“Alright,” Bob seemed more relaxed already. “Now that we can talk, I suppose it’s time to tell you that I’m not from around here.”

“Do tell,” Sam’s voice was dry.

“And when I say, not from around here,” Bob clarified, “I mean, not anywhere near here! Think... first star on the left and straight on ‘til morning far.”

“You do seem kind of neverlandish, now that you mention it,” Sam quirked half a smile.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Bob winked. “This,” and he waved both hands down his torso,” isn’t even my real body.”

Sam stiffened.

“Oh,” Bob hastened. “Not that it isn’t colorful or anything. I quite like it, in fact. But it’s not original equipment. I’d tell you where I’m from, but I’m not entirely sure your ears are equipped to hear more than half of its name.” he shrugged again.

“The syndicates that run the Grand Game,” he continued. “Are equally not from anywhere near here.”

“Hold it,” Sam held up a hand of his own. “Wait a minute... you’re telling me that you’re not from Earth. That you’re an alien. From outer space.”

Bob tilted his head. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Actually, yes,” Sam spat. “Yes it is difficult to believe. Nearly impossible, in fact.”

“but not completely?”

“Jesus, Bob!”

“Sorry, Sam,” Bob shook his head. “I wish I had some sort of proof you’d recognize offhand. Believe me, it would make both our lives easier. The problem is, whether it’s original or not, this is my current body. I wish I could do something crazy like take my eyeballs out and polish the—”

“Oh, for chrissake!” Sam smacked a palm against his forehead, crying out with the pain of the act. “Centauri! That’s where I recognize that getup!”

“Ah, that was a great movie, wasn’t it, Sam?” Bob sounded almost wistful. “Such a sad ending.”

“The bad guys all got killed, didn’t they?” Sam tried to remember. “And the kid got the girl?”

“But his trusted agent died, Sam!” Bob wiped an imaginary tear from his cheek. Poor Centauri. After all that work. He was the real hero of that movie, you know. You betcha! Came up with the games, fought off assassins... only to be struck down in the prime of his life.”

Sam was scrubbing at his forehead with a thumb and three fingers, trying to wish himself into some sort of rational hallucination to replace this one. “He got better, didn’t he?”

“Hardly consolation, Sam,” Bob shook his head. “Getting killed is painful!”

Had he really signed a contract with this goof? What had he let himself in for? But, then, that was what he was supposed to be finding out, wasn’t it?

“Ah... the game, Bob?”

Bob... the alien... brought himself together with some struggle. Wiping a few more tears before snapping the lapels of his jacket and figuratively hauling himself back to business.

“Right. The game. The Grand Game, as they call it. At least the organizers,” he rocked his head side to side in a somewhat mocking way. There are a considerable number of other names among the billions who watch.”

“Billions?”

“Oh yes,” Bob nodded with some of his old vim. “It’s quite popular. Prime time fare, if you don’t mind my saying so. Well into it’s sixtieth season, and no hint of slowing down.

“Keep it changing up, don’tcha know. Always innovating. Always ready to try the new gag.

“At any given time,” he spread his arms expansively. “There are one or two hundred active participants in the main arena. Well,” he clarified. “Separate arenas, but within the same vewbox.

“It’s a solo game, Sam, you see? Single player I believe the term is? Except the NPCs aren’t programs, and there are no save points. More importantly, no resets from save. What’s the term your lot are using? Roguelike, isn’t it?”

“I’m not following, Bob,” Sam prompted him. “You need to start actually telling me something here pretty soon. “What, precisely, exactly, concretely does the game consist of? What is my part, if I decide to agree to it?”

Bob regarded him sternly. Upset, perhaps that his spiel kept being interrupted.

“In your instance, Sam,” he said evenly. Your task will be to become a version of Tucker Shandry.”

“What?” Sam was astonished. “I don’t follow. Tucker Shandry? You’re going to stick me in some simulation of that world?”

“No, Sam,” Bob sounded as though his own patience might be wearing thin. “No simulation, and not that world. What did you research when you wrote that book? What era did you pull the journey from?”

“Pre-Columbian America,” Sam’s voice was soft. Around twelve hundred AD, if I recall correctly. Then I added some of the livestock and wildlife the Europeans brought over. And the tech, of course.”

“This will be a bit different, then,” Bob told him.

“For one thing,” he laughed. “We aren’t going to freeze you and wait around for a thousand years. Once you sign the contract, you’ll be taken out of this room and... repaired? Healed? Rejuvenated?” He shrugged and waved a hand airily about. “Frankly, I’m not entirely sure of the process, but it is safe, rest assured. Tested science. Nothing to worry about.

“Once you wake up, the clock starts ticking,” he paused for effect. “Think of this as Stage One. Oh, there are three stages to the game, by the way.

“Now, I’m going to give you more of the particulars than I probably aught,” he admitted. “But I’m confident that you won’t abuse the privilege.

“In any case, you’ll be out a few days while the rejuvenation and repair process takes place. Possibly more than a few, depending on the extent of those repairs. Those days are free. Won’t be counted. Off the clock as it were.

“You’ll be awakened at six AM on... what day are we looking at?” he tapped a finger against his chin. “Fourth of February, I think,” he said. “Most likely. For the moment, let’s just call it the fourth. At 6AM, February the fourth, you’ll be awakened. The first stage of the game starts in that instant and lasts exactly seven days, down to the second.

“In those seven days following, you’ll need to gather up anything and everything you think you’ll need for your long road west. Food, equipment, weaponry, information. Everything.

“You’ll be provided with a fund from which to make your preparations. One hundred thousand dollars, American. You will not be able to draw from any other account under penalty of forfeiture. We’ll talk about that in a minute. Whatever you purchase, whoever you purchase it from, whoever you hire, it has to come from that particular account. The council will be keeping track.

“You must use, as near as possible, equipment and supplies that you do not already own. Technically, from the skin out, but there are provisions for exemptions. Personal jewelry, up to three pieces, for instance. I see you’re still wearing your wedding ring. I don’t suppose you have any intention in leaving that behind, so that’s one. We can discuss the other two later.

“There’s nothing saying you can’t duplicate things you own, so you may replace anything with identical items while accruing no negative effects.

“Up to ten percent of the sum total of gear you’ll be taking may be derived from things you already own, although their market value will be deducted from the total fund. Anything beyond five percent will cost you points, and points are precious, so don’t waste them. We’ll talk about points in a minute. Anything over ten percent will result in forfeit.”

“Ten percent by what metric?” Sam asked, pulled into the problem despite himself.

“Beg pardon?”

“Ten percent by weight?” Sam wanted to know. “By value? By volume? Mass? Quantity?”

“Ah,” Bob stumbled, his brow furrowing. “Weight, I believe.”

Sam nodded for him to go on.

“You’ll be able to enlist the aid of anyone, anywhere,” Bob continued. “With the exceptions of friends, family, or co-workers.... Basically, people you already know and are familiar with.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“Internet contacts?” Sam wondered. “Folks I know only online but have never personally met or spoken with?”

Another pause from Bob. “You know, that’s never come up. You Earthlings are a particularly gregarious lot, aren’t you. From a strictly rules interpretation standpoint, it shouldn’t be an issue, but I’ll be sure to have a ruling for you prior to your setting out on that first stage.

“Now where were we? Ah, yes. You can pay others to do research for you or run errands for you, but you must also pay them from the same fund. And you must pay them, Sam. Using volunteers to get around the finance cap is frowned upon.”

“But not prohibited?” Sam interrupted again. “So long as the volunteers aren’t anybody I already know?”

“I’m...” Bob paused, bemused. “Hang on....” He retrieved the pad from its pocket and consulted some sort of file. He smiled, then. “Y’know, it doesn’t look like it.” He gave Sam his attention again. “It actually seems that it’s never occurred to them that the two weren’t intrinsically connected.”

Sam smiled, nodding for him to go on.

Bob shook his head, grinning wider. “You’re gonna have them rewriting the rules before you’re done, arentcha, Sam?

“Now, where were we? Yes... you can never divulge what you’re really doing to anyone you hire,” and here he glanced back up at Sam. “Or whom you’ve gulled into volunteering. Telling anyone that you’re preparing for the game or divulging any aspect of the game is not only a forfeiture level foul, but it breaks the non-disclosure agreement. We don’t want that.

“Here’s where it gets tricky,” and Bob tilted his head, regarding Sam from beneath a lowered brow. “All of it... everything you’re bringing with you... every piece, has to be ready to go and packed by six AM, of the seventh day. At six o’clock and one second, you’ll be transported to another location and anything not yet packed will remain behind.

“This secondary location is a stadium of sorts,” Bob stretched his arms wide as though viewing the scene. “Nearly two miles across and five wide. From your perspective, the stands won’t really be visible. In fact, the only real landmark will be a towering pylon marking the end of the stage.

“The atmosphere will duplicate your central temperate zone at sea level. Temperature will be sixty-five degrees fahrenheit, humidity will be in the low forties. There will be no wind. The surface will be flat and level. Light will be bright enough to see well, but not blinding. Think shopping mall.

“This is Stage Two,” he smiled. “And where we start to see how much Tucker you were at nineteen. Everything, and I mean everything you’re bringing with you must be carried, by you, to that pylon off in the distance. Five miles from your starting point. And you have to travel that five miles in one go.

“By carried—?” Sam started.

“On your feet,” Bob told him. No vehicles, no carts, wagons, or pack animals. All you. The only thing that will be allowed to touch the floor will be your feet and what you’re wearing on them.”

“Not even a staff?” Sam wondered half jokingly.

That netted him a stern look. “You’re supposed to be carrying the weight, Sam,” he insisted. “A test of sorts.”

Sam grinned disarmingly. “But, Bob,” he reasoned. “A walking staff won’t hold anything up. Hell, it’s more weight to carry, if you really look at it. The only advantage it’ll give me is balance.”

Bob pulled his fedora off and scratched at the back of his head, squinting one eye at his new client. “I’ll check,” he said. “Maybe they’ll bite, if only just to see what you’re up to.

“Alright,” he brought himself back on task. “If anything falls, or if you fall, or if you so much as take a knee, or if you stop for more than five minutes... or drop your staff... you forfeit. This,” he stressed. “is why Stage One is so important.

“You’ll be given twenty-four hours to complete Stage Two, win or lose,” he paused to see if Sam had anything to say about that.

“Once you’ve either made the five miles or failed to make them, an area will be provided for you to rest and get some sleep. Food and drink will be made available as well. Take advantage of these things, as they’re the last of them you’ll be getting in modern conditions for awhile.

“At six AM and one second the next morning, Stage Three begins. If you think of the first two stages as the preliminaries, Three is the main event. The big top. The grand stage!

“Stage Three begins with you and your gear... wait. I forgot to tell you about the forfeit clause, didn’t I?” he shook his head sadly. “I must be getting old.

“If you take more than the allotted three personal items or go over ten percent of the total of your gear with equipment or supplies that you already own, you forfeit. If you tell anybody about what you’re doing, why you’re preparing, or anything at all about the Grand Game, you forfeit. If you take a knee, fall, drop anything, or fail to arrive at the finish pylon, regardless of how many miles you’ve actually traveled, you forfeit.

If you forfeit, Sam, you arrive at Stage Three naked, and with no equipment whatsoever. Jaybird in paradise. Naked ape in a cruel, cruel world.”

Bob checked to see if he still had an audience. Sam was listening quietly. Watching him intently, but otherwise silent. He wondered whether that meant that there were no questions or that he was looking for more rules to challenge.

“Stage Three begins at six AM exactly, January first, of the year five hundred, Anno Domini, when you’re deposited—”

He brought up short at Sam’s theatrical moan.

“Something wrong, Sam?”

“Time travel?” Sam demanded in a pained voice. “Christ, Bob, I hate time travel stories! You really had me going there for awhile, but a time travel story? None of them make any damned sense! Butterfly effect, multiverse function, time streams. Is time a linear flow, or a plane, or a dimension, or what? Who fucking knows? Will I end up a paradox or my own grampaw?”

“And that’s why you put Tucker into the future?” Bob asked.

“Of course.”

“Hmm. I’d wondered, given the obvious sources of the research. May I continue now?”

Sam waved his hand listlessly, his eyes closed, a disgusted look on his face. As though he’d already lost interest.

“Where was I,” Bob mushed on, still watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. “Ah, yes. You’ll be deposited on the beach somewhere on the east coast of what will someday broadly be known as the United States. Your insertion point will be somewhere between the current locations of, ah... Monkton, New Brunswick, Canada and Key Largo, Florida, chosen at random by the transport computers at the time of your insertion. No one, not even the grand council, will know where you’ll be landing until you’re transported.

“At the same time your landing point is being calculated, you’ll be assigned a random pickup point somewhere along the Pacific coast between present day Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada and Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico.

“You’ll be provided with topographical maps current to the era and to USGS grade standard. You will use these maps, any equipment you’ve brought along, and whatever you can manage to forage or build to make your way to the pickup point.”

He cranked an eye, but Sam remained silent.

“Assuming you arrive at the pickup point,” he went on, “the stage ends. You will be awarded your prizes along with any bonuses, and transported back to the current era, where the game will end.”

“And what happens after I encounter my first native,” Sam asked laconically, “and start a pandemic that wipes out the entire population of North America?”

“Not an issue,” Bob insisted. “Part of your rejuvenation will be a full course of system cleansers, vaccines, and antivirals that should render you both safe to the natives, and safe from the native diseases.” He let slip a humorless chuckle. “Pandemics make for bad theater, Sam, and nobody wants that.”

The room was silent for a long time as Sam digested the information dump Bob had foisted on him. He still wasn’t ready to believe in aliens, and he sure wasn’t ready to believe in time travel. But what was the goofy agent going to do to him, really? He was safely locked up in a hospital in Downtown— on the other hand, this was supposed to be a secure ward. How the hell had Bob gotten in here in the first place?

For his part, Bob allowed Sam the quiet without interruption. He had a lot riding on this round. Sam, if he signed, would be his first entry into the main event, and Bob wanted that entry to splash wide.

At last, Sam looked up at Bob, peering through tired, pain-clouded eyes. What the hell, right? He was nearly dead already, and what else could the crazy ‘alien’ do past that? But first...

“Tell me, Bob...” he asked as casually as he could manage. “What do you get out of this? I mean, beyond your five percent of ad revenue? There’s gotta be something more. I can’t believe I’m going to be such a huge draw that you’d go to so much trouble on a maybe.”

Bob shrugged again and tried to look hurt. “You wound me, Sam,” he sounded mournful. “I promise you, I have only your best interest at heart.”

“Malarkey. My army recruiter told me that same thing, and look where that got me!”

“Oh, alright,” Bob smiled. “What does any good agent want? Fame? Fortune? Notoriety? If you do well, Sam, everybody will know it was me brought you into the game. That’s not a small thing. I might even get a starburst on the pylon of fame outside the Great Concourse! Easier dealings in future contracts with the council. Known talents more willing to sign with me. The sky’s the limit, Sam!” he enthused. “I believe in you! You might actually be the one to make it all the way!”

“Wait, What?” Sam broke into his litany. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

Bob caught himself guiltily, hunching his shoulders slightly. That might well not be his true body, but he had the mannerisms down.

“How many have there been, Bob?” Sam wanted to know. “How many failures?”

Bob took an enormous silk handkerchief from an inner pocket and wiped his nose, making an operation of it and of its return beneath the coat. Finally, and in a much subdued voice. “You have to understand, Sam,” his voice was plaintive. “This is the big time. The pinnacle of the genre. If it was easy, anybody could do it, but nobody would care.”

Sam’s gaze didn’t waver, nor did he speak.

“There have been thirty-nine previous attempts, Sam,” Bob acknowledged. So far, none of them have crossed the finish line.”

“And what happened to them?”

“Two of them were returned to their original time,” Bob tried to impart lightness into the statement. “They voluntarily chose to forfeit, and were pulled back.”

“And the others?”

Another shrug, this one unaccompanied.

Sam gave that some thought. What else could he have expected? People died by the tens of thousands crossing those lands well into the nineteenth century, most of them much better prepared than he’d be. Many of them with horses and wagons traveling established trails. He’d be one man alone, with no possibility of carrying all he’d need, crossing mostly trackless wilderness. And he’d be on foot for a lot of it. If he chose to go.

But Tucker had made it, hadn’t he. Sure, he was fictional, but Sam had put in some work to make that story as believable as possible. Yeah, Tucker had caught some author-breaks that he, Sam, wouldn’t be able to count on, but everything Tucker did would have been possible in the real world.

He looked over at Bob, sitting there looking kind of nervous, which wasn’t a good look for him. He’d read the book. He had to know. The long road west had been fun to write, but from all he’d heard, kind of a slog to read through. Kind of slow-paced, Meg had told him. The two or three other beta readers he’d managed to talk into trying it hadn’t even finished. Couldn’t hold their interest, they’d written back. Too dull, insufficient story progression.

“The ratings are going to be shit, Bob,” he said in a flat voice.

Bob perked up like he’d been given a medal from the president. “You let me worry about that, Sam,” he laughed heartily, that infectious grin splitting his face wide. “They’ll love it! Just sign the non-disclose and the contract and I’ll take care of the rest.”

They went through the whole rigamarole again, twice, and Sam felt only a twinge at putting his thumb to the list of potential risks to his kids. He already knew how he was going to get past anything that might endanger them, always assuming that this wasn’t the big joke it all but certainly was.

Hell, for all he knew, he was already part of some crappy reality show and some over made up has-been movie hack was about to jump out of a closest to inform him just how badly he’d been punked.

“So,” he said once the formalities had been completed. “How do we go about all of this?”

“Just leave it all to me,” Bob beamed, leaning forward to slap him lightly on the face.

Sam’s world went dark.