Brain Games (Rich Weed Book 3) Page 5

  We could probably whip one up if you so desired, said Paige. All we’d really need is a bucket and some tubing.

  I grimaced. “Yeah, how about you remind me to head out of the simulation in a few hours in the event I get too immersed.”

  I guess that works, said Paige. But don’t expect to ever climb the competitive gaming ranks with that attitude.

  Carl sauntered by and helped himself to a seat on the couch opposite me. “So. I heard you’re ready to go in.”

  “Sure am,” I replied. “What about you? Are you fully charged? Did you grease your actuators? Did you…I don’t know. What else do you do to keep yourself in peak physical condition?”

  “Nothing,” said Carl. “It’s one of the benefits of not being biological. But I’m not coming with you.”

  “What?” I said. “Paige, did you forget to buy Carl his own subscription? Seriously, they’re not that expensive.”

  “Cost isn’t the factor,” said Carl. “Once again, it’s biology. They won’t let me play.”

  I blinked. “What do you mean? Why not?”

  There are a few reasons, said Paige. The first and foremost is precisely because of those gaming ladders I alluded to. Gaming is competitive, and droids are simply faster than humans. Their physical speed and dexterity don’t matter in a simulation, but the mental aspects do, and that’s where the disparity between organic and synthetic life is the most glaring. If you let droids compete in gaming tournaments, humans would never win. Easier to ban them outright.

  “And the other reasons?” I asked.

  They’re interpersonal and sociological, mostly, said Paige. While Intros can find face to face interactions almost crippling, most are extremely sociable in simulated contexts. That’s actually one of the major draws of gaming services such as Princess’s. Studies show gamers spend roughly equal time in games as they do in the simulated hub worlds.

  “What does this have to do with androids?” I asked.

  “When individuals sign on to a gaming service, they want to know the people they’re interacting with are actually people,” said Carl. “If they were to find out their best friends were actually droids in real life, they’d feel cheated. It’s stereotypical and quite frankly hurtful, but to most gamers, droids are no different than NPCs.”

  “I don’t speak gamer,” I said. “Someone’s going to have to translate.”

  Non-player characters, said Paige. Simulated consciousnesses. Like me, basically, but not as much fun.

  I snorted. “Who could be? But seriously, that means you’re not joining me in the gaming sim, Carl?”

  He shook his head. “Wish I could, Rich. But I’ll keep a good eye on you from here in the real world. Make sure the mice don’t nibble on your toes.”

  Don’t worry, said Paige. I’ll be there with you, right at your side.

  “Of course you will,” I said. “It’s impossible to shake you. You’re like a drug-resistant fungal infection.”

  Kisses. Love you too.

  “Okay, let’s go over the plan,” I said. “We’ll sign in and focus on finding the folks who show up in Lars’s friend list and recently played list. Hopefully, either they’ll be able to confirm Lars hasn’t been online in weeks, in which case we can assume his account was in fact glitched, or they’ll tell us otherwise, and we can play it from there. Paige? What does Lars’s Princess account list as his most recently played game?”

  Marked 4 Death, said Paige. It’s an acclaimed zombie shooter. It’s said to be very lifelike, assuming you can buy into the physically impossible concept of zombies in the first place.

  “Well, it’s a trope to be sure,” I said. “But given the levels of genetic engineering we’ve achieved, I’d hesitate to say anything’s impossible…”

  I don’t mean it in a biological sense, said Paige. I mean that zombies couldn’t function without breaking fundamental laws of thermodynamics. Seriously. They don’t eat, except for the odd brain or two. Given the joule demands of the human body, and one would assume the undead one, zombies would quickly shrivel and cease to function. Anyone trapped in a zombie apocalypse could simply wait for a few weeks in a bunker and emerge to find all the undead impotent. Maybe if they photosynthesized, but seeing as they spend most of their time shambling around at night…

  Good thing I wasn’t a horror addict, otherwise my spirits would’ve been forever crushed. “Forget I ever asked. Are any of Lars’s friends still playing Marked 4 Death?”

  Paige checked the gaming servenets for me. Looks like two of them are currently signed in, in a party no less, which makes our task a bit simpler.

  “Can we track them?”

  I’m not sure, said Paige. I’ve never played the game either, having resided in your head for the past, you know, ever. But as far as I know, Princess is like any other online gaming service in that they offer in-game player tracking and data. Remember, they want to engage people socially. It’s a huge part of their draw.

  “Perfect,” I said. “So that’s where we’ll go. Paige. Are we ready?”

  Again, it’s not as if we’re preparing for a high speed takeoff. You give the word, and I’ll sign you in.

  “Well, let’s do it, then,” I said. “Carl. See you on the flip side.”

  Carl gave me a nod and a smile as my vision faded to black.

  8

  A scene materialized in front of me, a flat sea of pink with the words ‘Princess Gaming—We Get Gamers!’ floating before my eyes in a large white font. That soon faded, replaced by a circular room, but one no less pink than the indistinct ocean of color that had preceded it. The carpeting, walls, and ceiling had all been pulled from a baby girl’s nursery, as had the upholstery on the pair of sofa chairs in front of me. On first glance, there didn’t appear to be any exits, merely an enormous display on the far wall, one unsurprisingly trimmed in bubblegum pink.

  “Well, this is a little nice for a dilapidated zombie shack,” I said. “But I guess I’ll take it. I’ve never been particularly into the whole blood and guts scene.”

  “It’s the mandatory new signee orientation,” said Paige. “We won’t be able to enter Marked 4 Death until we complete it. Should be pretty painless.”

  “Speaking of pain, how lifelike are these games anyway?” I asked. “If a zombie latches onto my arm and starts chowing down, will I be blinded by searing agony?”

  “Relax, Rich,” said Paige. “These are games, first and foremost. You can engage a realism mode if you so desire, but most don’t. Try to enjoy yourself.”

  I felt a touch on my shoulder. I whirled and screamed, fists ready for action.

  “Seriously?” said Paige. “If you’re acting like this now, I can’t wait until we get in the game.”

  Paige stood behind me, exactly as I’d always imagined her—roughly my height, strong and slender, with skin the color of caramel, spiky black hair, and piercing green eyes flecked by blue and gold. A pair of pinkish, purplish blue space-themed leggings hugged her lower body, while a plain black tank top revealed her well-toned arms.

  “You’re…here,” I said dumbly.

  “Yeah,” she said. “One of the benefits of getting to tag along with you into a virtual world. I actually get a body. What do you think?”

  Paige crossed her feet, stuck out a hand, and performed a little twirl, but the room’s pink carpeting and the high-top sneakers she wore weren’t designed for low friction. She petered out before she completed her three-sixty.

  “I think you need to work on your dance moves, is what I think,” I said.

  Paige gave me a long glance over the end of her nose. “I spend decades inside your head before showing myself, and that’s the best you’ve got? No wonder you’re single.”

  “So let me get this straight,” I said. “Carl can’t sign into the gaming servenets, but you can? What’s the logic there?”

  “I’m only here because you are,” said Paige. “I couldn’t sign on by my
self, avoiding that human or not human, player or non-player character sticking point we already discussed.”

  “Seems like a thin line to toe,” I said. “Especially given your non-threatening, nerdacious good looks. You’ll be beating them off with a stick, if given the chance.”

  “Well, thank you,” said Paige with a small courtesy. “But I wouldn’t worry too much about that. As a function of your Brain, I won’t show up in the gaming metadata. Other players will be able to see me and interact with me, but they’ll all know exactly what I am—which may reflect poorly on you, so be prepared.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Gaming with your Brain avatar?” Paige tilted her head and gave me a smirk. “Kind of a noob thing to do.”

  I heard the wail of guitars and the thrum of a bass behind me. I turned, finding that the large, wall-mounted display had flared to life. A promotional vid of some sort had started to play, one featuring clips of various games—hundreds of fighters zipping through space exchanging pulse rounds and firing torpedoes, a knight in shining armor riding a dragon into a wall of flame, and a dark corridor with flashing lights and ominous rumbles echoing forth, among others. After a minute, the clips ended, as did the promotional jingle, instead being replaced with the now familiar Princess Gaming logo.

  The logo receded to a backdrop, and a man walked out on screen, the same greasy-haired, grey-suit clad salesman type I’d seen on the poster in the lobby of Lars’s apartment building.

  “Hello, gaming fan,” he said, giving me the finger guns, “I’m Johnny Masters, president and CEO of Princess Gaming, where we get gamers. Looking to escape the monotony of everyday life? To engage in fierce battles with everything from rogue Diraxi overlords to all-powerful necromancers? To explore the vast expanse of space at a speed physics can only dream to match? Or perhaps, like myself, you’re a lifelong introvert looking for social engagement with your peers in a casual, stress-free environment?

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Princess Gaming is Cetie’s industry leader in fully immersive Brain gaming, with over ten thousand exclusive games and simulations, over ten billion square kilometers of actively maintained hub worlds, and tens of millions of subscribers. Whether it’s action, fantasy, science fiction, horror, adventure, or simply social interaction you’re after, you’ll find it here at Princess! And I don’t say that as merely the president of Princess Gaming, but as an active gamer, member, and contributor to the Princess community myself. So let me be the first to thank you for your decision to join our thriving world, and remember—when you’re in a Princess sim, the only rule is to have fun!”

  The display flicked off, and the entire unit began to fold upon a hinge toward the ceiling.

  I shook my head. “Princess Gaming. What kind of name is that anyway? Did they initially have trouble appealing to the female market?”

  “It’s an old gaming trope,” said Paige. “The princess is in another castle. It’s from one of the very first video games of all time.”

  A beam of light sliced through the wall below the now retracted display. It opened, like a portal into another universe. I walked forward, but before I’d taken two steps, a couple had emerged from the glowing rectangle. One was a stunningly beautiful woman with a Gaian build, long blonde hair, and a tight, three-piece skirt suit. The other was more familiar.

  “Hey,” I said. “You’re the guy from the vid.”

  “That’s right,” he said as he approached. “Johnny Masters. Pleasure to meet you.”

  He stuck out a hand. I reluctantly shook it. Thankfully, it wasn’t as greasy as his hair.

  “Rich Weed,” I said. “No offense, but can I, you know…play some games now?”

  Masters smiled. “Ah, a man after my own heart. Don’t worry, friend. That’ll come soon enough. But as president and CEO of Princess Gaming, I place the utmost importance on our user experience, which is why I personally greet every new enrollee in our services to thank them—and to familiarize them with our in game controls and terms of operation so that each and every one experiences a safe, comfortable, and enjoyable time while here at Princess.”

  Paige snorted.

  Masters smiled even more broadly and extended his hand to her. “Johnny Masters. You are?”

  She didn’t shake. “Bernadette P. Floppypants. President and CEO of Rich’s gray matter.”

  “That’s Paige,” I said. “She runs my Brain.”

  “A little on the facetious side, I take it,” said Masters.

  “Me?” said Paige. “Never. But when you introduced yourself as the Johnny Masters, I assumed we’d already entered one of Princess’s various fantasy lands. You know, seeing as it would be impossible for you to personally greet the hundreds of new gamers who join your service every hour, and that a real CEO would have much better things to waste his time on than meet and greets.”

  Masters spread his arms out wide, never faltering in his smile. “You see right though me, Paige. If you wish to be technical about it, I’m Mr. Masters’ personal avatar, but I assure you, for all intents and purposes, I am him and he is me. Our company engineers worked tirelessly to ensure that my real and digital personas matched perfectly. Why? Because we get gamers, that’s why! And at Princess, we want to ensure that every interaction, whether it be with another life form or a digital consciousness imprint such as yourself is as flawless as possible. Now, Mr. Weed, if you wouldn’t mind, let’s go ahead and proceed with the orientation. Let’s start with a simple spatial coordinates exam to ensure your Brain’s compatibility with our systems. Simply move your arms forward, up, and to the sides concurrently, and when you’re done with that, please tilt your head up, down, and side to side.”

  “Seriously?” I said. “Look, I may not be a regular gamer, but it’s not as if I’ve never jumped into a sim before.”

  “All part of the orientation, Mr. Weed,” said Masters. “The faster we get through it, the faster you can get to gaming. Besides, as I already said, your safety and enjoyment is of utmost concern to us. By testing—”

  I held up a hand. “Look, I know how this works. Isn’t there a waiver I could sign? You know, saying that if I get stuck in a wall it’s my own fault because I didn’t sit through your lousy seminar? Or that if I suffer night terrors from playing too much Marked 4 Death I won’t consider you responsible?”

  “Very well.” Masters snapped at the woman who stood by his side. She produced a small, portable display from behind her back and gave it to him. He tapped a few buttons before holding it forward.

  A mass of text filled the screen. Masters pointed to a box in the lower right hand corner. “To affirm you were offered the orientation training and refused, please press your thumb here.”

  I did so.

  Masters tapped a few more buttons and held the screen forth again. “And to absolve Princess Gaming of liability in the use of our gaming services, including gross negligence on the part of you, the user, and glitches, malfunctions, and errors on the part of us, Princess Gaming, and covering everything from damage to Brains and associated computing systems, physical disease, malnourishment, and sloth resulting from excessive consumption of Princess services, and psychological damage induced by participation in any number of lifelike Princess simulations, please press your thumb here.”

  Again, I did so. “Is that it?”

  Masters snapped the screen back and held it between hands clasped at his waist. “That’s it, Mr. Weed. I hope you enjoy your time with us for as long or short as it may be. And remember—should you change your mind, you can always retake this orientation from within your internal hub. Just pull up your visual overlay to access it.”

  Masters stepped to the side, as did the smartly dressed hostess. He extended his hand toward the portal. I took a step towards it.

  “And Mr. Weed?”

  I paused and sighed. “Yes…?”

  Masters gave me the finger guns. “Remember. Have fun!”

 
; “I’ll try.”

  I gestured to Paige and stepped through the portal.

  I’m not entirely sure what I expected—to fall though a parti-colored wormhole, feel a rush of acceleration, or have my surroundings pixelate, dissipate, and coalesce into something new—but the experience was more like passing under a white drape. Suddenly, the pink of the orientation room was gone, replaced with a dilapidated living room, one with moldy walls, boarded windows, filled with moth-eaten furniture, and covered in a thin layer of grime. A single antique lamp set upon an end table tried its hardest to fill the room with light, but its weak rays faded and disappeared as they made their way toward the room’s high ceiling and up the warped wooden staircase at my back. Overall, the dwelling seemed ancient and backwards, but I supposed part of the appeal of horror games was a certain rustic, minimalist je ne sais quoi.

  Paige stepped through the portal and joined me at my side, after which the floating white rectangle winked and disappeared.

  “Looking good, Rich,” she said.

  “Huh?” I looked down. “Gah!”

  Somehow I’d lost my lightweight guayabera and Linenesse slacks combination, which had been replaced with a pair of worn cargo pants and a stained white tank top. My pant hems had been stuffed into the black combat boots I wore, and a heavy flack jacket rested upon my chest.

  I gave Paige a look. “How did this happen? And why didn’t you suffer the same fate?”

  Paige still rocked her leggings and tight, sleeveless top, though there was a new addition. A bandolier packed with a half-dozen shells hung over her torso, and peeking over her shoulder were the butt and stock of a weapon—a shotgun, if the shells were any indication.

  “I was already prepared for the apocalypse,” she said. “Tight fitting clothes and running shoes, baby. That’s all you need. Besides, you look good in camo and riot gear. You’re like a sexy space marine turned dad turned man who doesn’t know how to launder his clothes.”