Heir Apparent
Vivian Vande Velde
Table of Contents
MAGIC CARPET BOOKS
•
HARCOURT, INC.
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Copyright © 2002 by Vande Velde, Vivian
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First Magic Carpet Books edition 2004
Magic Carpet Books
is a trademark of Harcourt, Inc., registered
in the United States of America and/or other jurisdictions.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Vande Velde, Vivian.
Heir apparent/by Vivian Vande Velde.
p. cm.
Summary: While playing a total immersion virtual reality game
of kings and intrigue, fourteen-year-old Giannine learns that
demonstrators have damaged the equipment to which she is connected,
and she must win the game quickly or be damaged herself.
[1. Virtual reality—Fiction. 2. Science fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.V2773He 2002
[Fic]—dc21 2002002441
ISBN 0-15-204560-0 ISBN 0-15-205125-2 (pb)
Text set in Bembo
Display set in Charlemagne
Designed by Cathy Riggs
DOM K M O P N L
Printed in the United States of America
ContentsThis book is dedicated with affection for
but no patience with
those who would protect our children through
humorless moralizing and paranoia about fantasy
ONE
Happy Birthday to Me
[>]
TWO
Off to a Fantastic Start (Not!)
[>]
THREE
Fun and Games with the Family
[>]
FOUR
A Heavenly Visitor
[>]
—Rasmussem interoffice e-mail
[>]
FIVE
Simple Math
[>]
S
I
X
"
Do Not Pass Go; Do Not Collect $200
"
[>]
SEVEN
Shuffle and Deal Again
[>]
EIGHT
Hey, Loser, Start Over Again (Again)
[>]
NINE
Stop Me If You Think
You've Heard This One Before
[>]
TEN
Family History
[>]
ELEVEN
A Poem Can Be a Home
to Those Who Roam (Or, Like, Whatever)
[>]
—Rasmussem interoffice e-mail
[>]
TWELVE
One
[>]
THIRTEEN
Disarming the Troops
[>]
FOURTEEN
Are We Having Fun Yet?
[>]
—Rasmussem interoffice e-mail
[>]
FIFTEEN
Bright Sword, Dim Brother
[>]
SIXTEEN
Lunch
[>]
SEVENTEEN
Treasure Hunt
[>]
EIGHTEEN
Calling in the Reinforcements
[>]
NINETEEN
Magic Realism (without the Realism)
[>]
—Rasmussem interoffice e-mail
[>]
TWENTY
Siege
[>]
TWENTY-ONE
Back to the Battlements
[>]
TWENTY-TWO
Did Someone Say Déjà Vu?
[>]
—Rasmussem interoffice e-mail
[>]
TWENTY-THREE
Will the Guilty Party Please Step Forward?
[>]
TWENTY-FOUR
Fast Forward
[>]
TWENTY-FIVE
Morning Comes Early
When There's No Snooze Button
[>]
TWENTY-SIX
Keeping Everybody (But Me) Happy
[>]
TWENTY-SEVEN
Preparations for a Journey
[>]
TWENTY-EIGHT
Xenos's Dad
[>]
TWENTY-NINE
A Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins with
a Single Step (and Other Trite Nonsense)
[>]
THIRTY
Dead Oxen and Gold
[>]
THIRTY-ONE
Home Sweet Home (Or Not)
[>]
THIRTY-TWO
The End
[>]
THIRTY-THREE
Satisfaction Guaranteed, Or Your Money
Cheerfully Refunded
[>]
Happy Birthday to Me
It was my fourteenth birthday, and I was arguing with a bus. How pathetic is that?
Even before the bus had started in on me, my mood wasn't exactly the best it's ever been. Birthdays do that to me. This year I didn't even have a good excuse: I had actually received my birthday gift from my father on time, which might have been a sign he was making an effort to be a more considerate and involved dad. Of course, if he was really considerate and involved, he wouldn't have had his secretary call to ask me what kind of gift certificate I wanted for my birthday.
Whatever. Birthday = don't-mess-with-me mood.
So there I was, on my way to cash in my gift certificate, riding on a bus powered by artificial intelligence—emphasis on the
artificial.
I saw the picketers just as the bus paged me: "Passenger Giannine Bellisario, you asked to disembark at the Rasmussem Gaming Center, but there is a civil disturbance at your stop. Do you wish to continue to another destination, or would you prefer to be returned to the location at which you boarded?" The voice was kind and polite and only slightly metallic.
I was not polite. I sighed. Loudly. "Are they on strike?" I asked into the speaker embedded in the armrest.
There was a brief pause while the bus's computer brain accessed Central Information. "Rasmussem employees are not on strike," the bus reassured me, at just about the same time that I could make out the picketers' signs. "The demonstration is by members of CPOC."
I sighed even louder. They pronounce it,
C pock.
It stands for Citizens to Protect Our Children. As a fourteen-year-old, I qualify—by society's definition—as a child. I am willing to accept protection from stray meteors, ecoterrorists, and my seven-year-old cousin, Todd. But I don't feel in need of protecting by CPOC, which strongly believes that only G-rated movies should be made and that libraries should stock only nice, uplifting books that promote solid family values—
nice
being defined as nothing supernatural, nothing violent, nothing scary. That about kills my entire reading list. I think there are a couple alphabet books they approve of. Still, as far as I knew, this was the first time they'd ever come after Rasmussem.
I have excellent timing like that.
As the bus passed by the patch of sidewalk the picketers had claimed, I could read their signs:
M
A
G
I
C
=
S
A
T
A
N
I
S
M
and
V
I
O
L
E
N
C
E
B
E
G
E
T
S
V
I
O
L
E
N
C
E
and
I
N
A
P
P
R
O
P
R
I
A
T
E
F
O
R
O
U
R
C
H
I
L
D
R
E
N
.
"Why can't you drop me off?" I asked. "Legally, they aren't allowed to obstruct anyone from going in." I'd learned that in Participation in Government class.
"Rochester Transit Authority is prohibited from letting a minor disembark into a situation that might be hazardous," the bus told me.
A little bit of artificial intelligence can be an annoying thing. "What are they going to do: smack me on the head with a pamphlet?" I asked.
The bus didn't answer and kept on moving. I was not going to win an argument, I could tell.
"Well, then," I said, "let me off at the next stop."
"Not if you intend to return to the Rasmussem Gaming Center stop," the bus responded.
I checked our progress on the real-time electronic route map displayed on the back of the seat in front of me and told the bus, "Of course not. I want to be dropped off at the art museum."
"That is on this vehicle's route and is only one block away," the bus told me. "Estimated time of arrival, thirty seconds."
So much for artificial intelligence. A human bus driver could have guessed that I had not developed a sudden craving for culture. Then again, a human bus driver probably wouldn't have cared, any more than the other passengers did.
The bus stopped in front of the museum. "Have a nice day, Giannine Bellisario," the bus told me.
I smiled and gave a Queen Victoria wave, and muttered under my breath, "Your mother was a toaster oven."
***
A
S
I
A
P
P
R
O
A
C
H
E
D
the gaming center, I could see the picketers were quiet and orderly; so using my
human
intelligence, I deduced they weren't dangerous. Once I got in front of the building, I sprinted for the doorway. It was beneath a large red-and-gold sign flanked by rearing dragons:
R
A
S
M
U
S
S
E
M
G
A
M
I
N
G
C
E
N
T
E
R
.
