“Your companions are prepared and await you in the game vestibule,” the GM said. “But before we begin, I have one last question for you, the Ruby Ticket holder.”
An electric thrill shot up and down Ash’s limbs. This was really happening. He tried to focus on what the GM was saying. “Hit me.”
“We are rolling out a new game feature that we believe will heighten the game experience. Ultimate Mode. Increased realism at every level.”
“It’s not dangerous is it?” Ash asked, knowing how glitchy some beta releases were.
“No player is ever in real physical danger inside Karnath’s Crimson Castle. Would you like to add the beta version of Ultimate Mode to your game experience?”
He loved beta test versions. The occasional glitch made it feel like he was part of the development team, rather than Joe Schmoe Player. And Ivy was out there, and she was even prettier in person, and how could he possibly not blow it? No, be cool, he thought. You’re not going to blow it. You’re going to knock this out of the park. Besides, maybe she’s just as nervous as you are. He tried harder to focus on what the GM was saying. “Yeah, sure, let’s do it!”
“Would you like to read the Terms of Use?”
“Ugh, god no. Let’s do it.”
“Very well. Ultimate Mode enabled.”
Ash took a deep breath and brought up his character view for one last look. He wanted it to be perfect. An idealized vision of himself floated before him, rotating slowly for a 360-degree view. He looked every bit the nineteenth century private investigator, even though it wasn’t quite the trenchcoat-and-fedora era he would have preferred. He looked more like Bat Masterson than Sam Spade, but that was great, too. His bowler hat was quite dashing, and he had added a handlebar mustache—all the fashion at the time—that he could actually twirl. He couldn’t feel it on his lip, because there was no gamesuit there, but he could feel its texture in his fingers. The tactile detail continued to astonish him. The texture of the woolen tweed, the smell of the leather of his gloves and the gun oil of his revolver.
The opposite wall of his dressing room transformed into an ornate wooden door with a brass knocker. He approached the door, marveling at the granular detail, the realism down to the heft of the door knocker, which he lifted and wiggled. It was going to take him some time to get used to all that.
Then he grabbed the door latch and, with a substantial metallic click, opened the door.
A chill breeze washed over him, cutting through his jacket, carrying the scents of the ocean, of mildew, of wet, rotting wood. With the door into the dressing room still open behind him, he stood on a dirt street of a nineteenth century New England town. With him were his three companions, all looking very different, all trading stares of astonishment and curiosity.
Ivy and James were instantly recognizable, even with their faces slightly altered, but the third was a stately, salt-and-pepper haired man of middle age, handsome as a movie star, nattily dressed. This had to be Ellie, and after a moment of studying her face he saw the resemblance, the conversation of a woman’s features to a man’s, complete with Adam’s apple.
“Wow,” Ash said, “do you all look sharp.”
Ivy in particular stunned him again. Under a tailored silk jacket, she wore a brilliant paisley corset and linen poet’s blouse that accentuated some serious virtual curves. It was her eyes, however, that nailed him to the spot. They were still hers, but enhanced, heightened with flecks of color. Her hair had been coiffed into pinned up curls under a jauntily resting top hat. Her prosthetic hand had a brassy, steampunk look. She tipped her hat at him and smiled. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
His cheeks heated, and he wondered if those sorts of physical responses showed up in the avatar they saw. He tried to muster some wetness in his mouth. “Uh, wow, Ivy, you got style to burn.”
She straightened her cuffs and said, “Thanks.”
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He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Is this awesome or what?”
James said, “Two thumbs up thus far, bro. I’m stoked. I got frickin’ magic to use.”
Ivy said, “Just don’t go spoiling the game and trying to break it like some juvenile griefer.”
“Bite me, Ivy,” James replied, glancing at Ellie’s male persona.
The GM’s voice rose clearly in Ash’s ears. “Does your party give permission to livestream your game to online services?”
Ivy said, “Can you tie it into my Twitch stream?”
“Of course,” the GM said. “But first I need a verbal ‘yes’ from each of you.”
They all gave it.
“Thank you,” the GM said, “you will be live in five…four…three…”
Ash’s stomach flipped and wave of exhilaration tingled through every limb. He bounced on his toes. This was gonna be the greatest day of his life.
Rumbling rose up beneath his feet, through his legs, like an approaching avalanche, ending with a gothic, orchestral fanfare that sounded like it was coming up the street, drawing his gaze to the baroque letters hanging in the air above the road, looking as real as if they were made of weathered hardwood and cobwebs.
The Blighted Mansion.
“It’s like walking into a movie or something,” Ellie said in a cultured male voice with a British accent.
“Wow, Ellie,” Ivy said, “that’s uncanny, that voice. Is that really you?”
“In the virtual,” Ellie said with a bow and a tip of her hat.
“That’s just weird,” James said peevishly.
They surveyed their surroundings. A seaside village that had seen more prosperous days. In the distance, surf thundered against a rocky shore, under gray, sagging clouds that looked so sodden they might dump buckets of water at any moment. The shops and houses had been weathered to colorless uniformity. Fishing nets hung in seemingly decoration from the eaves of covered porches. The cry of seagulls echoed in the distance, mournful, so lonesome it sent a chill up Ash’s spine. A horse-drawn wagon trundled over gravelly streets, the only sign of movement or life.
Except for the flashing yellow arrows on the ground pointing them deeper into the town.
“Your challenge awaits,” the GM said.
“Are you all believing this?” Ash said, agog. “I’ve seen VR before, but this is…sheer genius. Did you know Marquand built all the interior VR on an existing three-D game engine?”
Ivy glanced at him, her expression suggesting that she was biting her tongue about something.
He gave her a quizzical look. He wanted to encourage free-flowing communication. “You look like you got something to say.”
Ivy hesitated.
Ash tensed. “I mean, you have to think this is amazing, right?”
Ivy said, “Well, yeah, of course it is. But…” Then she sighed. “You’re not one of those obsessive Marquand sycophants, are you? You know, the ones that sing his praises in spite of everything that’s come out about him?”
Ash stiffened. He was, in fact, a fan of Alastair Marquand, but he hadn’t heard any bad news about him. “How could anyone but a genius engineer build something like this?” He tried to tamp down his reflexiveness. He knew Ivy was really smart from his previous interactions with her—it attracted him as much as her beauty—so, maybe she knew what she was talking about. “But it sounds like you’re talking about some specific things.”
She frowned and counted off the fingers of her cybernetic hand. “First and foremost, there’s the fact that yeah, he built this on an existing three-D game engine, but he stole it all. Bits of pieces of it from dozens of patents. I lost count of the number of lawsuits. He acts like he doesn’t care about them at all, just plowed forward with the project. A couple of the companies suing him, he just bought them. Then there are the little tech start-ups that he bought up, pilfered their innovations, then dissolved. Lots of people lost their jobs. Then there are the stories about terrible working conditions, driving his engineers and programmers to exhaustion, people being hospitalized with depression and psychosis. Then there were the two people were killed in freak accidents during construction of this place. Marquand is under investigation for building code violations.” She crossed her arms. “How have you not heard about any of this?”
His mouth tried to form words but couldn’t. The truth was, he hadn’t. He had seen inflammatory headlines, but he’d ignored them as hatchet jobs from hacks and haters. The internet teemed with that kind of misinformation. The way Ivy said it, though, made it sound like she’d been paying close attention, and that much of it was true. Nevertheless, he bristled. “Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you read on the internet.”
“I could say the same thing,” Ivy said, her frown deepening. “I fact-checked this stuff. Did you?”
More hard truth, he hadn’t, which made him feel foolish. “Can we just play the game?” He started walking in the direction of the flashing arrows, hoping they would follow, tensing more with every step they didn’t. Finally, they did.
Alastair Marquand was maybe the only public figure—however elusive—whom Ash truly respected. The mysterious Marquand was part Walt Disney, part Steve Jobs, part Bill Gates. He had never disclosed where his fortunes came from, but no doubt there were those trying to dig up the dirt. He had a kind of dashing, gentlemanly charm and Old World fashion sense, retro without it looking like a costume, that Ash wished he could emulate. The first thing he was going to do when he got out of here was start looking this stuff up.
But now, feeling like he’d just stuffed both legs into his mouth all the way to his ass, he had to figure out how to salvage this date. Surely this difference of opinion couldn’t be catastrophic.
Could it?