OtherEarth

by Jason Segel

  “Do I really have to go with her?” I complain to Kat.

  “No,” Kat says reasonably. “I could go instead.”

  “Never mind,” I reply. That’s the last thing I’d want.

  “I’ll go!” Elvis offers, and I opt to ignore him.

  “Talk to Ogubu’s avatar,” Kat tells me. “Then we’ll find his body, rescue Gorog and Marlow, make a safe disk, release the virus, take down the company and live happily ever after.”

  “Well, when you put it like that, it all sounds totally doable,” I joke.

  She kisses me. “Then go do it.”

  Cursing, I slap on my disk and go under. I arrive at the gates of Imra just in time to see the Clay Man appear. Busara’s avatar looks exactly the same as the last time I saw it, with one exception. The amulet that once dangled from the Clay Man’s neck is now hanging around mine.

  “What’s it feel like?” I ask her.

  “Different,” she says in her own voice.

  “Did you get a gun like I told you to?” I ask.

  She shows me the handle of a pistol that’s tucked into her waistband.

  “That puny thing?” I ask. “Are you sure that’s not some kind of toy?”

  Busara’s not having it. “I don’t want to be weighed down by a bulky weapon. Let’s go,” she says.

  We set off toward the ice fields. The tall, thin Clay Man’s stride is much longer than mine, and I have to jog a little to stay beside her. But the avatar’s height comes with its disadvantages, too. We’re less than a mile into the red wasteland between the ice fields and Imra when a shot rings out. The Clay Man flashes. I crouch behind a small boulder and scan our surroundings for the shooter. There are several rocks in the distance that are large enough to hide someone.

  Busara’s avatar looks far more confused than concerned. “What just happened?”

  “Get down!” I order. “You’ve been shot.”

  “I have?” she asks as a second bullet whistles through the air and lodges itself in her avatar. “I didn’t feel a thing!” The Clay Man flashes for a second time.

  I see the glint of metal in the sun. There’s a sniper a hundred yards away. I couldn’t possibly reach him with my dagger. Busara pulls her gun and points. By the time she’s gotten a bead on the guy, her avatar flashes and the Clay Man is dead.

  “Shit,” I mutter, and take hold of the amulet around my neck. In an instant, I’m back at the gates of Imra.

  I’m starting to worry that something may have gone wrong when an avatar appears before me. It looks like a giant Mr. T.

  “Let’s go,” it says in Busara’s voice.

  “Don’t you think this would be a good opportunity to talk survival strategies?” I ask her.

  “We can’t afford to waste any more time,” she says.

  “Hold on a second!” I shout at her back. “I wasn’t the one—”

  “Save your lecture for later,” she tells me. “I got it under control now.”

  * * *

  —

  I have no idea what time it must be back in the real world. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve been in Otherworld for more than twelve Earth hours. Here it’s been days. Busara’s avatar has been murdered three times and fallen through the ice where it was ripped apart by sharks. Once, we made it within eyeshot of the ice cave before a mutant bear devoured her. At first I found the carnage amusing. I’d use the amulet to send myself back to Imra and wait for her to show up again with an all-new avatar. But the novelty wore off ages ago. Now I’m just exhausted.

  Busara’s wearing a camouflage suit now, like the one Kat chooses, and the face looking out from its hood is her own. The machine gun slung across her avatar’s back is the deadliest weapon available in Otherworld. She shoots first now and asks questions later. We’ve mown down half a dozen guests and three mutant bears, including the beast that ate her earlier.

  I’m about to collapse by the time we reach the entrance of the ice cave, and I’m not the one with a heart condition. But if Busara’s feeling weak, she’s doing a great job of hiding it. She sprints into the ice cave on her own. Figuring she’ll probably want a little privacy, I sit down with my back against the tunnel wall. My eyelids are drooping and my ass is freezing. I’m half asleep when Busara screams.

  I should have known better than to let her go in alone. I don’t have the strength to start all over again. I run toward the chamber at the end of the tunnel. As I reach the end I can see Busara. Her hood is off and she’s fallen to her knees, but she appears uninjured. When I realize why she screamed, I feel like joining her. The ceiling of Magna’s throne room has collapsed. I can’t imagine how many tons of ice have fallen, but I know nothing underneath could have survived.

  Though a rescue effort is hopeless, I rush to where the entrance to the throne room once was. My mind is too busy spinning to start contemplating our next move. I’d rather cry like the girl on the floor behind me. Then I spot it. A glint of metal in the stream of melted water that flows along one side of the tunnel.

  I drop to my knees and fish out the object. It’s a gun, and I’ve seen it before. I never forget a weapon that’s been shoved in my face.

  “I don’t think your dad’s dead,” I tell Busara.

  “What?” She spins around to face me. “Then where is he?” She freezes when she sees the gun in my hand.

  “I think Fons has him,” I say. “This is his gun.” I’m not sure it’s good news.

  Busara’s avatar dims. I have no idea what’s going on. Then my eyes are flooded with light. My disk has been removed.

  “How could you let this happen?” Busara is shouting at me. As my eyes begin to focus, I see Busara being held back by Elvis and Kat. My disk is in her hands.

  “What the hell? How is this my fault?”

  “You took that thing with you to the ice cave, didn’t you?” she demands. “He would never have known about my father if it weren’t for you!”

  Elvis grabs her and puts his arms around her as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. I expect her to punch him, but she doesn’t even squirm. “Busara,” Elvis says gently. “Fons isn’t going to hurt your dad.”

  “How do you know?” she cries with her face against his chest. I’m trying my best to follow the discussion, but I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.

  “Because your dad built the virus,” Elvis tells her, “and that’s all Fons wants. From what Simon and Kat have told us, he doesn’t sound like such a bad guy.” You know things are totally screwed up when Elvis is acting as the voice of reason.

  Suddenly Busara pushes Elvis back and things between them return to the way they were. Elvis is hurt, but Busara can’t see it. A few seconds ago she was in his arms. Now she won’t even look in his direction.

  “Do you really think Fons can keep my father alive in Otherworld?” she argues. “My dad’s wearing a disk and he’s never played a game in his life! I died five times before I made it to the cave!”

  “Yeah, because you refused to listen,” I snap. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and start listening now?”

  Busara glares at me but doesn’t say a thing. I’m so goddamn sick of her. I spend countless hours trying to keep her alive in Otherworld and she repays me by abusing my best friend and giving me shit about something that’s hardly my fault.

  I hear Kat take a deep breath. “Okay, guys,” she says. “I think the first thing we need to do is get the hell out of the Waldorf Astoria.”

  Damn, I was really starting to get used to it here.

  “Why?” Busara demands. “I say we go right back to Otherworld and start looking for Fons!”

  “May I remind you that we made a deal with a Russian gangster?” Kat says, keeping her cool. “He lent us the headset in exchange for a safe disk. If there’s any chance that we won’t be able to pay him,
we need to be someplace where he can’t find us.”

  “Oh, come on, we’ve got plenty of time before Alexei comes after us,” Busara says.

  “Unless Fons makes your dad release the virus,” I point out. “Then Alexei is going to be super-pissed.”

  “If my dad didn’t tell you where the virus is, he’s not going to tell Fons, either,” Busara argues.

  She has a point. Back in the ice cave, Fons even threatened to kill James Ogubu, and the avatar still refused to give up the virus’s location.

  Elvis has been uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, he chimes in. “Maybe there is something we can give Alexei,” he says. “It’s not exactly what he wants, but it’s a good down payment. It might buy us some time while we look for Busara’s dad.”

  “What is it?” I ask. I have no idea what it could be.

  “We can give Alexei the entire Company,” Elvis says.

  * * *

  —

  The sterile white room is empty aside from a hospital bed and several large machines. Alexei lies there, tucked under a sheet. IV tubes sprout from his arms and a monitor is sketching the beats of his heart. He looks like he’s sleeping. I see the disk and visor he borrowed lying on his bedside table. As I slip them into my pocket, Alexei’s lips part.

  “How long?” he croaks.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I respond.

  “How long will it take him to build the safe disk?” Alexei’s eyes open. They’re the same piercing blue eyes that he gave his avatar. The face that surrounds them couldn’t be more different.

  I know I should tell him we’re still looking for Ogubu’s avatar. I once overheard my mother advise a client that you should tell the truth whenever you can. Unnecessary lies come back to bite you. But the Kishka was right about Alexei. The last thing a man this desperate wants to hear about is a setback.

  “First we need to locate James Ogubu’s body in the real world. Once he’s free, it may take him a few weeks to fix the disk.”

  Alexei shakes his head emphatically and the blips on his heart monitor speed up. “That is too long. I cannot stay like this.” He presses a button on the side of his bed and the top half folds forward. He’s still halfway to a sitting position when his face contorts in agony and he’s forced to stop. I don’t see any external injuries, but I can only imagine what kind of damage getting whacked by Fons’s massive tail might have done to his internal organs.

  “I had no idea you were so badly hurt,” I say. If Fons were here, I’d give his tentacle a high five.

  “I was hardly a perfect specimen to begin with.” It sounds like a joke, but his voice is deadly serious. “I need that disk, Mr. Eaton.”

  “I know,” I tell him. “But—”

  “You know?” he spits back at me. “You know what it’s like to be half a human? To be robbed of your face and your manhood? Yesterday, I got them both back for a few precious minutes. Now I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them. Tell Mr. Ogubu to work faster. I will pay him whatever he likes.”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid there’s a bit of a problem with that.” Now for the tricky part.

  “If there is a problem, I know you can fix it, Mr. Eaton,” Alexei says. It’s not a vote of confidence. It’s clearly a threat.

  “There’s something our engineer’s going to need before he can get started.”

  “Whatever it is, buy it.”

  “It’s not that simple,” I tell him. “There’s a thirteen-year-old boy named Declan Andrews. His avatar died in Otherworld while he was wearing a disk, but somehow his real-world body survived. He’s the key to making a safe disk.”

  “So?” Alexei says. “Find him! Pay his parents to let us adopt him—or babysit him—or whatever the hell they want! Kidnap the child if necessary!”

  “The Company has Declan,” I tell him. “They know he’s the key to fixing the disk, but the two people who designed the technology are both gone, and the Company doesn’t have the brainpower to get it done.”

  I can see Alexei’s thumb circling the call button on the side of his bed. I have a strong hunch I’ll be in serious trouble if he decides to push it. “You left this part out when we made our deal, Mr. Eaton. You did not say there would be a second person to find. This boy is very important. You expect the Company to hand him over if I call and ask nicely?”

  “Sure,” I say. “If you’re in charge.”

  Partnering with Russian oligarchs does have its advantages. I’m in the passenger seat of a helicopter flying over New York Harbor. The Statue of Liberty is just below. She seems impossibly close, like I could reach out and touch her. Dozens of watercraft—from tiny motorboats to giant cargo ships—crisscross the water. We’re only interested in one of them. Directly below us is the Staten Island Ferry. Its bright orange paint makes it impossible to miss.

  It took us a while to agree on the site of Milo Yolkin’s final plunge. There were countless factors to consider. It had to take place somewhere the body wouldn’t be found—so no Midtown office buildings. There needed to be lots of people around with cameras ready. And we had to be able to make a quick, clean escape. The moment videos are posted, the Company will know exactly where we are.

  On the ferry’s last trip across the harbor from Staten Island, Busara and Elvis planted the projector at the back of the boat, just past the railing. They disembarked in downtown Manhattan and we waited for the ferry to set off on its return trip. As it pulled back from the dock, Kat and I took off from a heliport atop a Wall Street skyscraper. We need to be within two hundred yards of the projector for the controls to work properly.

  “Okay!” Kat shouts. She’s watching the ferry with powerful binoculars. “Switch him on.”

  I bring Milo Yolkin to life and let him stand motionless for several seconds. The timing of his plunge has to be perfect. This is Milo’s final public appearance, and we need people to see him. The projector will be destroyed when he goes over the side.

  “A woman is pointing,” Kat announces. “She’s got her camera up. More people are moving in. Now!”

  I roll the sphere off the deck and into the water below. Milo Yolkin goes with it.

  Seeing the action from this high up isn’t nearly as fun. But none of us want to be anywhere near that boat when it eventually makes it to land. I’m sure someone down there is screaming for help. I watch tiny people rush out onto the ferry’s deck. Soon everyone on board is clustered at the railings. The boat slows down and crew members make their way through the crowd. An alert has gone out. Nearby vessels are turning back toward the ferry and a police boat is already racing toward it.

  “Check Twitter,” Kat tells me. I put down the controls and pick up the burner phone that our new partner has provided us. There’s already a photo of Milo’s fatal jump. It seems the person who took the picture didn’t know who he was. But two other people have already replied with the correct identity.

  “Let’s go,” I tell the pilot. Our work is done.

  We’re almost back at the heliport when three black helicopters race past us, the Company’s silver logo blazing in the sunlight.

  A tourist from Melbourne captured it best. She was filming the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan as the ferry left them behind. Suddenly a figure rises into her camera view. He stands motionlessly for a second or two as if contemplating the waves below. He’s wearing the hoodie and sneakers that have become Milo’s calling card over the last ten years. Blond curls form a halo around his head. He turns and looks over his shoulder—just long enough to leave no doubt whatsoever concerning his identity. Then he steps forward and disappears over the side. There are screams and shouts for help in the background as the camera rushes forward, the city bouncing in front of it. The next clear shot is one of the water below. It’s dark green and murky, and the wake of the ferry is outlined in white foam. The camera pans to the left, then frantical
ly to the right. There’s no sign of the person who leaped to his death.

  I wonder where Milo’s real body is. What did the Company do with it after they stole his palm print? Is he buried in an unmarked plot? Wrapped in plastic and stored in a freezer? Turned into ashes that drift through the wind? How could a man so important just vanish and be missed by so few? Aside from Kenji, his ninth-grade buddy, did anyone know who Milo Yolkin really was? What was the difference between the man we saw on television and the hologram that just sank to the bottom of New York Harbor?

  * * *

  —

  There are four rooms in our suite at the Waldorf Astoria, and there’s a television in each. Every channel—from CNN to Al Jazeera—is covering Milo Yolkin’s suicide. As the hours pass and all hopes of finding the boy genius alive begin to dim, the financial reporters start taking over. Milo’s death may be tragic, but the fate of the Company is beginning to look even bleaker. The stock has already hit its lowest point in a decade and the bottom appears to be nowhere in sight.

  All the cable news channels are at the scene. New York Harbor is crowded with police boats. There are so many helicopters churning the waters, you’d think we were in the middle of a hurricane. The anchors are still holding out hope on CNN, while MSNBC and Fox have pretty much declared Milo dead. They’re running a reel of highlights from his lifetime—and comparing his death to Kurt Cobain’s suicide. Reports from New Jersey show the bizarre scene taking place in front of a nondescript house in Sunset Heights. It’s part Burning Man, part Irish wake. Aside from the kid watching it all with disgust, no one seems to have figured out that Milo Yolkin never lived there.

  While the world mourns, stock of Milo Yolkin’s Company is being snatched up at pennies on the dollar.