LIGHTNOVELONLINE Prolog I California
And what is science fiction at its best but an infinitely expandable metaphor exactly suited to our expanding universe, a broken mirror of numberless fragments, any one of which is capable of reflecting the reader.
— Ursula K. Le Guin
The Language of the Night: Essays on Fantasy and Science Fiction
With a future of magic, monsters, and melee, what sense did it make to become anxious over an airport?
“Hey, buddy. Do you mind giving us a little room?” The man driving the indoor golf cart had been polite enough not to hit his buzzer and thanked me for stepping aside.
The baggage cart’s passengers didn’t look like they needed a ride, but perhaps the perks of first-class tickets included complimentary rides. I wouldn’t know, having never been inside an airport before. Electronic vehicles looked out of place in the crowded terminal, and it seemed unfair to expect everyone to step aside to let it pass, but no one enforced classism like the airlines.
Indoor golf carts weren’t the only oddity about airports. After practically growing up in public libraries, I’d developed a broad vocabulary, but I’d never encountered the word “concourse” before, yet everyone in the airport seemed to know it. And everyone had their tickets, so why did they make the ticketing area so large?
I found my assigned gate by mimicking other passengers and deciphering the ubiquitous signage. I queued when others queued, only to learn I belonged to another boarding group. Getting rejected by the gate attendant embarrassed me enough to avoid the line altogether, and I entered last. The entire process seemed overly complicated, but they obviously knew better than me. With assigned seating, I saw no reason to get on before others until I boarded and found no space for my luggage.
My California destination would be the site of Crimson Software’s playtest, a promotional event for their new title, The Book of Dungeons. The playtest involved a battle royale format where I’d fight against 63 other contestants in a virtual fantasy world of Crimson’s making. And games used familiar rules, unlike this airport.
This trip to the West Coast counted as my first plane ride, and I can’t say that I enjoyed it. The aircraft’s misaligned seats and windows prevented me from seeing outside without craning my neck. Why didn’t everyone with a window seat get a window? The design seemed sloppy.
I wanted to look outside, but someone closed the shutter beside the sleeping passenger in front of me. Since opening it might wake them up, I spent much of the flight deliberating etiquette and window jurisdiction.
Seven hours later, we landed in Orange County, whose lingering daylight surprised me until I remembered the time zone difference. Crimson’s instructions led me to ground transportation, where I searched for Geronimo Shuttles.
Outside the airport, unweathered buildings aligned the roads filled with foreign cars and no potholes. The airport’s manicured bushes, golf course grass, and rows of palm trees seemed more idyllic than organic. The perfection did little to calm my nerves while I looked for my ride.
A Geronimo shuttle pulled to the curb bearing its destination—Crimson Software. I climbed aboard to be its only occupant, except for the driver.
Californians had reputations for friendliness, and the driver proved no exception, asking me if I’d been in California before.
“No, sir.”
“What do you think?”
“The trees out here are skinny. They’re much bigger in New Jersey.”
“Our topsoil is thin. West Coast winds would knock over your New Jersey trees in a single winter. Anything with too many leaves tips right over.” He made the observation with pride.
“Will we get to see the ocean?”
“Nah. We’re going to Irvine.”
Life in Atlantic City accustomed me to beaches, but our inland heading disappointed me. I’d get no glimpses of California’s world-famous coastline. Crimson Software’s blockbuster titles may have raked in bundles, but finding oceanfront accommodations for 64 contestants amounted to an extravagance even for them.
Crimson’s event served as a playtest, a reality show, and a last-player-standing competition, making me their guinea pig, goldfish, and pit bull. Contestants knew as little about their upcoming title as the general public, so I couldn’t get excited about anything specific aside from it being their first new game in a decade. I hoped for adventure and prize money, but the trip also allowed me to see Southern California, where everything seemed to happen.
The shuttle pulled into a parking lot of an office building—a glass box ringed by rock gardens and bushes smoothly trimmed. The structure featured no marquee, spotlights, or red carpet. No cheering fans or looky-loos waited outside. It didn’t seem to be a venue for an international event, but the driver assured me we’d arrived at the right place.
The valet station impressed me. My uncle called valet services a scam and complained to the television whenever actors used one. “Why pay for something you can do yourself for free?”
I made sure my belongings stayed with me, knowing that anyone handling my bag might expect a tip. This trip wasn’t a vacation, and I didn’t have cash to spread around.
A black felt board with movable white capital letters greeted me inside the vestibule. “Welcome to Crimson Software’s Battle Royale–Contestants Please Check in at Front Desk.”
Next to the welcoming sign stood a tall, retractable banner exalting the virtues of Octagon Semiconductors, a proud sponsor of the reality show. The Book of Dungeons logo appeared beside a picture of Octagon’s processors, and sales literature about their newest hardware covered a nearby table. Even if Crimson chose Octagon’s hardware to run their game, advertising server architecture to teenagers seemed strange.
A gorgeous woman who looked like she belonged behind a make-up counter greeted me at the reception desk. “Good evening, sir. I can process your check-in if you like. May I have your participant ID, please?”
I wasn’t accustomed to polite interactions. People who dressed like her usually gave me dirty looks for skateboarding near the shopping center. I rummaged through my contest paperwork. Airport security officers made a big deal of having my ID ready, so I quickly produced Crimson’s invitation package.
She clicked her keyboard after I handed her my contest badge. “Thank you, sir.”
Fast-food joints required their employees to say “sir,” but it felt different from someone wearing a perfumed pantsuit. She treated me like I wasn’t a reformed delinquent given to smashing flowerpots on front porches. I played my part and stood straighter.
She gave me a clip-on for my badge and a goodie bag filled with free Crimson merchandise, including two plastic-wrapped jumpsuits.
I withdrew my luggage when she reached for it. “Thanks, but I can carry this myself.”
She gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid the bags aren’t going to your room. Crimson prohibits personal possessions and electronic devices until the end of the event.”
“Why is that?”
“Security. Crimson’s policy forbids contestants from disclosing information. It’s part of the NDA. It also prevents anyone from sneaking in food and drink.” She conspiratorially winked as if to say she would never suspect me of doing such a thing.
My shoulders slumped. My favorite good luck tokens and miniatures counted as my geek flag. Toys and t-shirts worked as great icebreakers. Their obscure references and inside jokes helped other nerds identify me as one of their own.
“There’s nothing to eat? I just came from a plane ride, and I’m starving.” The prospect of no food made me regret balking at the airport’s pricy hamburgers.
“The cafeteria will be open until midnight, but I’m afraid you’re limited to fasting foods like coffee and Jell-O.”
I’d never fasted before, but the playtest required it. Crimson’s biggest revelation about their new game involved players experiencing it in a state of induced sleep. The game needed the FDA’s approval, which they estimated might take at least a year. The company boasted of many internal trial runs that produced safer and more comfortable results than traditional immersion pods and VR setups.
Crimson’s so-called dream interface solved problems plaguing its competitors. Costly sensory suits and saline tanks limited VR’s market, and configuring games to fit multiple platforms inflated development costs. The company touted the only full-immersion experience that severed players from the outside world. Input devices became commonplace for VR games, but the real trick involved eliminating out-of-game sensations.
Fans in the medical profession speculated that fasting wasn’t necessary since the sleep interface posed no risk of aspiration. The most popular internet theories guessed the staff didn’t want to change the diapers of unconscious players. This theory spawned many memes.
After the check-in attendant tagged my belongings, she ushered me into a side room where she wanted me to change into a jumpsuit. It looked like a carpeted bathroom or a changing room in a clothing store.
The back of the jumpsuits read, “The Book of Dungeons,” and the pocket design bore the gold embroidered words, “Crimson Software, Battle Royale Contestant, Closed Beta 0.71b.” I got chills reading it and hoped they‘d let me keep the clothing after the contest.
After I changed, a staff member directed me into a lounge filled with other contestants. Everyone there wore identical jumpsuits, but I could tell they came from good families from their hairstyles and mannerisms. Would my shabby shoes stick out more under these conditions?
Watching everyone engage in carefree chatter made me self-conscious. Trying not to feel like an outsider or an imposter, I reminded myself I belonged here. This game offered an opportunity to redefine myself.
Despite my apprehension, I checked out the girls first. If I obeyed anything, it was biology. They looked cute, but some looked a couple of years older. But I hungered for food more than romance. Even though my girlfriend and I broke up at the start of our senior year in high school, I wasn’t about to risk disqualification over flirtations. The contest organizers banned players from fraternizing before the game. Rumors circulated they’d ejected a contestant who’d foolishly reached out to another. But with everyone chatting, it seemed the collusion rules no longer applied.
While I enjoyed games and the company of pretty girls, I came here for prize money. Traveling may be nerve-wracking, but my unease centered on my need to win the contest. My aunt and uncle wanted me out of their house when I graduated high school. As hard as it would be to live alone, part of me looked forward to leaving.
After spending the last few years buried in library books, the last thing I wanted was to return to the streets. I’d grown a vocabulary more extensive than most adults. I had tested well and received admittance to several state colleges, but the available financial aid wasn’t enough.
America’s recession showed no end, and alternatives to college involved sleeping in my car and standing behind a cash register all day. This contest became my only chance at getting a higher education. The contest allowed me to start over, so I kept my eyes on the prize.
An orientation instructor interrupted the chatter for a quick tour of the building. She guided a dozen of us through the facility, explaining amenities and emergency procedures. Someone joked that we made a nerd herd, and we cracked ourselves up by mooing as we explored the grounds.
We paid attention to the orientation, hoping to glean hints about the upcoming contest. Crimson’s stingy PR department kept contestants in the dark, and little about the building pertained to the playtest.
Crimson had leased the property from an assisted living corporation. Retirees wanting to spend their life in the sunshine had come here. As East Coast geriatrics retired to Florida, Westerners flocked to Orange County.
Staff members stood behind conspicuous countertops in hallway intersections. My mother had been through enough rehabs that I recognized these desks as nurses’ stations. The orientation instructor explained the people in them served the facility’s concierge network. Crimson might have given it a fancy name, but I wasn’t so distant from high school I couldn’t recognize a hall monitor when I saw one. I smirked at the thought of a corporation intervening in late-night rendezvous.
The premises offered exercise options like basketball courts, a running track, and a volleyball net stretched across a sandpit. But gamers were an indoor breed, and it became no more evident than the jumpsuits huddled around the hallway console games. Though strangers, the players behaved like old friends, shouting and pointing at the screens.
A small gym offered guests treadmills and brightly colored hand weights. Either Crimson reused equipment from the building’s assisted living days, or they thought geeks only cared about cardio. The kids at school would laugh if they saw me working out here.
The novelty of camera crews running around hadn’t worn off yet. Besides the spot interviews, ceiling-mounted lenses ramped up my paranoia that Big Brother watched my every move.
Crimson’s interviewers asked for basic info and opinions on gaming—generic softballs for the broad audience. The questions made me feel special, even though I’d done nothing noteworthy in my youth besides petty crimes and terrorizing neighborhoods with my skateboard. Having a mic in my face felt like everything I uttered became official, so I guarded my words like a politician.
I cited my need for college money in my audition video and mentioned it again. It might have been repetitive, but it made for easier conversation than my juvenile delinquency. Sympathetic backstories may have greased the candidate selection process, but they weren’t factors anymore. While interviewers and audiences might commiserate with my plight, The Book of Dungeons wasn’t a popularity contest. It wouldn’t select its winner by acclamation—gamers needed to outplay one another.
The show’s producers fished for blurbs promoting their new role-playing game, and I accommodated them. They taught us to include their question in our answers because stand-alone statements made editing easier. They fed us things to say, like introductions and compliments on Crimson’s other titles. I suspected their editors would juxtapose soundbites with footage, contrasting our answers with in-game behavior. Making people look two-faced made good comedy, but I did my best to deprive them of ammunition.
Months ago, Crimson’s candidate screenings filtered out contestants who weren’t entertaining, photogenic, or well-spoken. The show’s filtering process explained why the geek vibe wasn’t as strong as a comic con or gaming conventions. If I had to describe the general tenor of the other players, I would say they looked sharp. Everyone’s eyes shone with vigilance. We weren’t famous or professional gamers, but Crimson stacked the deck with capable players.
The on-camera confessionals made everyone self-conscious, and interviewees responded with caution. Contractually, participants needed to give their time to the camera crews, but lenses and three-point lights weren’t the source of nervousness—it came from the contest.
Cameras wouldn’t be necessary to film the battle royale. Crimson made a big deal of Octagon’s servers being robust enough to record the contest’s world state—a process typical of virtual sporting events. The producers would cut out boring or inappropriate material, giving viewers playback of only Crimson-approved content.
The tour through the building allowed me to study my competition. Having never met my online friends, I wasn’t used to seeing gamers face to face.
A quarter-million-dollar prize wouldn’t compete with Esports leagues, but that wasn’t Crimson’s goal. The game, not the purse, created publicity. The sum stoked competition but wasn’t enough to promote cheating.
Americans between eighteen and twenty-one years of age congested the lounges and hallways. Though Crimson enjoyed a global audience, the legalities and logistics of a worldwide competition presented too many complications. The news enraged their fanbase abroad, but the company held firm. The first broadcast of The Book of Dungeons would be a local event.
After the tour, I stayed downstairs while contestants adjourned to rooms or availed themselves of console games. The staff had stocked the cafeteria with only popsicles, juices, and Jell-O. The sweetness in the food raised my blood sugar enough only to stave off a headache. After the dispiriting meal, I retired to my room and partook of the menu of free movies.
Without cigarette burns, carpet stains, smells, or dead bugs on the windowsill, the accommodations felt posher than most households I’ve seen. Typical of everything I’d seen in California, the suite looked new and clean. Given its well-kept state, it surprised me to overhear complaints about spartan accommodations.
Since Crimson took my electronics, I turned in early. I usually stayed up late out of defiance to my aunt, so it felt strange to be drowsy so close to sundown. Jetlag had its due, and I soon drifted off for my last night on planet Earth for a very long time.