Good morning, it seemed to say. Then it watched him silently as he spit his beer all over the kitchen counter.
“Jesus H. Christ!” He had completely forgotten about his midnight, felonious foray to the Parrish house.
“Jesus!” He shouted again, half hoping that the good Lord would show up for his second coming right about now, because it would make his current situation way more insignificant.
Mathis stared at the cube.
The cube stared back.
Mathis slammed the rest of the beer down, grabbed another from the fridge, opened it, and slammed that one down, too.
He looked back at the box.
It was still there.
“Okay,” he said to himself. “I must’ve done this for a reason.” He thought about the murder and about Blake Parrish. He thought about the young nurse and the only words Blake uttered being about the game. Something about the game had bothered him.
He went to the box and reluctantly picked it up. It was smooth and seamless with two, little holes at the base. Otherwise it was impenetrable. It wasn’t going to give up its secrets by just looking at it. He was going to have to interrogate it from the inside out.
He walked it over to the television, set the box down on the carpet, then gathered all the other accessories he had acquired and arranged them on the floor. He contemplated the pile. As a self-proclaimed technophobe, he wished he would have thought to look for the instruction manual back at the house.
“What a dumbass,” he said out loud, looking at the box.
Totally, it mutely agreed.
He picked up the power cord, plugged one end into one of the holes on the box, and the other end into the outlet. The edges of the box began to glow purple, then faded back to black again. Mathis supposed that meant it was on. He took the other cord and plugged one end into the box. It took a while, but he found a plug on the television that matched the other end of the cord.
He grabbed the remote and turned on the television. A violet ‘Q’ illuminated and filled the screen. Animated blue and purple lightening bolted from it in sporadic intervals. Mathis moved away from the television and noticed that the animated bolts seemed to intensify and follow him when he moved.
“What the hell?” Mathis sashayed side to side and front to back, tripping out as the bolts of white lightening tracked him, pinpointing exactly where he was in the room at all times.
After he got bored with that, he went back to the pile of accessories. He was savvy enough to know what a game controller looked like, but nothing in the pile looked familiar. He picked up the glove, with its flexible plastic digits, and slipped it on his hand. The edges of the cube surged with purple and the television screen went blank.
“UNIDENTIFIED PLAYER” typed across the screen in orchid cyber-lettering.
Mathis stared at it for a while, not knowing what to do next. The screen went black again, the cube surged with light, and more letters typed across the screen.
“STATE YOUR NAME FOR THE Q.”
A keyboard of letters appeared at the bottom of the screen.
Mathis was lost. He scratched his bed head with his gloved fingertips and an arrow on the screen shadowed the movement of his hand. He pointed his finger at the keyboard and poked the air in position over the keys.
“M-A-T-H-I-S”
He poked his finger at the enter button. The cube surged with purple and the screen dissolved into electric confetti.
“Welcome to The Q, MATHIS. Wanna play?”
A YES and a NO button appeared below the question. Mathis hesitated. He was more than a little weirded out, but he had come this far. He needed to put his hunch to rest. Even if he ended up being wrong. Even if he ended up in prison.
He placed a gloved finger in the air and pushed the button, “YES.”
∞
“Game Accessed,” The Womb decreed over the house sound system.
Raze was still in bed. He’d been dozing on and off throughout the morning, catching up on some much needed rest while waiting for the sergeant to figure out how to access the game. As soon as he’d reintegrated from the Parrish house viewing, he set up a security watch on the console.
He snickered to himself. He had only put one name in the system to track. MATHIS. It was a calculated guess that it would be the moniker the sergeant would sign in under. He was a n00b. And he was old. There was no way he would know what he was doing, or be imaginative enough to create a clever game name.
Raze sat up in bed, propping several pillows behind him. There was no need to even get dressed for this. He was going to sit back and watch Mathis bumble around Base Camp. It should prove as entertaining as Saturday morning cartoons. Then Mathis would decide that the game was just a game and dump the evidence of his, and Infinium’s, crimes into the dumpster for the next garbage day pick up and three-quarters of Raze’s problem would be handled.
“Q on,” Raze commanded.
The original RETNA mural that covered the entire wall in front of his bed began to move. The lounging nude goddess, with her incandescent, mandala halo, projected toward him several inches then slid apart, revealing a recessed wall. Hanging on the wall was his 73-inch laser television. The Q sat alone on a shelf beneath the TV. It powered up, violet light throbbing through its ebony skin. Raze grabbed his game gloves off the nightstand and slipped them on.
The television came to life in a blazing exhibition of lightning that cycled around the screen until it honed in on Raze reclining naked on the bed.
“Welcome, CrazE,” the Q said, in a voice programmed to sound like his own. “Wanna play?”
“Yes,” he responded with a flick of his index finger.
“Name your game.” A list of games appeared on the screen. Demesne was number one on the list, not only because it was his baby, but also because it was the number one game on the planet. He had created this world and the world had become obsessed.
With another flick of a finger Raze brought up the search engine and typed ‘Mathis.’ The network instantly located the sergeant meandering in Octave 1, the base layer of Demesne. He was probably trying to learn how to walk.
Raze modified his avatar, CrazE, into an average-looking grunt and walked him into the teleportation booth on the screen. While most players had to earn their way through the different strata of Demesne, Raze, as master of this universe, could jump to any Octave he chose. He was instantly transported to base camp where he could observe the little n00blet.
Base Camp, Demesne, 3020, was the very beginning of the game. Mathis would be stuck here until he acquired a minimum level of skill. Only then could he become a member of a clan and begin to navigate the other Octaves, jumping strata, universes, worlds and time in an attempt to reach Earth 2020 and stop humanity from destroying itself.
It was an impossible game, but only Raze knew this. Gamers grew tired of games they could not beat, but Demesne players always ended up diverted by one of her many other enchantments and got caught up in one octave or another. In Demesne they built virtual lives, had virtual businesses and property and created real relationships. They all lost sight of the main objective eventually.
It was so like real life, it wasn’t funny. No one was ever going to save the world.
Raze spotted Mathis right away. While most players created dream avatars, modeled after what they would never become even after the best plastic surgery, Mathis had created an avatar that looked exactly like himself, paunchy and middle-aged. He was walking about in a herky-jerky, robotic fashion because he hadn’t figured out how to control himself yet. He stuck out like morning wood.
N00bies usually created alliances right away in order to help each other progress faster, but Mathis was like a ginger on the football team. Other avatars were standing around watching him, pointing their fingers and actually laughing at him, possibly a first within the game.
Raze couldn’t take it. He picked up his simulated SIG P220 pistol from the nightstand, walked up to Mathis and shot him in th
e head. He watched Mathis deresonate. Raze stepped back into the teleportation device and exited the game.
He’d assumed correctly. Mathis was going nowhere in his world. He got out of bed and went for a run.
CHAPTER 23
Aislen slipped out of Gen’s bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her. Gen was still squeaking little snores and quite oblivious to the world. Aislen padded into the kitchen to scrounge for some breakfast. She was famished.
Rather than suffering from the symptoms of a justifiably massive hangover, she felt great, energetic and refreshed—better than she had ever felt first thing in the morning. She wasn’t sure if it was beginner’s luck or if her father’s dream ministrations had actually healed her. She couldn’t help but wonder. During the first part of her dream she felt ghastly ill and after he did his version of the Vulcan mind-meld, she felt fantastic.
She also felt unusually upbeat. The tormenting demons of judgment and hounds of self-doubt were silent. The bitter emotions about her father churned up the previous day had transmuted during her night’s journey, healed by understanding. She found herself wishing she could have lingered in the reverie a little longer to get to know him better.
It was only a dream, her headchimed in. None of it was real, you know.
“Shut up,” she cut the voice off. It all seemed as real as walking into this kitchen and looking into this piss-poor excuse for a refrigerator.
But it wasn’t. Your brain is just trying to fix a fucked-up situation by creating a fantasy around it.
Aislen slammed the refrigerator door, pissed off that she had allowed Logic to get a word in edgewise.
It was nice thinking there was another side to the story, that maybe he had good reasons, that maybe he was protecting them by not being around. Of course, that reminded her of the parts of the dream that were off-the-wall and disturbing—that her life, and her mother’s, could actually be in danger.
Maybe it all was just a fantasy. Who would give a shit about two typical women who lived barely on the right side of the tracks? They weren’t a threat to anybody. As Logic began obliterating her burgeoning paradigm back to the ranks of ‘it was only a dream,’ there was a soft knock at the front door.
Aislen went to the door and looked though the peephole. Troy was standing on the landing, holding a large, paper bag overflowing with groceries. The last remnants of her warm, fuzzy Snuggie of tranquility were violently ripped from her. Disjointed clips from the night before stuttered back to life: a replay of him practically eating Genesis with his eyes, her subsequent fit of jealousy and slamming of Scotch, the rapture of the music, the lights and movement, and then nothing except a very vague recollection of her puke splattering Troy’s really nice shoes.
She froze, hoping that he would think they were still asleep and leave. But an enormous, fish-eye hand materialized in front of her eyes and rapped on the door again, a little harder, echoing loudly through the small apartment. He was going to wake up Gen with this racket, which would be totally rude. She swung open the door to give him a piece of her mind.
“Aislen!” His eyes opened wide when he saw her. “Wow! I’m, like, really surprised to see you up and about.” He gave her a once over. “You’re actually looking pretty damn good for someone who drank a little more than they could swallow.”
She hoped the narrow-eyed look she shot him looked like seething rather than the wince of embarrassment. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“There’s nothing disappointing about that at all.”
“Well, Gen’s still sleeping, so you may want to try back a little later.”
“I’m not here to see Gen, silly. Well, I expected to, because I expected you to still be three sheets to the wind. I was planning to play the hero and make my mom’s famous Hair of the Dog soup and miraculously cure you. But it appears that you don’t to need it.”
“No. I don’t.” She stood at the door, hoping he’d take the hint that she wasn’t in need of his remedy and leave, but he didn’t.
“Scotch becomes you then,” he said. “May I come in?”
She wanted to say no, but remembered she was in Gen’s house, after all, and maybe Gen would actually welcome his company.
“I was just getting ready to leave, anyway,” she said as she stood aside and he slipped passed her.
“After I went through all this effort? Like hell you are!” He took his bags into the kitchen. “Pull up a chair and keep me company. Even if you are a perfect specimen of health, a girl still needs to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” she responded, still standing by the door. Her stomach growled in defiance, loud enough that the whole building could have heard.
Troy peeked his head around the corner giving her a quizzical eye. “Your tummy betrays you, my dear. And you are obviously not leaving, yet.” He scanned her body up and down. She followed his gaze. She completely forgot she was only wearing a pair of Gen’s pajamas, a soft pink ensemble that left little to the imagination. She looked back up and found him smiling at her.
“Busted,” he said with a laugh.
She shut the door and stamped across the floor, humphing into the stool across from him to make sure he got a clue that she was disinterested and inconvenienced. He started unpacking the bag, unfazed by her antics, pulling out an eclectic assortment of ingredients: Campbell’s Chicken and Rice Soup, eggs, lemons, ginger ale, Alka Seltzer, bottled water, and a bottle of Johnny Walker.
“What the hell kinda of recipe is that?”
“These three are for the soup,” he said pointing to the eggs, lemon, and soup cans. “If that ended up being a fail, these are secondary, tertiary and final-final options,” he said, pointing to the ginger ale, Alka Seltzer, and Scotch in that order. “When all else fails, the real hair of the dog never does. But look at you...” His eyes wandered back over her body and she felt it tingle under the attention.
Aislen crossed her arms across her chest and tried to keep herself from blushing.
“I see Genesis was able to get you undressed all right. I offered to help out, but she was pretty adamant about taking care of that herself. She wanted to protect your virtue, I guess.” Troy gave her one of his classic, heartthrob looks and, despite her efforts, heat blossomed on her face.
It didn’t even cross her mind how she had gotten out of the piece of fabric unfit to be called a dress and into fabric unfit to be called pajamas. How tiny Genesis had managed to undress and redress Aislen’s dead-drunk weight was unfathomable and it crossed her mind that maybe she had help after all.
Aislen reddened further. “I don’t remember that part.”
Troy laughed. “Yeah, well...you were pretty gone by that point. What do you remember?”
She thought for a moment, replaying the fragments again.
She skipped over the love scene she witnessed between him and Gen. “The Scotch,” she said.
“Check.”
She thought about the dancing again: how entranced she was by the music, how good the heat felt on her skin, how it felt like someone was dancing with her, moving in sync with her, around, with, and through her.
“The dancing,” she said.
“Double check. Very impressive by the way.”
She looked up at Troy. Maybe he had been dancing with her, after all. But she had looked around and nobody was there. And she would have remembered Troy being that close and intimate with her. Absolutely, no question.
“Is that it?” Troy said.
Aislen thought about it. There was a blank gap of amnesia from the dancing until the next image.
“Your shoes,” she said sheepishly.
He laughed.
“Sorry about that.”
“No worries. Nothing a wet paper towel couldn’t handle. That didn’t happen until we got you here. So you don’t remember me rescuing you from the dance floor and carrying you out of the club?”
“No.” Her voice was shrinking.
“How about being sprawled out across my l
ap in the back seat of the cab?”
“No.” She needed a rock to crawl under about now.
“Anything that you said in the cab?” He was looking at her intently. Amusement glittered in his eyes.
The dread and embarrassment was too much for her. She didn’t even want to know what she said to him in the cab. She changed the subject. “Do you want me to wake up Gen for you? She could probably use a good bowl of soup.” And be thrilled to see you again, she added silently.
“Uh...no, actually. I am enjoying spending time with you.”
Aislen was suddenly suspicious. “What are you? A player?”
“What???!!! A player! No! Where did you get that idea?”
She might as well confront him about it. It wasn’t going anywhere. “I saw you talking to Gen last night when I was coming back from the restroom.”
“Yeah...so?”
“You were holding her hand...and you were talking...and you were looking at her like...like...I don’t know, like...” Aislen stammered.
Troy crossed his arms, rested them on the counter, and leaned in close until his face was only inches away. “Like what, Aislen?” A hint of a smile played on his lips.
“Like you are looking at me now! Like you were really, really into her!”
Troy didn’t say anything for a moment and just looked at her. “I was talking to her about you, Aislen,” he finally said. “I was talking to her about how I am really into you.”
She faltered, shocked by the revelation. “Oh.” It came out as a breath rather than a word.
“Yeah. Oh,” he mimicked her quietly. He moved his face even closer, eyes unwavering from hers. An exquisite ache melted through her body. She couldn’t hold his gaze any longer and dropped her eyes down, but he lifted her chin so she was looking at him again, his thumb brushing against her cheek.
She felt intoxicated again. Her head spun and her body felt ablaze with fire. She closed her eyes. She felt the fever of his breath, then the imperceptible glance of his lips as they brushed against hers.
The bedroom door burst open and Genesis staggered into the living room. Aislen jolted upright and almost fell backwards off the stool.
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