by Jason Segel
I pick myself up and start weaving around cars, making my way toward the road.
“Hey, Simon!” It’s Busara. She must have run after us. I keep walking. I don’t respond. I’m too furious to be around anyone right now.
—
The walk home must have been around three miles, and the weather was unseasonably warm. I remember nothing about the journey. I couldn’t even tell you which route I took. My shirt is soaked through with sweat when I reach the driveway and see my parents’ cars are both gone. I walk through the door and a woman dusting the entryway yelps.
“Are my mother and father here?” I ask. She stands with her back against the wall and watches me like I’m a beast that’s escaped from the zoo.
“They’re still in London,” she tells me. My mother must have caught the red-eye after all.
I head straight for my room, disrobing as I go. I turn on the water in the walk-in shower and take a seat on the ledge. I bow my head, letting the streams of water beat down on my skull.
What am I going to do now? I sit back, banging my head against the tiles. I’m such a fucking idiot. I swore I’d take care of Kat, and then I gave them a reason to separate us. Now she’s gone.
Kat spoke. I know she did. I wasn’t hallucinating. But even if I had been—why the hell wouldn’t they just take the disk off?
I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. There’s a knock at my bedroom door. I open it to find a young woman in a blue maid’s smock.
“This just arrived for you,” she says, averting her eyes and holding out a box covered in brown paper. My name is written on the front, but there’s no return address.
“Who’s it from?”
“I don’t know. It came by messenger.” She backs away from my door as if I’ll attack her if she dares to turn around. I guess I don’t blame her. I probably look pretty crazy right now.
I rip the wrapping off the package as I make my way to my desk. Underneath the paper is a shoe box with a picture of a pair of sneakers on the side. They’re the same unusual brand and color that Milo Yolkin’s known to wear. MEN’S SIZE 9 is written beneath the image. I open the box, but there aren’t shoes inside. Instead I find a visor and a round, flesh-colored disk.
There’s only one person who could have sent the gear. Did Martin feel guilty about watching me get a needle jammed in my ass? Is this the engineer’s way of proving to me that there’s nothing to fear in the White City?
I remove the items and place them carefully on my desk. At the bottom of the box is a small envelope. I open it and pull out a note scribbled in Sharpie.
GO FIND HER, it says.
The piece of paper slips out of my hand and flutters to the floor.
I sprint out of my room, through the house and out the front door. There’s no sign of the messenger.
I’ve locked myself in my bedroom with a dresser shoved against the door. I just shaved the back of my head, and my scalp burns and tingles. My mind is already far away.
I lie down on my bed and pull on the visor. It’s utterly weightless on my face. Carefully, I stick the disk to the back of my skull, right where I saw them put Kat’s. In an instant I’m no longer in my bedroom. I’m standing naked in an empty, brightly lit room. I can’t tell how many of my senses are engaged. It’s hard to assess the latest groundbreaking technology without anything but my own body to see, smell or touch.
There’s a mirror in front of me, and I see myself, tall, lanky and blessed with a legendary schnoz. The other details might not be one hundred percent accurate. The disk must have pulled this image of me out of my brain, but I look slightly better than I do in real life—like a picture taken from just the right angle.
I think this is the setup. The weird white space looks a lot like the environment in Otherworld where you assemble your avatar. I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that they’re similar. The Company developed the White City software, too. They’re bound to have a few things in common. As far as I can tell, there’s already one big difference, though. Like most games, Otherworld provides a menu of options. The controls on your headset allow you to assume almost any appearance as long as your form remains essentially human. But there are no controls here. The White City must be designed to be completely intuitive.
“Okay, give me a smaller nose,” I say out loud, and the kishka shrinks on command.
“Spiky white hair.” My black hair instantly lightens.
“Enormous penis,” I order. Because of course. Suddenly I look like something out of the zoo.
“Kick-ass muscles and a leather trench coat.” I stand back and admire myself in the mirror. With a few simple adjustments I’ve become Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner.
“Reset.” I’m back to myself.
“Give me four tentacles and the head of a musk ox,” I demand.
Nothing happens. So, like Otherworld, the software must require that I remain more or less human.
“Fine, then, let’s go with seven feet tall, stone body that burns bright red, horns, no face or genitals.”
The image I see in the mirror is just a few tweaks away from the giant avatar I met in the Otherworld ice cave. I love the idea of setting this beast loose on the bunnies and butterflies of the White City. But I don’t have time to keep screwing around. Every moment that passes is one I haven’t spent looking for Kat.
“Hooded brown robe, made from wool. Black pants, shirt and boots.”
In front of me is my avatar from a hundred games, with one significant difference: it’s my face looking back at me from under the hood. I want Kat to recognize me when she sees me.
“Done,” I announce. I could give myself a digital nose job, but then it wouldn’t be me.
The mirror becomes a door. The door opens.
—
I step through the opening and into another reality. And damn, is it amazing. It may not be Earth, but it’s no game, either. With an Otherworld headset, you can see, hear and touch, but that’s the extent of your sensory experience. Here, I’m immediately hit by the fragrance of flowers. I inhale deeply as a light breeze ripples the hem of my robe. I’m standing on a balcony on a tall white building. I can feel the floor beneath my feet. I reach out for the metal railing and it’s warm from the sun. Far below me is a beautiful city surrounded by tall stone walls. Beyond the walls lies a vast green land. I can see the hazy outline of mountains in the distance. Inside the city walls, there are other white buildings, all marvels of modern architecture. They’re linked by a paved path that snakes through the town. I’m watching a driverless pod navigate the curves in search of its next passenger when a magnificent bird lands on the railing beside me. Its face is golden and its feathers a shimmering iridescent green. Intellectually I know these are graphics. Every other part of me believes it’s all real. I can see the shaft in each of the bird’s feathers and every scale on its feet. The creature regards me with an intelligent, slightly hostile expression. Then it squirts a dollop of guano onto the balcony and flies off toward the puffy white dream clouds that decorate the sky.
I turn around and see that the portal to the setup environment is gone. In its place is a set of glass doors. They slide open easily, granting me access to an apartment. On a nearby side table is a tablet. It lights up as I approach, offering an impressive home decorating menu (starting with Amish farmstead, Argentinian estancia and Ashanti traditional), along with the options to build your own pets, children and companions from scratch. I quickly scroll through the companion menu—just to see what’s available. I’m expecting a good snicker, but it seems disappointingly clean. And even if it weren’t, I remind myself, I’m not here to play house with some AI hottie. I’m here to find Kat. I toss the tablet onto the couch and head straight for the front door.
The hallway outside my apartment is empty. I take a glass elevator to ground level and it deposits me at the bottom of a silent atrium. The plants soaking up the digital sunlight are unlike any I’ve ever seen in New Jersey, but I c
ould swear they’re all real. I can smell the soil they’re growing in. I can see the tiny ridges and valleys on their leaves. I reach out and grab one of the round red fruits dangling from a nearby tree. I bite into it and I can feel and hear my teeth break through its skin. The flesh is sweet and smells like a plum. There is nothing about the experience that feels artificial—nothing to remind me that my brain has teamed up with software to trick me. In fact, there’s only one thing about this whole experience that strikes me as odd: There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. The building is empty.
I walk out the front door and onto an equally deserted street. As I stroll through the city, my unease continues to build. Everywhere I look, there are swarms of butterflies and flocks of birds. I even spot one of the bunnies Martin mentioned. But there are no other humans here. And most importantly—no Kat. The engineers claimed there were over three hundred people in the White City right now, but I don’t see a single one of them. It’s as if a plague swept through town and wiped out all the inhabitants. I’m standing in the middle of the path when a driverless pod comes around a curve. It stops and waits for me to step aside, and then it continues on its way.
After a short walk, I find a row of shops and restaurants. They all have oddly generic names. ITALIAN RESTAURANT. PHARMACY. LADIES’ BOUTIQUE. Then I spot a waitress through the window of FRENCH CAFÉ, and the relief is overwhelming. She looks like she might be in her early twenties, and she’s attractive—but in a reassuringly imperfect way. Her chest is flat and her cleavage is unexposed, which makes me question whether she could have been designed by a bunch of horny Company geeks.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she says in a chipper tone when I walk through the door. Her name tag says ELIZA. “May I offer you something to drink?”
“Where is everyone?” I ask. “I’m looking for a friend of mine, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone around.”
“I’m here,” she says.
“Yeah, but you’re not real, are you?” I ask. Might as well get it out of the way.
Eliza laughs, as though it’s a question she gets all the time. “Real?” she answers. “Of course I’m real.”
“Are you an NPC or are you somebody’s avatar?”
The waitress’s smile fades just a bit. She seems thrown. “I’m a waitress,” she says. “I serve food and drinks. Is there anything I can get for you? The French onion soup is particularly good today.”
I have a strong hunch that I’m talking to a bot, so I devise my own amateur Turing test. “I’ve got a flying saucer parked outside, and I’m headed to Pluto,” I tell her.
“Would you like the soup to go, then?” she asks with a smile, and I’m stunned. Bots aren’t renowned for their sense of humor. It’s almost as if Eliza knew I was testing her.
“Sure,” I say, doubling down. “Want to come along for the ride?”
“I’d love to,” she says carefully. I get the impression that Eliza thinks I’m insane. But to reach that conclusion, she would need to be able to think. “Unfortunately, I’m a permanent resident of the White City, and I haven’t been authorized to visit other planets. Would you still like soup?”
All I can do is shake my head.
“Then if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
Eliza has no other customers. She’s either the most dedicated human waitress I’ve ever met—or the most impressive NPC ever designed. The weird thing is, I’m still not sure.
On my way out of the café, a flyer tacked to a bulletin board catches my eye. VISIT THE CITY OF IMRA, it says in large type. RESORT OF THE FUTURE. I snatch it off the wall. There are no other words on the page, so I study the photo. It’s a picture of Catelyn, the busty NPC that Milo Yolkin introduced on the talk show. She’s wearing a red bikini and sitting in a hot tub, toasting the camera with a glass of champagne.
Why is Otherworld’s City of Imra being advertised inside the White City? The Company practically invented in-game advertising, and they cross-promote whenever they get a chance. But selling Otherworld to a bunch of people who can’t even get out of bed to buy the game just seems goddamn weird.
I ball up the flyer in my hands and toss it into a nearby trash can. More confused than ever, I leave the café and follow the path as it winds downhill. Now that I know they’re here, I spot other workers inside businesses that all seem to thrive without any customers. A few of them come to the windows as I pass, but none step outside. It occurs to me that I’m outnumbered, and I find myself walking faster. I’m not frightened exactly, but I’m definitely unnerved. And I’m worried for Kat. Whatever happened to the three hundred humans who were supposed to be here must have happened to her as well.
I come around a curve and stop short. I can’t go any farther. The path abruptly ends at a tall metal gate, and a statue of a man is blocking the way. The figure is dressed exactly like the Clay Man I saw inside the Otherworld glacier. It’s wearing a dark suit and there’s a Bedouin-style scarf wrapped around its head. Like the flyer, it feels out of place here in the White City. But then again, so do I.
“Hello, Simon,” it says, and I nearly jump out of my skin. “You look lost. Do you need directions?”
The statue’s eyes are open. They’re a brilliant blue, as is the amulet that hangs around its neck. It’s glowing like a cheesy power crystal from World of Warcraft.
“How do you know who I am?”
“I am your guide,” it says.
“Does everyone here get a guide?” I ask warily.
“I couldn’t say,” the Clay Man replies. “I have never been a guest of the White City.”
It takes me a second to understand that when the Clay Man says guest he must mean a human visitor. Eliza called herself a resident, which must be the politically correct euphemism for NPCs.
“So where are all the other guests?” I ask my guide.
“They’ve left the White City,” says the Clay Man, gesturing toward the gate. “Once they pass through this gate, they cannot return.”
“Then I guess I’m looking for someone who may have come this way,” I say. “A girl named Kat.” I wish I could describe her. But unlike me, Kat rarely chooses the same avatar twice. She could be anything or anyone.
“Yes, I have seen her. She is searching for the way out of this world. I told her it lies on the other side of the gates.”
My heart sinks. Kat’s gone—and any hope I had that this would be a quick rescue mission has gone with her. I stare up at the massive gates, which would look right at home on a medieval fortress. “What’s out there?”
“I will show you,” says the Clay Man.
The gates swing open, revealing a battalion of NPC soldiers stationed outside. Armed with long spears, the silent men watch the horizon. I study one to see if he blinks. When he does, I look past the army at a featureless landscape of moss-covered rocks. It doesn’t resemble any place I’ve been before, but it feels every bit as real as New Jersey.
“Why are there troops here?” I ask the Clay Man.
“The soldiers have been stationed here to prevent Otherworld’s residents and guests from entering the White City.”
The name explodes like a bomb in my head. “Hold up—that’s Otherworld?” I point toward the mountains in the distance.
“Don’t you recognize it?” the Clay Man asks. “You’ve been there before. That’s where we first met.”
“You’re the same guy I saw inside the glacier?”
“I am,” he says.
“Okay, stop there for a second.” Because none of this shit makes any sense. The White City was built for people with serious medical problems. Otherworld is geek central. “Why is the White City suddenly inside Otherworld?”
“They are both products of the Company, are they not? Someone must have decided to bring them together,” the Clay Man says.
This whole situation is really starting to freak me out. “So let me get this straight. Guests who leave the White City aren’t allowed back. And Otherworld player
s can’t come in either. But why would the soldiers need to keep Otherworld’s residents out of the White City? The residents are just NPCs, right? They don’t think for themselves—they just do what they’re programmed to do. It’s not like they’re going to invade.”
“Your assumptions are incorrect,” the Clay Man informs me. “In Otherworld, the residents have minds of their own. They eat, sleep, breed and think. Some of them were designed to be just as real as the guests.”
My bizarre conversation with the waitress named Eliza immediately comes to mind. “Like the workers here in the White City?” I ask.
“No,” says the Clay Man. “Many of the residents you’ll encounter in Otherworld are far more advanced than the ones you met here. You must be wary of them.”
Anything more advanced than Eliza would be true artificial intelligence. And I’m pretty sure that’s what this dude’s getting at.
“Even the Beasts in Otherworld are more intelligent than they appear,” the Clay Man continues as my head spins. “But the most dangerous creatures you’ll encounter will be other guests. Players with headsets can be remarkably brutal. Be on your guard at all times.”
I reach up to my face and grope for my visor. I need to press Pause and figure a few dozen things out. But I feel nothing but the skin around my eyes. My hand slides around to the back of my head. There’s no disk. I have a full head of hair.
“You cannot remove the disk on your own,” says the Clay Man. “In the real world most of your muscles have been temporarily paralyzed—just as they are when you sleep.”
Oh, God. What the hell have I gotten myself into? “Then how do I get back home?”
“As I told your friend, there is a way out. An exit of sorts. Your disk and visor will deactivate as you pass through it.”
“Where is the exit?” I ask. “How do I find it?”
“You’ve seen it before,” says the Clay Man. “There’s a door deep inside the glacier. Your friend is on her way there now.”