The NextWorld 02: Spawn Point (8 page)

I can't stop thinking about all that we've lost. The streets of DangerWar City that I loved. The equipment shops where I filled my inventory. The penthouse apartment where Cyren and I watched so many sunsets.

I think about Deathsand Desert. It used to be home to the doorway which at one point was my only means of escape. It's strange to think about now, after risking so much to stay, that at one point I was willing to risk so much to leave. I think about the friends that accompanied me on that journey. It felt like we could have accomplished anything. I wish they were with me now. Maybe things would have turned out differently.

I consider opening a video-cast with Xen, but when I think about the risk of unleashing yet another worm right here, inside the cargo jet, I shut the menu screen with a quick swipe of my hand.

I drop my head and close my eyes, shutting out the view of the worm's gaping maw. There is a moment of loneliness. The weight of the situation rests upon my shoulders, as if it's up to me to turn this hopeless situation around. It's my own stubbornness that fuels that fire. No one else is pressuring me to save them. In fact, there is a melancholy attitude reverberating inside the jet that isn't allowing the civilians or the Level Zeros to see a future.

But the game isn't over yet.

I barely notice Cyren sit down, her stealthy movements allowing her to slide in next to me like a breeze rather than a body. I shudder when she sets her hand atop mine. I open my eyes and meet her gaze. I can't read her state of mind, but I know she's reading mine.

“You're going to be okay,” she says.

“We're all going to be okay. The civilians will change the code, hack the fuel supply, and we'll have as much time as we need to figure out a new plan.”

She smiles, but I notice something different in her eyes. Is that sympathy?

Her smile doesn't break as she says, “The world is gone.”

I shake my head, not wanting to hear what she's saying. “You're still here. That's all that matters. We still have the jet and-”

“Then what?”

“Then... I don't know,” I say, exhausted. “At least we're still alive.”

She rests her head on my shoulder and says, “This isn't living.”

I reject it. I reject her. I stand up, maybe a little too forcefully, pushing her away as I do.

My voice strains defensively as I say, “That's exactly what this is. We survived. I got us away from...” I point out the window at the open mouth of the worm with its spinning teeth and hollow throat. “...
that.
”

“I know that. Everyone does. You were great. You were wonderful. As always. You did as much and even more than anyone could have done.”

“So what then? Is that not enough?”

She doesn't look away. She keeps gazing into me, like she's trying to cradle me with her eyes.

“You tell me.”

I look around the jet. The civilians are flipping through pages, scrolling through lines of code and scribbling with their quill pens to change if/then statements and recalculate algorithms. They're working at a furious pace, but they wear a blank expression, like they're struggling to accept some kind of inevitability that only they are aware of.

The remaining Level Zeros sit in their own chairs, fiddling with their weapons, unsure of what to do now that they have nothing left to fight.

There are a few cargo containers buckled to the floor, most likely empty, only there as environmental decoration for the game. Some radar equipment sits behind a fenced off area with blinking lights and flashing screens twinkling in the corner, detecting nothing. The rest of the jet is industrial beams and bare walls. Function over form. It might not be pretty, but it's keeping us safe. It's keeping
her
safe.

“Yes,” I blurt out. Confidently. Defiantly. “This
is
enough.
You
are enough. All I need is you.”

She smiles again in that sympathetic way. For some reason it feels condescending, like she understands something that I don't, and she's patiently waiting for me to catch up.

“That's sweet. It really is. And I have no doubt, that at this moment in time, you believe that.” The smile falters. It shakes a bit as she struggles to maintain it, and then falls away. “But I could never ask you to do that. I could never ask you to live like this.”

“You don't have to. I'm making the choice on my own. This isn't a sacrifice. I get to keep living with you, and I-”

“This isn't like before. This isn't like when you chose our world over NextWorld. You'd go mad here.” She looks around at the other civilians, still pouring over their code books. “We all would.”

“That's not true. You'd still be able to study, and learn, and-”

She reaches out and grabs my hand. The leather glove is cold. She pulls me closer so that I'm sitting down next to her again. She puts both her arms around me and hugs me. It's forceful, but oddly comforting, like she's pressing her calm into me.

I try to push her away again, ready to argue more, but she holds on to me, her fingers gripping my trench coat and holding me in place.

“Not all of us have to die. If you log-out-”

“No!” I shout, but my lips are pressed into her shoulder. My mind flips into problem-solving mode. “We can fix the firewall. We can keep flying.” I jump from idea to idea before I shake my head and say, “We'll figure something out. I'm never going to leave you. That's never been an option for me. I won't-”

“Shh,” she whispers. “Sit with me for a while.”

I close my eyes and do as she asks. It's actually easier than I expected to not think about anything. I inhale the smell of her leather-strapped suit and relax into her powerful arms. I feel like a child again. Something that hasn't happened in a long, long time. Since my mother.

I'm not sure how much time has passed when we hear a calm, sedated voice say, “Excuse me.”

An old man wearing a tweed jacket steps next to us. He adjusts his glasses and speaks to Cyren. “We wanted to inform you that we've succeeded in changing the code.”

He doesn't wait for a response. He pivots on one foot and returns to his seat. The civilians all close their code books, which disappear into their inventory, and stare straight ahead. Their faces are devoid of any humanity. It's unnerving.

“That's... that's good,” I say, but when I look at Cyren, she looks far from happy. I put my hand on her shoulder and say, “Cyren, I know you don't believe me, but now that we don't have to worry about fuel, we can-”

“Arkade,” she says my name in a whisper and takes a deep breath before she continues. “That isn't the code that they changed.”

Her words confuse me, but the ominous tone she uses causes my stomach to sink.

“What are you talking about?”

I look around the interior of the jet at all the faces of the civilians, hoping for some kind of explanation, but their eyes are vacant.

Cyren touches the side of my face and turns my gaze back toward her. Her eyes are glossy with tears, but she's holding them back, doing everything she can to stop them from falling. She stares at me for a long time. Too long.

“I knew you'd never leave me. I knew that was never an option for you.” She smiles as a tear rolls down her face. “Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself.”

She's not answering my question, and the panic inside my chest is rising from the unknown.

“What did they change?”

Her answer is simple and soft, like she's offering me a goodnight kiss.

“They changed your spawn point.”

I stumble backward, away from her.

“No,” I say, but no matter how strongly I mean it, it falls powerlessly from my mouth.

“It's the only chance you have. You can go on living, without fear.”

“I don't want this,” I say, my voice breaking with desperation. “I need to be here with you. I need to protect you. I need to save you.”

She steps toward me and places her hands on either side of my head. She leans in and her kiss lingers against my lips. I lose myself, unable to focus on my own distress. She pulls away and her mouth rounds my cheek, settling in next to my ear.

She whispers, “It's time for
me
to save
you
.”

She steps back from me. Her fists clench. The muscles in her arms tighten, bulging with her Level 100 strength. I want to beg her to stop and think about what she's about to do. I want to plead my case and give her a thousand reasons why I should stay. I want to step away from her, but I can't move. Seeing her as a threat is something I don't understand. My brain stalls. The moment hangs between us. She steps forward and my body shudders. I flinch, ready for her attack, but her body slackens. Her muscles relax and her fists unclench. She covers her face and begins to cry.

“I can't do it.”

I let out a breath. My body melts back into the reality I know. Cyren would never hurt me. I was foolish to think she would.

“It's okay,” I say, reaching out toward her. “There's no need to-”

From behind me, hands slap down on each of my shoulders, fingers digging into me. They yank me backward and I slam onto the floor of the cargo area. I'm stunned as I look up and see the faces of the remaining Level Zeros pinning me to the floor.

I hear Cyren in the distance whimpering, “I'm sorry. This is the only way to make sure you'll be okay.”

I struggle, but there are too many of them. They point rifles and shotguns at me, the barrels inches from my face.

The last thing I hear is Cyren's voice.

“I love you.”

My death is instantaneous.

The announcer's voice is loud and clear. It lists the names of the Level Zeros that killed me. It tells me I'm dead, but my ears deny the truth as much as my mind and my heart.

Pixels appear in the black, fading into view, multiplying their resolution. As they form, a part of me still believes that I'll see the game world of DangerWar 2. Maybe I'll be floating in the blackness of the deleted desert, or maybe I'll return to the inside of the cargo plane. My hopefulness would accept either, but as the world takes shape, I recognize my surroundings all too well.

DOTfun.

I'm standing outside the gates of the original DangerWar. Gamers of all ages are shouting and laughing, showing off the new inventory they acquired or bragging about their high score. A myriad of transports roll up, gallop up, or fly up to the gate, and players disembark, ready to start a new game session. The sky is an unrealistic shade of blue and the clouds are as white as I remember.

My eyes flash to the wall, next to the gate, where the wooden door once stood as an entrance to DangerWar 2, but there is nothing there. I fall to my knees. My mind is weak. Useless.

My player stats are public and available for all to see, but it takes a few seconds before one of the players notices my name in the NextWorld social system. An avatar designed to look like a skeleton stops in his tracks and points at me.

“Arkade?” he says, his voice sounding young and prepubescent. “Hey! That's the Game Master!”

A few more players stop and take notice. Some of them mumbling, which grows into arguing, which turns into shouting.

“That's not Arkade.”

“Yes it is! Look at his player stats!”

“It's a hack. Someone is goofing off.”

“No, she's right. Look at how much time he has logged on DangerWar 2.”

“How did he get out?”

“What's wrong with him?”

The arguing and shouting of the growing mob is silenced when the sky above me flashes with a pulsating red light. I remain on my knees. None of this matters. I'm not here. I can't be.

“It's the DgS!”

DOTgov Security officers teleport into the domain and surround me. Their sleek, silver bodies appear androgynous and they are impossible to tell apart aside from the numbers on their backs. The officers swipe their hands in the air, raising screens full of sensors and readouts. Information scrolls past their vision. A few of them nod in agreement before one of the officers steps closer.

“User name: Arkade. We have flagged your account and will log you out immediately to be processed IRL.”

I never thought I'd have to hear that acronym ever again. In Real Life. I can't process the fear that idea causes in me. It's cracking my mind in a thousand places. I'm not ready. I want to cry out, to beg them to stop, to give me one more chance. Please, please, please let me back in. But they don't give me the chance.

The officer reaches out and touches me with a hand that glows red for a second before the world collapses in on itself, shrinking to a tiny white dot in the center of my vision. The dot fades and I hear the voice that was once so common place, but now is more like a forgotten bit of nostalgia.

“Wireless connection disengaged from your nanomachines.”

Tubes retract from my orifices. The long one pulling out from below my waist is uncomfortable enough, but I choke when the feeding tube pulls itself from my throat.

“Biological connections disengaged.”

It's cold. No, maybe it's warm. I don't understand what my skin is telling me because I haven't felt a real temperature in years. The sensation is strange and it takes a few seconds for me to adjust.

My curiosity is begging me to look around, but I keep my eyes shut. I don't want to see. Not really. Not with my actual, biological eyes. I don't want to see the dirt and the grime and the filth of the real world. I think that maybe if I keep them closed I'll fall asleep. At least I can dream. If that's as close as I can get to removing myself from this physical world, I'll take it.

“Welcome back.”

I recognize the voice, but after it speaks, my brain can't locate the memory it's searching for. My eyes blink open. The brightness of the E-womb's interior light is blinding, but as my vision adjusts, I'm able to make out a blurry figure. Like the pixels in the game, my vision defines until I can see the details of the face peering through the open hatch. My brain floods with memories as the connection to the voice is made.