by Eric Smith
“Yes, I was referred by—” he starts.
I cut him off. “You’re aware that the actual doctor is my mother, right?”
“Aaron,” my dad says, a subtle warning tone in his voice.
I ignore it, continuing to address the patient. “And did you also know that the man you’re currently berating is her husband?” I glance back at my dad, who looks away, fixing his gaze on the computer screen. “My father?”
The man’s eyes narrow, his mouth a thin line, like he’s trying to think of something not awful to say, and it’s breaking his fragile racist mind.
“Dad,” I say gently, speaking to my father while still glaring at the man. The patient looks away, exhaling heavily. He knows he fucked up. “Go ahead. I’ll take care of all this.”
Dad gets up from his seat, groaning a little. I swear I hear his back crack as he stands upright, and his hand pats my shoulder. It’s moments like this that make me think maybe I should give up the gaming thing, become a doctor, just so I can get him out of here.
“See you at dinner,” he says, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze without looking at me or the man in the office. He makes his way through the door that leads into our house, and I sit down at his desk, hitting a couple keys on the keyboard to get the ridiculously old computer going. It makes no sense that we have this thing, a relic of who knows when, but Mom and Dad are both stubborn. We’ll replace it when it breaks, they say.
The screen lights up, and I’m taken aback by what’s on it. It looks like some kind of...video game? There’s a wizard-looking person on the left-hand side, and in the center the avatar is in some kind of a tavern. But the scene is shown from above, letting you see through the walls, in this old-school isometric view.
I shake the mouse, but nothing happens. I tap on the keyboard. Again nothing. Whatever it is, it’s frozen.
“Just a minute,” I mumble to the patient, who is practically burning holes in me with his stare.
There are some names in light blue and others in yellow above the different frozen characters. But the one that catches my eye is the one in the center, surrounded by a bunch of other avatars.
Souschef the Bold.
Sous-chef? I squint at the name and suppress the urge to laugh. Totally sounds like something Dad would make up for himself if he was a gamer. I give the mouse a final shake before discreetly pulling my phone out and taking a picture of the screen, making a mental note to do some digging later.
Turning the computer off and on again, I clear my throat and say, “Sorry, looks like our system froze up. It’ll take just a minute to reload.”
The man grunts in response. While we both wait, I adjust a photo of my parents on the desk—young, pre-me, Dad still looking older, Mom looking much the same as she does now, blessed with genes that make her seem eternally ageless.
The computer finally finishes booting up, and I exhale with relief. “Now,” I say, “how can I help you?”
As the man rattles off his requests, I can’t help but let my mind wander. The money might not be here to take me where I want to go. Away from this office. Away from people like this man standing in front of me. No. Not yet. But there’s a game upstairs in my room that certainly can.
5
DIVYA
(RE)BEKAH: You ready yet? We could do some streaming today.
ME: Not even a little. My new ship is as basic as a pumpkin spice latte.
(RE)BEKAH: How dare you. You know I’m counting down the days until fall.
ME:
ME: How’s your new ship looking? Pick a bookish name yet?
(RE)BEKAH: Eh, getting there.
(RE)BEKAH: And yes, the Savage Song.
ME: Awesome.
(RE)BEKAH: Well, let me know when you’re done leveling and resource grinding. Or if you go exploring.
ME: I’m not terribly eager to see myself get blown up live again.
(RE)BEKAH: Noted. Can’t hide forever though, D1V. Your fans are waiting.
My new ship is devastating.
Not in the way that I want it to be, either.
No, a devastating ship in Reclaim the Sun would be as sleek and beautiful as it is fast and deadly, but right now, my ship is just emotionally devastating. Even after tons of grinding the other night—running quest missions, blowing up asteroids, clearing out space trash around my pilot’s assigned home planet—I’ve barely got enough credits for a new paint job. Forget improved blasters or faster warp travel or advanced sensors or anything even remotely helpful.
It would have been easier to level up and get more supplies if I hadn’t spent the past few days answering emails galore regarding what happened in the attack during my last stream. Feels like every damn video game outlet has reached out, a majority asking the same questions again and again:
Why do you think it happened?
Is it because you’re a female in the gaming community?
Does it have to do with race?
Are you going to give up?
What are your plans for your appearance at New York GamesCon—
I curse to myself, resisting the urge to kick my ship as it sits in my space dock. Not that I actually could kick it, anyway. A large window maws open at the end of the dock, with impossibly infinite space waiting outside. So much to explore, and so much work to do.
I thought video games were supposed to be fun.
I glance at my ship again, scowl, then load up my on-screen menu. The option to name my vessel appears, and blank spaces meant for letters dot their way across the side of the ship, waiting for me to put something in there.
Damn it, the Golden Titan was such a good name. Such a good ship. Renaming it the Golden Titan II or something seems ridiculous. 2 Golden 2 Titan? Golden Titan: The Titaning?
The name of the clan that attacked me springs to mind. The Vox Populi. Popular opinion, voice of the people, my ass. And Latin? Assholes probably played through Assassin’s Creed one too many times and think they know their stuff.
And if they were real gamers, they’d know about the Vox Populi in BioShock Infinite. Underground rebels who fight for equality and social justice. Daisy Fitzroy would be furious.
I can play the Latin phrase game, too, trolls.
I type a name out, the letters appearing on the screen.
What would you like to name your ship?
CEDERE NESCIO
Are you sure you want to name this ship
CEDERE NESCIO?
Once a name is chosen it cannot be changed.
[YES] [NO]
I practically smash the yes button.
I know not how to yield.
Damn right.
The Latin words sear themselves onto the side of my vessel, the game rendering it in black against the golden hue of the ship. I turn away from my computer screen to grab my VR headset, since I’m going into the game solo. I slide it on, securing the straps, the soft foam plastic along the edges fitting snuggly against my face, cushioned like a pillow. I blink a few times to adjust to the lens as the world of Reclaim the Sun renders in, and the sounds fill the stereo speakers inside. I fumble a little for my controllers, two sticks with triggers for my fingers and directional pads on top for my thumbs, then settle back into my chair.
I look around the hangar, at all the details. The paint, the rivets in the steel, the expanse of space waiting for me. This is the way Reclaim the Sun was meant to be played. It’s like no other game out there, and so easy to get lost in.
I open the cockpit and climb aboard. The control panel inside the ship is plain, nothing as fancy as the one I used to have. The digital displays are gone, replaced with dials and gauges, as though steampunk exists in space or something. It’s disappointing to look at, even more so in VR, the letdown of it all right up close in my face. But I get it. The game is trying to make it look as bas
ic as possible, which I get. It’s how the studio makes money, encouraging gamers to spend money on fancy upgrades. Or, in my case, time.
I reach out and press a button, and the engine fires up, a soft hum emanating from it as the ship hovers in the air and glides out of the space dock into the black sky and shimmering stars. Flying normally delights me, especially in VR, but the sound of the chassis rattling and the ponderous pace of the ship utterly spoils the experience.
It’s so slow. So very slow.
I turn around and watch my assigned home planet and the space dock gradually disappearing behind me. With my old ship, both would have been long gone by now. A distant thought. Barely a glimmer in the background. I grit my teeth and clench my fists, feeling my real hands tighten on the VR controller sticks as my virtual fingers grip the flight controls in the game in front of me. At least with the headset on it feels like I can physically let loose my frustrations in real time, as opposed to just angrily shaking my mouse.
I lean back in my chair and look at my watch. The VR headset registers my real-world smartwatch, thanks to some neat features in the game and a couple of plug-ins courtesy of Samsung. I tap the digital version of the watch, and the tiny screen grows larger, taking up half my vision. A handful of emails have come in since I turned on the computer, and my social feed is still abuzz with everything that went down in the last stream. Blogs and media outlets keep linking to articles about what happened, too, all being oh-so kind as to include my name in the links and tweets.
Great. Now more people can find me.
For every like, six dozen awesome fans commenting with their support, there’s some douchebag hanging out with no profile photo and a gusher of racist, sexist bullshit at the ready. At least it’s just my gamertag and my social media handles out there, and not my real name. I’ve been very careful about that. Deliveries of any sponsored material get shipped to the local library or to Rebekah’s dorm, and are always addressed to D1V, not the real-life Divya Sharma.
Something beeps, drawing my attention back to the game. With a wave of my hand, I swipe away the digital display from my smartwatch and scan the control panel before me. The sonar is picking up a little something, off to the left of where my ship is aimlessly traveling. My heart flutters excitedly, and I shift course slightly, straining to make out more details.
There, in the distance—a discolored star among all the white spots in the dark.
A planet.
I lean forward in my chair, as though that will somehow make the ship go faster, and watch with anticipation as the off-color speck slowly grows bigger and bigger, shifting from a pale reddish hue in the distance to a beaming, burning orange as it gets closer. If I was in my old ship, I would have been there by now, and the tediousness of traveling at this crawl is killing me. For a moment, I’m ready to rage-quit the game, thinking that it targeted a star and confused it for a planet for some reason. But then the planet finally registers, and a light orange display appears on the windshield of my cockpit.
CLASS ONE PLANET [ESTIMATED]
Status: Uncharted, Undiscovered
Detectable Resources: Ore
Life Support Capability: Positive
Would you like to claim and name this planet?
[YES] [NO]
I drop my head into my hands and groan. A Class One. Hoo-freaking-ray. I’d probably find just enough ore to upgrade my ship a smidge, or maybe get some better armor or a new blaster. But likely not much else.
Here’s the problem with Reclaim the Sun. While upgrading ships and spaceports and weapons is all technically free, from the paint jobs to the boosters, it costs a hell of a lot of in-game currency and experience points. Takes an eternity to upgrade anything. Mine an entire planet? Cool, now you can upgrade your gun to the next level. Oh wow, you harvested all the wood on a continent? Neat, here’s a jacket for your character that does absolutely nothing. Shit like that.
It’s probably the single biggest criticism that reviewers have been hitting the game with. Sure, you can buy in-game currency with real-world currency and pay to get things upgraded. But where’s the fun in that? Also, some of us have bills to pay, and I’m not about to drop fifty dollars on a thousand space bucks or whatever.
And for me, all this extra work I now have to do kinda ruins the fun, no matter how much it adds to the so-called story our streamers get to experience. The “narrative,” as Rebekah likes to say. Girl gets taken out by a bunch of online trolls and struggles and wrestles her way back to the top, to seek out justice and revenge.
Whatever you say, Rebekah. I’m more interested in seeking out some snacks, and leveling up just enough to get back in the game properly, so I can keep the sponsors interested. Because this? Level grinding and trying to climb back out? This is not super interesting. It’s downright boring. Especially since I’ve already done it once.
I lift my head and survey the prompt again.
Would you like to claim and name this planet?
[YES] [NO]
I reach out and press the glowing Yes on the display in front of me. Immediately, a red light begins flashing, illuminating my cockpit, alarms sounding loudly. I wince and instinctively turn down the volume, but my eyes widen when a new message appears on the display.
Someone is challenging your claim.
Will you contest it?
[YES] [NO]
10...9...8...
“What the...?” I say to myself. I’ve never seen this before in Reclaim the Sun—I didn’t even know such a thing was possible in the game. I scramble to start recording whatever it is—Rebekah will definitely kill me if I don’t. I want to text her, tell her to turn the stream on or at least check out what’s happening, but I’m pretty sure she’s in class, and that countdown timer isn’t leaving me with many options. Besides, it’s not like a lot of people are standing by to potentially tune in. I haven’t announced myself or anything. And even if they are, I’m not about to let some trolls come in and ruin this for me.
As my little ship rockets toward the orange planet, I spot another ship coasting a few feet in front of me and off to the side, its colors simple and plain, a silver chassis with no name. Probably a newbie, just getting their feet wet. Then again, I shouldn’t make assumptions. From the outside, I probably look like a newb myself.
I debate breaking off and letting them have the planet, because if they are a newb, they could probably use the resources—and if they’re a troll, I am in zero condition to battle someone—but I’m just too damn curious about this contested-claim business. I wonder if anyone else has arrived at a planet at the same time yet. With all the trillions of planets in the virtual galaxy, it feels impossible that this is even happening, but it also seems unlikely that I’m the first one to discover this feature.
The sky erupts with a loud boom when my ship breaks through the unnamed planet’s atmosphere, the other ship right nearby. As the game guides me down toward the surface, the barren landscape comes into focus through the clouds, with long stretches of orange and yellow sand coasting out far and wide, and small dirty beige mountains popping up along the horizon. I catch a few specks of green with what looks like a bit of blue farther out when my ship’s landing gear starts to lower, the body of my vessel rumbling as the entire thing slows down and nestles onto the ground with a satisfying crunch.
I note that the air is breathable outside, and the cockpit opens with a hiss. A young man steps out of the other ship, and I scramble to do the same, small gusts of wind and dust blowing in my face.
Sand and dirt dance around my visor as I walk swiftly toward him. At first, he seems fixated on something in the distance, but then he looks up and starts spinning about.
“What...what are you doing?” I ask, talking into my headset. I reach down and pull out my blaster, my finger on the trigger.
“Oh!” he exclaims, no longer spinning around. “Damn it.” I he
ar some scuffling, the sharp clap of something falling against a hard surface, then someone giggling and...the sounds of arguing?
He abruptly takes off running toward his ship, and I stare after him, mouth agape. Is he abandoning the challenge for the planet? But no, he keeps running, his body pressing against the side of his ship, legs moving but not going anywhere. The effect is hilarious, and I wonder if his computer is glitching out. Then he stops, turns, and looks at me. He takes out a blaster, his movements slow and awkward. He’s got to be playing with a keyboard and mouse.
“Sorry. My little sister jumped on my lap,” he explains, his gun aimed at me.
I smile and level my blaster in his direction as well. “Any idea how this works?” I ask, taking a step forward.
“Not a clue,” he says cautiously. “I don’t suppose I could just let you have this planet, and maybe you’d consider not exploding me and my ride?”
“Perhaps,” I venture, but I’m staying ready to fire, just in case he tries anything.
“Or we could split some resources?” I can almost hear the shrug in his voice. “Look, I’m just here to have fun. I’m not really a player versus player kinda guy.”
“Yeah, same. Definitely not here for PvP,” I agree, though that’s far from the truth. I want whatever is on this planet. I want to level up—no, I need to level up. I need to get my stream back and running, and I need my player ready to run defense against those assholes, should they come back. And if I’m not streaming, if I’m not engaging with my audience...there are no sponsors. There’s no money. And right now, all anyone wants to see is Reclaim the Sun, not play-throughs of Halo or Call of Duty or anything.
And for that, I’m still thinking about shooting him.
He puts away his blaster and raises his arms in surrender. “So...are you going to shoot me, then?” he asks.
I put the gun away.
“Awesome. I’m Aaron.”
“Hi,” I say.
We stand there, studying each other. He looks like a lot of the other people I’ve seen up close in the game, save for the fact that he’s chosen to make his player’s skin brown. He looks a bit like a male version of my player, actually, especially with his dark black hair, but his eyes are a light brown instead of green. There’s a thick scar running down his face, from his forehead, across his eye, and down onto his cheek, and I wonder for a moment if he looks the same way in person and what might have happened to him.