Diane Duane Read online

  The blue crackle of transit fire leaped from stone pillar to stone post of the Ring of Elich, connecting the lintels at the top of the circle. Players stepped through the doorways, verified themselves with the game systems, and vanished. From other portals around the ring, other gateways, players appeared from worlds far off in the Omnitopian Pattern of universes, or worlds very close. Here came a ten- man cadre of a warrior guild returning from some battle, possibly even the one in Pandora that Arnulf had been considering. They were carrying two downed colleagues, and behind them came the guild’s paymaster, staggering under sacks of loot, while behind him came a dragon on a lead, panniers over its huge back, carrying even more. Over there, a laughing group of human “crossbreed” adventurers, dressed like Elves in dagged tunics and bright hose, with bows slung over their shoulders, vanished into a gateway that lay briefly open on the green fields of Whereaway. Each time a group transited, the vista behind them flickered to show where they were going, or where they were coming from. World after world, Macrocosms, Microcosms, foreboding landscapes and benign ones, mountains and meadows, vast oceans, other planets—they were all there. Other gates revealed race courses full of careening vehicles with exhausts afire, or grim looking concrete labyrinths full of people and creatures shooting at each other. The vistas flickered in and out sometimes too quickly to get a grasp of what they were. The Ring of Elich was the second-by-second proof by which Omnitopia lived up to its name. Any kind of game you could think of was here somewhere, either as a Macrocosm built by the game company’s in- house staff, or as Microcosms built by favored gamers. Endless possibilities, endless challenges were here—and at least part of the buzz in the Ring right now was because the whole Omnitopia scenario was about to widen out again in three days’ time, on Midsummer’s Eve, when the walls between the worlds traditionally got thin.

  Arnulf stood there a moment longer, drinking it all in. Just three days until the rollout, he thought. Another shift in the paradigm. What are they going to pull on us this time? What’s going to happen here? I can’t wait to find out! The hair actually stood up on the back of his neck at the thought.

  But then he took a deep breath. Outside, in the real world, time was flying: Angela was going to have words with him if he took too long about this. Okay, Arnulf thought. First, out to Langley B. That‘s going to take about half my transport gold for today. Head to the artificer’s there, pick up that new magian kit. Then back here and do the gating to Meruvelt. Get those robes, then meet up with Tom and see if his people are really serious about doing that run into Pandora . . . they didn’t seem to have their minds made up the last time. Stop in the tavern with them, shoot the breeze for a while, then head back home. Angela did say she wanted me to mow the lawn tonight—

  “Excuse me?”

  Arnulf turned around and found himself looking at a gawky young human male, dark-haired and pale, dressed in Omnitopian beginner’s standard issue: the brown cloak, bleached linen tunic, cotton hose, and brown leather boots of a low-credit kern. He was almost the archetypal Clueless Noob—almost certainly some kid in here for the first time, caught up by the worldwide hype about the expansion rollout. “Well met, comrade,” Arnulf said putting out a hand. “What’s the score?”

  The noob was so new that he didn’t even know yet to clasp Arnulf’s arm in return of the greeting. “Uh, yeah,” the noob said, “everything’s going pretty good. I think.” He looked past Arnulf, staring at the Ring. “Except, uh, I’m not real sure where to go from here . . .”

  Rik/Arnulf kept the smile off his face. I must have been like this once, he thought. But then who wasn’t? I can never understand the schmucks who like making fun of these poor guys . . . “It’s okay,” Arnulf said. “Everything’s a little overwhelming your first few times. You heading outworld?”

  “Oh, yeah, just got my first transit bonus.”

  Rik nodded. He’d heard on the feeds that this had been happening a lot in the run-up to the rollout; noobs were being given outworld transit allotments as soon as they signed up—maybe a little too early, in Rik’s opinion. But the people running the game probably wanted as many new gamers as possible to get out there, see the other worlds, and get their friends excited about it too. “Where were you thinking of going?”

  “Well, I heard about this place called Pandora—”

  Rik looked the noob over while trying not to be too obvious about it. Kerns couldn’t afford a concealed-carry license, so it was immediately obvious that this one didn’t have a weapon, not even a knife. He probably didn’t even know he needed one. Or he thinks they’re cheaper somewhere else, or—oh, heck, who knows what he thinks? But you can’t let somebody like this just charge in there. Though Rik knew there were gamers who would, amused by the prospect of having sent a clueless noob into a war zone unprepared. Serve them right, such people would say afterward. They should’ve read the docs first, they should’ve done their homework, blah blah blah.

  Rik/Arnulf shook his head. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he said. “Unless you’re a really high-level gamer hiding in a noob suit—and don’t get me wrong, I know it can be fun to do that, I’ve done it myself on occasion—then I really don’t recommend you go into Pandora right now. Things are kind of busted loose. There are mercenary bands all over the landscape, and they’ll grab you and chain you up with a caffle of other slaves and sell you off to turn somebody’s grist mill or haul some big heavy war machine all over the landscape till they’ve whipped your avatar to death. Not the best way to get the feeling of the game, huh?”

  The clueless newbie shook his head vigorously. “So I’ll tell you what,” Rik said. “If you go over there—” He pointed off to one side of the Ring. “See that little booth off to the right of the Ring, by where Dancer’s Street comes into the circle? Not that one—a little more to the right. Yeah, the pavilion with the red silk walls. You go over there, tell the Magister behind the counter that you’re new in town and you’d like an in-and-out transport to Pastorale. It’s a really nice Macrocosm, a good place to walk around, trade for a while, get the feeling of your new skin, meet some other people. There’ll be a lot of other n—” Arnulf stopped himself. No point in rubbing the poor noob’s nose in it. “—A lot of players just getting used to the scenario. And there are plenty of really friendly game-generated characters there who’ll help you get the ropes sorted out. Go get yourself some nice souvenirs, help out some bunny rabbit in distress, pick up a flower fairy or two, make a couple of friends, and get out of there with a little extra credit. How does that sound?”

  The noob nodded enthusiastically again, smiling. “Uh, thanks, thanks a lot! It’s all so—”

  “I know,” Arnulf said. “It’s really, really big. You have no idea! But you want to survive long enough to learn to enjoy it.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I will. Listen, thanks—”

  The guy waved at him and actually ran off toward the Magister’s Pavilion. For a moment, Arnulf just watched him go, amused. But he remembered how excited, how completely blown away he’d been the first time he saw the Ring and realized what it meant to his future gameplay. Hope he does survive, Arnulf thought as the noob vanished into the Pavilion. So: there’s my good deed for the day. Time to get moving, though.

  He headed across the circle toward the Ring. The actual transit was a simple matter. As you got close, the Ring protocols checked your game status and points balance, looked to see if you had enough gold, valuta, or other game credit to pay for the transit, and then noted whatever destination settings you’d laid in at the beginning of this session. All you had to do was find a portal that wasn’t occupied with an incoming transit—those were easy to identify, as they grayed themselves out with swirling, iridescent fog—salute the Ring, and step through.

  Arnulf got in the shortest line in front of one of the portals on this side of the Ring—though it was hardly even a line, just a group of ten people. There were about ten people in it, all dressed like contemporary Arctic explorers in pa
rkas and furs. Some of them were hauling “hybrid” sledges on wheels, the runners clipped up at the moment; others were trying to control two leashed sets of excitedly barking huskies, and mostly succeeding. In front of them, as they raised their hands more or less as a group to salute the Ring, the massive portal went from starry darkness to a ferocious obscurity of blowing snow—whiteout conditions that made it impossible to tell what ’cosm they might have been heading for. At the sight of it, the dogs barked with joy and plunged through. The players went after them in haste, vanishing into the screaming whiteness, then the portal went dark and starry again.

  Arnulf Manyfaced stepped up to the doorway, spending only a moment gazing into the endless depths. Then he raised a hand, saluted the Ring, and stepped through—

  —And found that there was something very wrong. It was completely dark all around him, and the hill-town vista surrounding the City of Artificers on Langley B was nowhere to be seen.

  What the heck?

  Cautiously, Rik turned in a slow circle, wondering whether he’d run into some kind of game glitch associated with the upcoming Great Rollout. But then he caught the faint glow off to one side. Blinking a little in the darkness, he turned toward it.

  All around him, and all around the source of the glow, that utter, bottomless blackness remained. But the vague warm light hanging in the sky slowly got brighter and brighter, like a very localized dawn. Suddenly Rik realized that the glow was coming together, coalescing into letters, then finally into words. And in shocking pink and blue, the words said:

  THIS SPACE

  FOR RENT

  Rik’s eyes went wide, and the breath went right out of him as he realized what he was looking at. Standing there, looking through Arnulf’s eyes, it took some moments before he could even summon enough reaction to activate the “player services” control in the game software and bring up his account info. A little graphics window popped open in the darkness next to him, glowing with basic information: his lifetime score history, acquisitions, game gold balance, overt karma, professional in-game associations. And there, by the cross-and-wand logo of MediMages Without Frontiers, he saw something he had never expected to see, never even considered possible: a symbol that looked like a golden apple.

  Oh . . my . . . God!

  In the master info panel, the little envelope logo for his in- game messaging inbox was flashing. “Go to mail,” Rik whispered.

  The window cleared, showed him the messaging pane. One new message, from Omnitopia Microcosm Management to R. Maliani.

  “Open message,” Rik said.

  Dear Rik,

  Congratulations and welcome! Your game status average and other criteria have qualified you for entry to Omnitopia’s Microcosm Development Program. Attached to this message you will find introductory materials and links that will allow you access to . . .

  He had to stop and get control of his breathing: he was actually starting to hyperventilate. Oh. My. God!

  “Game on hold,” Rik said hurriedly. The big pause symbol superimposed itself over his control window and began flashing on and off. He stared up at the glowing words hanging in the empty sky. They didn’t go away.

  “Save position and exit game!” Rik said.

  “Game position saved: exit recorded at seventeen fourteen local time,” said the dulcet Omnitopia control voice. “Thank you, and come back soon to Omnitopia!”

  Between one blink and the next, the darkness vanished. He was lying on the couch in the game room, with the RealFeel goggles and headset screening the rest of the room from view. He pulled them off, still breathing hard. Acoustic ceiling, coffee-colored walls, bookshelves, slightly tatty rug, everything was perfectly normal. Except for what just happened. Not normal, not at all. Maybe we’re finished with normal as we’ve known it . . .

  He leaped up from the couch, yanked the game room door open, and ran down the upstairs hall. “Angela? Angela!”

  No answer. Rik reached the stairs in the middle of the hallway, grabbed the banister, swung himself around on it, and went down the stairs as fast as he could. At the bottom of the stairs, eight- year-old Mike, about to head up to his and Davey’s room, had stopped and was staring wide-eyed at his dad. “Mike, where’s Mommy?”

  “Out back, Daddy—”

  Rik plunged past his son and ran around the corner and down the hall that led to the kitchen and the back door. “Angela?”

  She had been sitting out on their little concrete patio reading a book. Now, though, almost certainly having heard him shouting upstairs, she was on her feet, heading toward the back door. He caught her halfway in a bear hug, swinging her around and around.

  She stared at him. “Rik, what is it, what’s the matter?”

  “Absolutely nothing!” he shouted. “Everything’s great!”

  After a moment or two Angela dug her feet in and stopped him from twirling her around. “What?” she said. “What is it? Did we win the lottery or something?”

  “Better than that!”

  She gave him a strange look. “What? What could be better?”

  “I just got a message from Omnitopia. They’ve elected me to the Microcosm program! I’m going to have my own Microcosm!”

  She blinked at him. “And this is good?”

  He swallowed, trying to calm himself. “Honey,” he said, “how many people play Omnitopia?”

  Angela shook her head. “I don’t know. You’ve told me once or twice, but I have to admit I probably wasn’t listening. Fifty million or something like that?”

  “Two hundred million,” he said. “That company makes about a million bucks a minute—”

  “At least one of them off you,” Angela said, giving him an amused look.

  “Nothing like that much. But don’t you get what this means? They want me to come build a world for them that’ll run inside Omnitopia! And every single time somebody comes to play in it—we get money!” He hugged her hard. “They call it ‘one percent of Infinity.’ If this works out—we could make . . .”

  She looked at him with suspicion, though it was tinged with interest. “How much?”

  There she was, Mrs. Practicality again: but right now Rik didn’t mind. “I don’t know. It depends. But it could be a lot! There are some Microcosm builders who’ve made a million bucks in their first year!”

  Her eyes went wide. Then the caution showed again. “Okay. And how many?”

  “Not a whole lot. Okay, a handful! But you don’t have to become a millionaire from it for it to make a big difference! It could mean a few thousand extra bucks a month for us, and for quite a while. A few less of those double shifts for you and me. Maybe even that new kitchen you’ve been wanting . . .”

  “Wow,” Angela said softly. “You really think it could make that much of a difference?”

  “It could. It could. If I’m smart about what I do. If . . .”

  And there the knot in the balloon tightened down hard, without Angela saying a word. “If I can figure out what to do,” Rik said. “I’ve never thought about this before! I never thought this had the slightest chance of happening to me! Somebody’s handed me the world on a plate, I can build my own universe, and I have absolutely no idea what to do!”

  And Rik broke out in a cold sweat of sheer terror. But after only a moment or so he had to find room for some surprise as well, for Angela was simply standing there and smiling at him. It was an unusual sort of smile, one he didn’t see often enough to suit him, but which delighted him when it turned up: absolute pride.

  “You will,” Angela said. “You’ll figure it out. And you’ve finally succeeded in convincing me that the people who run that game are worth something. Because it looks like they’ve realized that you are.”

  She took him by the arm. “Come on,” Angela said. “That other bottle of Cold Duck in the fridge from my birthday party? Let’s go pop it and celebrate.”

  His pulse still hammering in his ears, Rik let Angela lead him back into the kitchen. Everything was go
ing to change, if he could just get this right, and the change would be far bigger for him, for the whole Maliani family, than anything that was merely going to happen inside Omnitopia in three days’ time.

  If I can just get this right, Rik thought as he sat down, dazed, at the dining room table. If I can just keep from screwing it up!

  The bottle went pop! Rik barely heard it. A few moments later, Angela pushed a supermarket champagne glass into his hand. “To Omnitopia!” she said.

  Rik nodded. “Omnitopia,” he said. “And Dev Logan!”

  They clinked their glasses together and drank.

  And jeez, Rik thought, do I wish I had him here right now, so I could say to him: okay, smart guy, what the heck do I do now?

  ONE

  THE EIGHTH RICHEST MAN IN THE WORLD LAY VERY STILL, not really sure he wanted to open his eyes.

  Did the alarm go off? I didn’t hear the alarm go off. Did I forget to set it? Impossible. Today, of all days, that wasn’t going to happen. I must have just been really tired . . .

  From his side of the bed, in a whisper, the broadband radio box was saying, “. . . indicating that Typhoon Lupit has weakened to category two and may have shifted track enough to miss the Philippines. Russia today deploys the first of its new Sergey Gorshkov class frigates, a move that State Department sources says carries significant implications of a change of Russian defense strategy and power projection in the Middle East. And the state of Arizona gets back the capitol building it sold off in the depths of the Great Recession with help from a prominent citizen who describes his move as ‘all just part of the game.’ It’s Friday, June 19, 2015, and this is Morning Edition from NPR . . .”