by Alex Shakar
Fred followed in silence, too confused to know how to feel. Probably Sam was just excited to see the project up and running, but some part of Fred suspected that his own presence was fueling this boisterousness of Sam’s, that Sam was jumping at the chance to show him how much he’d thrived in his and George’s absence. Sam seemed so carried away he couldn’t even help rubbing it in, treating Fred not just like a subordinate but like some variety of imbecile, not even consulting him about the steps being taken on his behalf. Maybe this was Sam’s revenge for the all the years of having to follow Fred’s and George’s lead. Yet, on the other hand, Sam really seemed to be doing everything in his power to bring him back aboard, for which Fred knew he should be grateful.
“What’s this about shoplifting, then?”
Up on the next landing, two other firefighter avatars appeared through the smoke. The voice, low and clipped, belonged to an Armation attorney they’d dealt with in the past, Fred was pretty sure. In the haze and under their helmets, it wasn’t easy to tell the two avatars apart. The one on the left had a rounder face. Fred thought it might be Gibbon.
“Hello,” Sam said, bridging the awkward silence. “So you’ve noticed you can hear people from within a certain range. That’s the proximity hearing code. Works well, doesn’t it?”
Other avatars emerged from the smoke. A whole group, mainly of firefighters, but at least one cop’s hat in the bunch, and an EMS worker’s outfit, atop which Fred dimly recognized Len’s patchy mustache.
The round-faced one ignored Sam. “What the hell kind of head is that you’ve got on?” Indeed, that subterranean gravel-slide of a voice was unmistakably Gibbon’s.
“Is it a joke?” asked another firefighter Fred didn’t recognize.
“I don’t know if this is the proper situation for fooling around,” the attorney said.
“We didn’t have time to update him,” Sam jumped in. “How did you guys get up there ahead of us?”
“I just zapped us in,” Len said. “I thought it would be easier to find the action that way.”
“Have you seen any fire up there?” Sam asked. “I think it’s pretty impressive, close up.”
“None,” said a cop—was it Lipton? “Just a lot of walking about.”
“Have you tried—”
“Hold on,” Gibbon said. There was a rustling as his hand covered the mic, his voice more distant, though his avatar’s mouth moved as before, eyes blinking every few words. “What’s up, Charlotte, is it about our bid? I’ll call back in five.” Then into the mic again: “Looks like our little playtime here is almost over.”
“You’re not going to—” Sam adjusted his tone. “If possible, you might want to stick around for the collapse phase. It’s fairly …”
“Impressive, right, well.” Gibbon chuckled. “It really better be, for all the blood and treasure you kids are gobbling up.”
“Who are you two, anyway?” another firefighter—Erskine, it sounded like—asked.
“Oh,” Sam said, sounding a little hurt, “I thought you recognized us. I’m Sam Brounian.”
“Hard to tell in the dark. We’re finding issues here, Sam. The walkietalkies are buggy. They keep cutting out.”
“That’s not a bug. We’re simulating an actual reliability issue with the repeaters in skyscrapers,” Sam said, oozing pride.
The men muttered approvingly.
“Well,” Erskine said, “the platform appears stable.”
“Very stable,” Sam chirped.
“Will it be ready in time?”
“No question. Absolutely.”
“Land us this client,” Lipton said, “and we’ll all be happy campers.”
“And who’s Cartoon Head?” Gibbon said, walking up in Fred’s face.
“It must be George,” Erskine said warily.
“Fred,” said Fred.
“Right. Yes. I’m sorry for your loss. You too, Sam, though I’m sure I’ve already told you.”
“Loss?” Gibbon asked.
“Remember?” whispered Lipton. “The twins.”
Gibbon adjusted his tone. “Very sorry, boys.”
“He’s not dead,” Fred said.
“He’s not?” said Lipton.
It was surprisingly possible for an awkward silence to pass among virtual constructs.
“Hey, that’s a relief,” said the attorney.
“Still very ill, though, yes?” said Erskine.
“Yes. Yes he is,” said Sam.
“We sure hope he pulls through,” said the unidentified firefighter.
“So I hear you’re coming in to inquire about working for us again,” Erskine said.
Coming in to inquire …
For all his preparation, Fred couldn’t think of a dignified way to reply to this. “Well … Sam … the possibility came up of …”
The group waited on the steps above, pulsing as one with simulated breath.
“I’d definitely be open to … discussing it …”
They let his attempt at dignity fade off into silence.
Hit the cheat codes, Freddo, Inner George whispered. Give yourself an Uzi.
“Who wouldn’t want back into this gig, right?” said Lipton, with a snicker.
“Play videogames all day, on our dime. Can’t beat that, can you?” said Gibbon.
“My grandkids’ dream job,” someone else chimed in.
“Give our best to your brother,” said the attorney.
“Carry on, ladies,” said Gibbon.
The group filed past, making their way down the stairs. Fred and Sam faced each other, pulsing.
“Could’ve gone worse,” Sam attempted.
“You think so?” Fred said, fuming and stupefied.
“Sounds like they’ll take you back.” Sam began climbing the stairs again, his shoulders ticking right and left.
“Sounds like he wants me to come in and beg for it.”
“Well, whose fault is that? You shouldn’t have called him a murderer.” “You’re taking his side? You’re taking that m—motherfucker’s side?” “Proximity,” Sam hissed. “Forget proximity. I can hear you across the office.”
By the fortieth floor, even the emergency lighting was gone. They activated their flashlights and proceeded through the murk.
“Do you want back in or not?” Sam said. “You need to decide.”
It was all Fred could do to keep from taking the monitor with both hands and ramming it with his head.
“You’ve got to remember who’s boss,” Sam said. “This is a real business, now. There’s a hierarchy.”
From somewhere, it was impossible to tell how far away, came a structural groan, followed by a boom and a clatter. Sam shone his light on the landing door—the number 50, stenciled in white.
“We’re here,” he whispered.
All was quiet, the radio chatter having faded entirely. Sam tried the door. A sampled grunt and the word JAMMED appeared. A crowbar materialized in his hand, then waggled, and the door swung open. A thick cloud of smoke poured out. Fred swore he could not only smell but taste it, acrid, caking his tongue. When their health meters began to flash and drop, they donned their masks; even so, Fred couldn’t stop clearing his throat. On the screen, meanwhile, the smoke dispersed enough for their lights to penetrate into the corridor beyond. Dozens of bodies were slumped on the floor.
Fred and Sam made their way in. DECEASED, DECEASED, DECEASED flashed above the NPCs, men and women in business attire: ties and skirts, polished black shoes pointing every direction. Their skin was pale, not burnt, their mouths open, their eyes closed or bulged wide. Despite his queasiness, this time Fred couldn’t stop examining the details—the fattish face of one of them, the pair of oval-lensed glasses on a second, the wristwatch on a third.
“Smoke inhalation code’s working,” Sam whispered.
“Is there no one alive here?” Along with the rising nausea, Fred felt a wave of that nightmarish paralysis. “Can we not save one fucking person in this exercis
e?”
“It’s all random, Fred. Who lives, who dies.” Sam’s mouth failed to move with the words. The number of calculations must have been taxing the server.
Something appeared in the flamelight through a doorway at the corridor’s end. Fred saw legs moving as it turned and fled.
“Someone’s there,” he whispered.
“Hey, slow down,” Sam called after him.
Fred was running, chasing it down the corridor. Hard to tell in the flickering light, but it didn’t look quite human. The shape wasn’t right.
“Fred, wait up, where are you?” Sam shouted.
Fred emerged into the reception area of a suite of darkened offices. One whole wall was ablaze, flames licking across the ceiling. He turned, and there it was. Humanoid, hairless, with wings, a demonic silhouette, something moving like a giant talon. Again, it turned and fled.
“What the fuck is that?” Fred said.
“What the fuck is what?” Sam said, behind him now. “Where are you going? It’s too dangerous here.”
Fred went after whatever it was. From across the office, he heard Jesse shout that his flashlight had gone offline.
“Mine too,” Sam called out.
Fred’s own seemed to be working. He was in another room now, darker still. He swept his light around. And there it was.
George. His head bald and pale. A forked oxygen tube dangling from his nose. Robed in a floral-print hospital gown. Looming over his shoulders and behind his skinny arms, a pair of giant white wings. And in his right hand, a long-poled, single-bladed axe, chopping rhythmically at the smoky air.
“Fred, come on.” Sam stepped around into the flashlight’s beam, standing right next to that chemotherapy angel. “We’ll get trapped in here.”
“Jesus. Are you not seeing that?”
“Seeing what?”
All at once, the whole room was aflame. The terrain had shifted, somehow. Fred didn’t realize until he looked up that a section of the ceiling had collapsed.
“We gotta get out of here!” Sam said, running off.
Fred’s health meter was dropping again. The George angel turned, displaying, between the tied flaps of the gown, its pallid buttocks, its wing joints, and strapped between them, a small, steel oxygen tank. The angel ran off through a flaming doorway, and Fred followed, down another hall. Ahead, the angel passed straight through a closed door. Fred clicked on the door to open it, but strangely, it shattered, the pieces whirling into a single point and disappearing. Fred walked through the doorway into a small office. It was about the size of Mira’s in the NYU building, and just about as sparsely furnished—two chairs, a desk, a computer atop the desk. The George angel was standing there, still moving the axe up and down, and all around him, interactable objects—the monitor, then the desk, then the chair—shattered and spun to nothing.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Fred shouted, feeling dizzy and sick. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Fred?” Sam’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie channel. Fred realized he’d been Control-Shifting. “Fred, who are you talking to?”
Wondering about what had happened with the door, Fred tried clicking on a chair and it too was obliterated. The George angel turned to face him again. Through the window behind where the avatar stood, to the far side of what had been the desk, could be seen the undeveloped, grayscale, 2-D metropolitan-area map, stretching to the unobstructed, slightly curved horizon to meet the cyan sky. The angel’s moving axe smashed the window, which shattered with a crisp, digitally sampled sound and whirled away. Then the avatar turned back and clambered over the ledge, stepping right out into the air. It didn’t fall, just kept walking away, wings unused, axe still waving. Going up to the window, pressing his mouse wheel and angling straight down, Fred could see tiny, three-pixel avatars flowing out onto 34th Street, around fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances, the popping colors all but gone, whitened now with simulated ash. More groans and collapses sounded in the distance, and everyone in the office was shouting. Masks, lights, water hoses, fire extinguishers—from what they were saying, nothing seemed to be working. Fred’s own mask still functioned, but the heat was roasting him. Smoke poured in around the door frame and seeped in through the walls. He’d be one of those sickening Yule logs before long. His throat clenched, his stomach rose. Space itself tightened around him to the point of nonexistence, on screen and off, flattening into the same two-dimensional plane. He blinked, looked away from the screen. The bulletin board. His paper-strewn desk. The edge of the blue supercomputer. All of it seemed suffocatingly close—painted on his eyes.
George was receding, ignoring gravity, ambling off into the sky.
Fred climbed out after him. Straightaway, Fred’s walking avatar switched to a falling version, fully automated, arms and legs flailing uncontrollably, facing not away from the screen but up toward it—Cartoon Fred staring up through the screen at Fred with those big, goofy eyes, as if in accusation, its mouth, like those of the NPCs now, a little o. Behind, the ground approached, at first with otherworldly slowness. Fred could hear radio chatter on the headset again.
“—thar she—”
“—MAYDAY MAYDAY—”
“—out, it’s all coming down—”
“—who’s that falling—”
The acceleration physics compounded and the street leapt up all at once. Fred cringed, unable to look away.
Then, twenty feet up, everything stopped. The screen froze. The headset chatter locked into an endless stuttering noise.
Groans and curses went up around the office, as Fred floated above Little Fred, those oversized eyes nearly closed mid-blink, those arms and legs splayed as though stretched out on a soft bed of air, that little o mouth looking almost peaceful, as if at any moment it would start emitting a stream of cartoon zs.
Before Fred quite knew what was happening, he was out the office door, down the stairs, into the street, heading north, trying to outpace his trembling limbs. What was the meaning of that chemotherapy angel—and why had he himself been the only one to see it? Like a ghost, he thought. That’s how it had felt, confusion and fright and longing and even joy all at once, and of course anger, too, as he’d known it had to be just more harassment from whoever was bent on persecuting him. Closing his eyes, the sunlight red on his lids, he could still see that bald, ashen head, those too-thin limbs poking out of the gown, those incongruously majestic wings.
And that axe, moving up and down continuously.
Hacking?
It seemed whoever was behind this cyberhaunting had been selectively stopping objects, more and more of them. Urth was a MOO, a multiuser object-oriented system. The objects, much as they arguably did in the real world, programmed the avatars, defined just about all that they could do. Stop the objects, and you more or less stop the game. No way to destroy or possess or use or dominate anything other than what one already was, a patterned light and nothing more.
So who was responsible? And what did they want from him?
Fred hiked the two miles from Tribeca to the hospital, the sky so cloudless, the breezes so gentle that he was almost calm by the time he reached George’s room. But seeing George there as inanimate as ever brought both the longing and the outrage back anew. He doublechecked George’s charts, cleaned the areas around George’s tracheostomy and the gastric-tube hole below his solar plexus, dabbed ointment on the reddened skin around where the Hickman catheter was dug through the flesh of his chest, talking the episode through with him. Before long, though, with no answers forthcoming from either of them, Fred fell silent, his questions growing larger and more numerous, until he was trying to fit together pieces that, it seemed to him, couldn’t even belong to the same puzzle: that chemotherapy angel stepping out fifty flights over 34th Street; their mother’s vision of George up in the sky over the city; Fred’s own out-of-body experiences; that game of spiritual evolution George had said in the coffee shop that he’d wanted to make. For a long time, Fred pointedly ha
dn’t brought up the subject. Not until two years later, hoping to make amends, did he ask George if he’d been developing the idea at all. It was the day they were waiting for George’s all-important CT scan, as they sat in the radiology waiting room, joggling their sneakers.
“Oh, that,” George had said, picking grit from his eye. “That was nothing. I practically made it up on the spot. Pulled it straight out of my ass.”
George’s tone was broad, overloud. Fred laughed with relief, smug over not having fallen for his brother’s creative genius act that day. It was only when George didn’t join in that it struck Fred that his brother might not have been telling him the truth.
Later, they’d sat in the cafeteria, watching white-garbed pilgrims circumambulate the Kaaba on cable news.
“Figures they’d go counterclockwise,” Fred said. The first thing either of them had uttered since getting the results.
George went a little stiff, bridling at Fred’s remark, or at the mere sound of his voice, or simply at being recalled to the world.
“Guess I’ll take off,” George said, his tone light. He got up, steadied himself, and walked away. Fred trailed him through the lobby and out the front door. It was nighttime. A blizzard’s worth of snow was falling, but there was no wind, and the air under the buttery streetlights seemed almost balmy. George leaned back his bald head, bluish veins visible in his too-thin neck, and looked straight up through the descending flakes. “It would be a gorgeous night,” he said with a chuckle.
Fred couldn’t hold it in anymore. The words came out too fast and all at once. How he wished he’d never doubted George, never fucked up George’s company like he had, wished he’d just followed George’s crazy lead wherever it led. George held out his hands in warning, but Fred couldn’t stop. Apologizing. Pleading with him not to be angry anymore. George’s eyes went strange and feral, like he hadn’t even been listening to the death sentence upstairs, and was just now reading it on Fred’s face.