’d love to go, but I can’t blow off this project anymore. It’s due next week and I’ve already been given two extensions.

    Barbara frowned. That’s not like you to miss a deadline.

    Tell me about it! Maddy chuckled. Especially with a star reporter like you for a role model!

    Barbara looked sidelong at Maddy. I take that as a compliment.

    I meant it as one.

    "Is there anything I can do to help? I can put off my meeting with The Drift until tomorrow afternoon. Barbara studied her step daughter. I’m good at research."

    Thanks, but… Maddy’s voice trailed off.

    Do you feel OK? Barbara pressed her hand to Maddy’s forehead, a symbolic gesture since touch and temperature were not something an ordinary sim:u conveyed. Is there anything you want to talk about?

    Maddy hesitated. Of course she wanted to talk about something. She wanted to talk about everything! But what would she say to Blabs? What would she say to anyone? Would she really share how she’d been feeling lately? Frustrated. Confused. Plagued by fevered dreams that frightened her and resurrected memories of Rust†. It seemed like every time she fell asleep she saw the Captain and the Prophet. She found herself painting their portraits over and over to capture the images, believing there was some hidden message in all of it, some omen. She had begun to think that maybe, wherever the Nome† had taken them in the past, the only way they could converse with the present was through dreams. After all, dreams were anachronous, transporting people into places and times they didn’t belong. Maddy regularly had dreams of her mother and Blabs sitting on the beach together, talking like old friends; during those dreams, it seemed perfectly natural to Maddy that they should coexist even though her mother had disappeared long before Blabs arrived on the scene. Now the Captain and Prophet were appearing in Maddy’s subconscious, sometimes making themselves comfortable in her studio, sometimes arriving for dinner at her house, sometimes chasing each other, then turning on Maddy and chasing her. Other times, the Prophet is Maddy’s mother, the Captain her father, and Maddy is sick—dying—and they are caring for her, their grief palpable. Often, Maddy would wake up in a sweat, her heart pounding.

    Maddy began to wonder if there were more to dreams than just the garbled output of an overheated subconscious. Did they intersect the network of world lines that Captain Magigate had called the trajectory of people and objects through time? Could they reach back into the Cone of the Past†? Maybe the Captain and Prophet had chosen Maddy to help them, just as the Prophet had singled out Maddy to help her escape her island prison last summer. But it was absurd. And Maddy knew it—knew that others would think she was losing her mind. Maybe she was. Maybe she really hadn’t been cured. It scared her.

    And would she share with Blabs how lonely she felt sometimes, wondering about Mike, wondering if they would stay together, wondering if he wanted her as much as she wanted him? Yeah, there was a ton to talk about. But there were some things Maddy knew she could never share, at least, not with her stepmom no matter how well they were getting along.

    Thanks for the offer, Maddy said, but I’ll get it done. You know how it is. Sometimes your muse takes a vacation without telling you!

    Barbara sighed. "You really are too smart for your own good. She stepped back from Maddy. Well, good luck, darling. And be careful! She turned and walked away and, just before tagging† out, she called, Don’t worry, I’ll say hi to you know who for you!" She fluttered her fingers at Maddy, then vanished.

    You know who, Maddy muttered. She turned to her v.board†, a floor-to-ceiling vista† panel that covered one wall of her private art studio at school. When Maddy wasn’t working on her v.board, which was rare, the Liquiglas panel would convert to a clear pane that overlooked the park and the skyscrapers of Aerome’s city center. It was a majestic view, made even more so because Maddy was one of the lucky few to have a corner studio and thus a second window with a view of the river that sliced through the heart of Aerome and split it into two major districts known to the locals as the Southeast and Northwest Crescents. Maddy’s exclusive high school, City School of Fine Arts, still operated from its original, centuries-old building near the city’s center. While the interior had been upgraded to keep up with the times, the building itself, ideally situated between the park and river, had remained intact, which meant it was neither elliptical nor g*† supported like most modern buildings. But its clunky square rooms and baroque cornices had a special charm, and the fact that the building’s stone edifice rested on the ground made it feel at one with the earth.

    Maddy’s studio was small but cozy. She spent more time here than in her room at home or just about anywhere, so it had many of her creature comforts: a small but comfy sofa (where Maddy would sometimes crash overnight), changes of clothes, jewelry, stuffed animals, and of course all the tools of her trade.

    The v.board was Maddy’s digital palimpsest, a graphical journal of her work. In school, they called it an art scroll. Like her classmates, she used the enormous panel as her three-dimensional scratchpad. When her holographic scratchings coalesced into her vision of a final product, she would isolate it, save it, and compile it all later. Only when she was satisfied with the digital prototype would she turn to physical pigments to render it. Maddy could not imagine how painters in the past had been able to produce masterpieces working directly on canvas as they did; it was as if they never made mistakes!

    At times like this, when she felt abandoned by her muse, Maddy wondered why she’d ever wanted to pursue such a pathetic field of art when she could have studied any of the graphic arts. Graphic artists, especially holographic artists, were always in demand. Although Blabs had backed off lately, she’d been quick to point out to Maddy that there was no future in painting. Not unless you’re filthy rich or clinically insane or both!

    Maddy knew Blabs was right, but there was something permanent and reassuring in the spirits and minerals of the medium: their intoxicating aroma; their texture, soft and wet in the beginning, fixed and hard in the end; their hues, redolent of nature’s seasons. Real pigments spoke the tongue that all alloys of earthly elements spoke—the language of living star stuff. The hopeless romantic in Maddy liked to believe that they still held the magic of myth and allure of original fire. Of course, v.boards were made of star stuff, too, but the holos they projected, no matter how real, would never be alive, never more than simulations.

    Maddy knew that not everyone was as moved by classic art as she, but she also knew that those who were so moved shared her love of its material connection with nature.

    Even so, contemporary artists like herself, not just painters but sculptors and performance artists, relied on digital simulation and prototyping as a stepping stone to their final product. It didn’t matter if it was a painting, a song, a story, a statue, a play, a house, a stadium—whatever. Everything was holographically prototyped first. Of course, the real value lay in the final artifact, but Maddy’s teachers were more interested in reviewing—and grading—the process than the product. Maddy knew that her teachers wanted to see her art scroll even more than the resulting oils and acrylics.

    That was the problem. Her art scroll was a mess!

    The dreams had started at the end of summer. By then, Seaville harbored too many unsettling memories: the fairground had been closed by the Authorities because of the disastrous events surrounding the grand summer festival, La Caída; Knot Hall was under strict surveillance and off limits; and the Neo movement seemed even more pervasive in Seaville than the city. She and Mike had been unable to see the knights, who were living at Knot Hall now, or find out about the Captain. Seaville was not Seaville. Mike and his friends seemed to have adapted to the changes to their hometown, but Maddy, a summer resident, found them disturbing. Maybe that’s what had triggered the dreams.

    Whatever the reason, ever since the new school year had started, she’d been filling up her art scroll with portrait after portrait of the Captain and Prophet. None of these scratchings, however intricate, would satisfy her assignments. Even if they could, Maddy didn’t want to share her work with anyone. The images were too personal. In fact, with Captain Magigate still in the news as a fugitive sought by the Authorities, there was even the possibility that she would draw unwanted scrutiny if she revealed them. She’d had enough of the media to last a lifetime—no disrespect to Blabs.

    So, she’d requested extensions from her teachers, who naturally assumed Maddy was still having coping problems after her ordeal (as they put it). Maddy had been a media sensation since the summer for contracting the first case of Rust in generations. In fact, Maddy still found herself ostracized at school despite assurances from her physician, Dr. Longe, that she was no longer contagious.

    When Maddy started to skip her progress reviews this year, the school counselor, Ms. Hinderantz, stepped in and encouraged Maddy’s teachers to grant her extensions. But now, even the extensions had come and gone. Maddy’s teachers had begun to lose patience, believing that their star student had become too tentative and unwilling to express herself, which everyone knew was akin to death for an artist. Maddy’s Art of the Portait teacher, Mr. Stillwell, had been especially insistent. Yesterday, he told her that he wanted to see significant progress by next Friday, no excuses. That gave Maddy one week.

    Maddy folded her arms and scanned her art scroll. As usual, endless variations on the faces of the Captain and the Prophet, and copious combinations of concentric circles—rings within rings within rings, sometimes animated and spinning, sometimes still—covered her digital canvas. It was a mess, but orderly. And, as usual, a pattern seemed to be emerging through the jumble of images. But the pattern eluded her. With a look of disgust, Maddy swiped at the images, which sent the palimpsest scrolling.

    Faced with the prospect of re-creating a whole marking period’s worth of material, Maddy’s shoulders slumped. What a sorry state of affairs! It was Friday afternoon and even though her friends at school were probably going home or getting ready for the weekend (she had this vague notion that it might even be Halloween), Maddy knew she would be stuck here. She reached for her stool—the wooden antique variety of furniture that was not g* enabled—and pulled it up close until her face was no more than a foot from the v.board.

    Reflection, Maddy said.

    Yes Maddy, her Cymate† responded in a voice that emulated Mike’s. When she left Seaville this summer, Maddy had decided that if she couldn’t be with him, she could at least try to feel like she was. But lately, she’d considered changing her Cymate’s voice back to the Australian accent she had always favored. Not that she was dying to hear the racy hot intonations she associated with her favorite actors, but hearing Mike’s voice throughout the day made her feel worse, not better. It made his absence more profound.

    The v.board’s background switched from holographic canvas to an enormous mirror. Maddy examined herself. She sat up and slipped her hands under her faded Spring Street Revival T-shirt to cinch her waist. Her friend Lisa was right, she had lost weight lately, but she was by no means skin and bones. Maddy scooched back on the stool and pulled at the knees of her soft, tattered jeans so that the cuffs touched the fake laces of her orange high-tops. She pulled and fluffed the strands of blue that ran through her naturally blond curls like a dark artery. When she’d come home from school last week with that blue streak in her hair, Blabs raved about it but her dad just raised his eyebrows. She fingered the necklace Mike had given her last summer: a simple metal chain with Trinidad’s silver medallion. He’d told her to wear it always because he believed it held some sort of mystical power bestowed by Trinidad, one of the Knights of Las Arcas and a santera. Maddy wasn’t sure the medallion produced any special charms, but since it came from Mike it carried his magic, which was enough.

    Maddy tried on a few different smiles. She leaned in closer and tapped her front tooth—the twisted one that slightly overlapped its twin. She ran her fingers over her cheeks. She could still feel the small patches of new skin, soft as a baby’s. Although she had rejected, at least for now, having the rest of the Rust pockmarks polka-dotting her body repaired using micrograft† surgery, she had elected to have the skin on her face restored. Dr. Longe, the doctor and scientist at Biggs Industries who had treated Maddy under emergency conditions when Maddy was still being held captive by the Prophet, had continued to oversee Maddy’s recovery. She advised Maddy that the remnants of Rust’s scarring rash were benign and posed no health threat, but that they could be repaired easily and painlessly. Dr. Longe, who became the acting CEO of Biggs Industries when Louisa Biggs disappeared last summer (the circumstances of Louisa’s disappearance remained a mystery known only to a handful of people, including Maddy), had referred her youngest patient to a phalanx of specialists to address the myriad health issues that Maddy might experience for the rest of her life. But the reality was that Maddy’s residual symptoms hadn’t turned out to be as bad as Dr. Longe had predicted.

    By now, the most visible evidence of the disease were the pocks and scars left by the rash. On her face, it had looked like a bad case of acne, which was worse than any symptom Maddy could imagine. She could live with the scars on her torso and limbs; they made her seem tougher, like Mad Mona, one of the Knights of Las Arcas (a teenage girl no older than Maddy when she died during the fall of Aerome more than fifty years ago). But what boy would kiss a face full of pockmarks? Except Mike, who had been there with Maddy when she first contracted Rust. After months of dithering, Maddy had finally decided to do something about her complexion. Her parents seemed relieved.

    Dr. Longe said it would take a few weeks before the new growth looked and felt the same as the surrounding skin. Already, it was hard to tell the difference, but she could feel it as she ran her fingers across her cheeks and forehead, and down her neck.

    Maddy.

    Maddy jumped at the sound of her Cymate’s voice, which emanated through the v.board’s sound system. You scared me, Cy.

    Sorry, Maddy, but Mike just tagged you.

    Maddy felt her heart race. She checked herself in the v.board mirror then quickly changed it to a window. Hi, Michael! she said.

    "Hi, Madeleine," Mike said, drawing out her name as his sim:u appeared in Maddy’s studio. He laughed then leaned over to give her a hug. Maddy quickly kissed his sim:u’s lips.

    I could swear I felt that, Mike said. He laughed again.

    I wish, Maddy murmured. She smiled and pressed her finger to her own lips as if to check for evidence of a real kiss.

    Mike, who was standing on his g*board, spun in a 360. Hey, you comin’ down tonight with Blabs?

    How did you know Blabs is—

    My mom told me, Mike said, spinning again.

    A hand reached in toward Mike to punch him on the shoulder. Come on, dude, we gotta go.

    Is that Sammy? Maddy asked.

    Yeah. We’re going trick-or-treating. Well, kind of. Mike grinned and winked as he pointed to a six-pack of beer in Sammy’s hand.

    Tell him I said hi.

    Mike turned in the direction of the hand. Maddy says hi.

    Maddy could hear a chorus of hellos in the background, voices Maddy knew from her summers in Seaville.

    When are you getting here? Mike asked.

    Maddy hesitated. I can’t come.

    Mike stopped spinning. Why not?

    I’m—I’m so far behind in school.

    Mike looked stunned. But you have to, Mads. It’s Halloween. And I haven’t seen you in—

    I know, Maddy said, interrupting. And I really want to see you, too. But if I don’t get my art scroll done, Stillwell will fail me.

    Well, what’ve you been doing? It seems like every time we talk you’re in your studio. You practically live there! Mike’s exasperation was palpable.

    Maddy turned red. I—I… It’s hard to explain, she stammered.

    What do you mean it’s hard to explain? Mike’s disappointment transformed to a look of suspicion and frustration. Why?

    Words escaped Maddy, along with a tear that welled unexpectedly and trickled down her cheek.

    I don’t get it, Mads. It always seems like you’re hiding things from me! Is that what artists do? Or is it just artsy-fartsy high schoolers. Mike scowled and folded his arms. He’d always been sensitive to the fact that Maddy was older and a year ahead in school, not to mention that she was very talented and he was not. I was really looking forward to seeing you. I thought…doesn’t matter.

    Maddy felt her stomach turn. You thought what? She tried to wipe away the tear nonchalantly.

    Mike flapped his hands. "Look, Mads, what does it matter if you blow off your work for one night? You could take a g*train home tomorrow and work the rest of the

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