Nova Project #1 (6 page)

“Yup.” He nods, and his mother starts pulling farmed, created, manufactured ingredients from cupboards. Nothing is wild, nothing is fresh. Once he'd spent hours on an early level stuck in a wheat field and not knowing what it was until
he searched online when he got home. Nothing is grown like that anymore, out in the open, under the sky.

Which is probably a good thing. No one likes to be poisoned. It makes for a bad day and maybe a last day.

The computers in his room hum gently, making it a little warmer than the rest of the house, which is kept cold by law. His parents have an exemption because of his heart, but even that allows them only two degrees more than everyone else. He hums along with them for a second, a one-note symphony.

His keyboard is a projection of light on his desk—or whatever flat surface he chooses. Sometimes it's the wall, when he's too restless to sit, or the floor if he's bothered to clean it recently. But for now it's on the desk, and he closes his eyes again, letting his fingers type while he loses himself in memory. He'd had to dig his way from an underground cave, with a violent, shrieking creature waiting for him on the surface. He'd killed that, and then . . . yes . . . crossed the river, that's right.

That's when things had gone bad, but they could've gone worse. He'd needed to know if being splashed by the water would be dangerous.
Yes
was the answer.

The way the water had melted his team member into pixels would stay with him for a while, but he felt no emotion over it. She hadn't been a real person, and sometimes sacrifices have to be made.

His fingertips go numb from their tapping as he codes,
designs. Again, it won't be polished like Chimera is, smooth and seamless, indistinguishable from reality, but it'll be enough for him to go over, figure out what the Gamerunners were trying to test. What skills they were looking for when they designed the special level.

The puzzle, that's a definite one. The whole game is full of puzzles, but they aren't often quite that hard. The Gamerunners want the competitors to use their brains. Not surprising.

The creatures . . . well, a lot of Chimera is about fighting. Choosing the right weapon, the right stance, the right split, flickering second to strike.

The river.

Risk and sacrifice.

How badly do you want this? Will you kill for it?

For a moment he is even more aware than usual of his heartbeat.

The front door opens, closes, and a few minutes later Mom calls him for dinner. Miguel can't actually remember the last time the three of them sat down to eat together; at least one of them is always in a Cube or at school or work. Mom has a thing for shooting in the evening light, something about the way the chemicals and gases burn on the horizon, setting the world on fire.

Too late he realizes they've planned this.

“So,” says his father. “We wanted to talk to you about this competition.”

“What about it?” Miguel asks around a mouthful of powdery mashed potato, as if he can't guess. If Anna is predictable, his parents are a certainty.

His mother's eyes cut to his dad's. “We weren't going to stop you from entering,” she says. “There was no harm in playing the testing level, or at least no more than usual.”

“But you don't think I should take the medical.”

“We don't think you should go through with it if you pass and you're selected. Seeing one of Chimera's doctors might not be a bad idea. Maybe they'll have an idea of something we haven't tried yet.” Miguel's father doesn't look hopeful as he says this. With good reason. Miguel's mother frowns. They've always done their best to tell Miguel the truth about his condition, keep him informed as much as they are, the detail of their honesty increasing with his age and comprehension.

“What if this is my only chance, huh? They don't hand out new hearts like they do eyes or fingers, even in Chimera.”

“You can still play the regular game,” says his mother.

“Rosa—”

A loudly silent look passes between his parents. Miguel's mouth drops open. “Are you thinking of stopping me from doing that, too?”

“We understand why you play so much,” says his father, “but it's only going to get more dangerous for you. This competition—”

“You wish they'd waited five years?” Miguel guesses. Optimistically. His father winces. Target achieved. His aim has gotten better, thanks to Chimera.

“Sometimes I wish that damned game had never been invented,” his mother mutters. “Then all the good doctors would still be working in normal hospitals.”

“And we wouldn't be able to afford them anyway.” Miguel stands, no longer hungry despite the day's exertion. Fear blackens his mother's already dark eyes.

“Calm down, please.”

“I'm calm.”

“You're not.”

“We're going to argue about how I feel now? I'm going to take my medical, I'm going to pass it, and they're going to let me play,” says Miguel, trying not to let his face betray the pain in his chest. It's harder when he's angry. “But first, I'm going to lie down.”

They don't stop him. They never have, and it's probably cruel that he's used this to his advantage for as long as he's known it would work. They like it when he rests. And this time he actually does, instead of using it as an excuse to escape back to his homemade sim. The pillows crush under his head, and he stares at the ceiling, watching the orange glow of sunset fade and darken across the paint.

H
e doesn't know what time he falls asleep, only that he's done it in his glasses and when he wakes, statuses are scrolling past, full of mundane crap no one cares about. Why anyone needs to know what even his closest friend eats for breakfast, or that he's happy it's not raining, is beyond him. But speaking of closest friends, he blinks quickly, checking for Nick and Anna, who are both tackling the level today. He wishes he could give them hints, but that would destroy his chances, if he has any. They're smart and good at Chimera. They'll get it.

He checks that the house is empty before leaving his room by the simple expedient of the geoloc tags on his parents' last updates. Dad's at work, Mom's out shooting halfway across the city. Her last picture is beautiful, a study in angles and contrasts of the skyscrapers downtown. In the far background, blurred by depth of field but identifiable, is a Cube, glowing violet.

It's been less than twenty-four hours, but his feet itch to be
back in one of those rooms. Another few days and they'll open up again, the testing complete. Of course some of them will be put into use for the competition, but mostly things will return to normal, the Gamerunners say. Maybe this is all part of the plan: put them all through Chimera withdrawal for a week so they're desperate to get back to it.

If the Gamerunners
have
a plan. When his history classes cover the origins of Chimera, the
whys
are glossed over. That the Gamerunners thought it was a good idea seems to be as much as anyone knows, and they didn't predict how popular it would get. How it would take over the world. You'd think there would be better places to use the money, the sheer genius that go into it, like, oh, Miguel's not sure . . . saving the planet? Maybe the Gamerunners knew it was too late for that, so they might as well give people something fun to do on the way down.

It's been a while since he last went a whole day without playing, that because of an unplanned hospital trip. It's been five years since he could go wherever he wanted and couldn't choose to spend the time in a Cube. The sim beckons, but it'll just make him more annoyed that he can't do the real thing.

He dresses, leaves the house to walk, his glasses back home on his desk, as disconnected as he feels. This street has been home his entire life, a string of small artificial boxes in the shade of tall artificial trees. His house had always seemed to
be in a slightly darker shadow than the rest, a cloud hanging over it.

But he's been happy here, especially with nothing else to compare it with. He has friends, family, the school he's about to walk past on the other side of the road. Funny, he doesn't think about that very often. There are no more roses to smell, haven't been for generations, he only knows the saying as a curiosity, but he wouldn't have stopped anyway. Since his twelfth birthday he's thought of little but Chimera and getting through every day. And Anna, the past few years, but her not as much as he should have. He just crossed the corner on which he kissed her the first time. Time had felt infinite in those few seconds.

Realistic as the game is, in its mythical monster way, it's a great place to hide from reality.

“Mig!”

He stops, startled, turns in the direction of the voice, also the direction of the sun, which burns his eyes. A tall figure is running toward him, but only when she's inches away does he see who it is. “Oh. Hey, Amanda.”

“Hey yourself. Haven't seen you since the party. What's up?”

“Nothing. Been busy.” It's not as if they've ever hung out that much outside school, but she's one of the more bearable, funnier people in his class. “What are you doing here?” She lives farther from the school than he does, has clearly just
come from inside it. “Did you forget it's summer vacation?”

“Ha. No. Taz and I have an extra credit project. Not sure what we'll do if one of us is picked, though. You entered, right?”

“Yeah. Did my test yesterday. Medical tomorrow.”

“Mine, too. You'll pass, though, strong dude like you.”

He is temporarily more aware of his heartbeat. “Sure.”

“You want to come in, chill with us? Taz and Seb are fighting again, so I wouldn't mind some happier company.”

He's flattered she thinks he would be. Although he is happy, curiously so given that he's not inside a Cube. Sometimes the outside world has something to recommend it. “Sorry, I told Nick and Anna I'd meet them after their tests.”

If she recognizes the lie, she doesn't let on. “Oh. Okay. Well, I should get back in there. Wish me luck.”

“Luck,” he says, watching her turn and jog back inside the low red building in which he's wasted far more than half his available life. He might as well go meet Nick and Anna, see how they did even if they can't really talk about it. The Cube they're in is a couple of miles away. The walk will do him good.

There aren't as many Chimera hospitals as there are Cubes, here or anywhere, but there are still several in the city, their edges also etched in different colors, and everything inside is as state of the art as the game. Androids, incapable of making errors, perform minor procedures on their own and major
ones under supervision. Miguel knows from experience that the human body is as unpredictable and badly behaved as a Chimera boss, bleeding inconveniently when science and logic dictate that it shouldn't. He's pretty glad that when it's happened to him, the figure standing over him was capable of creative, human thought. Nanobots scuttle over every surface, invisible to the naked eye, chewing up atoms of dirt. The only place they don't touch is a towering apple tree in the glass expanse of the atrium, a rare, growing thing. A projected plaque in blue light blathers something about its being a symbol of life and rejuvenation.

“Miguel Anderson, here for my medical,” he says into a speaker at a desk. A series of arrows flicker to life on the floor, guiding his way through the maze of hallways. Man, he wishes the game had that.

The arrows guide him deep into the building and onto a square of floor, indistinguishable but for the lack of ceiling above it, that rises when it senses his body weight. Four floors up, it slides left to join another hallway and let him off. More arrows take him to a small waiting area arranged with empty seats.

He has yet to see a single person. That makes sense, it always has. Limiting human contact here minimizes the chance of infection, though the risk is already small. The doctors here are the best, and their proprietary drugs kill anything that
might damage their ingenious work.

“You may enter,” says a mechanical voice before he's given time to sit. Yet another arrow, likely the last, appears over a door.

“Good morning,” says the doctor when he's half inside the examination room. Shit. He hadn't expected her to be young and female, though there's no reason why. He certainly hadn't expected her to be so pretty. He didn't think about it at all, but now he's thinking a lot about how to make his body behave. He reminds himself that she's a doctor, good enough to work for Chimera. Let her do her job. Putting up with teenage boys can't be fun for her, and her week is probably full of them.

“I'm Dr. Spencer. I have your file.”

He hears the tone of . . . something . . . in her voice. Surprise that he's entered the competition at all? Curiosity over why he hasn't been “fixed” yet? Longing to perform the surgery that will cure him? He's not sure, but he'll bet she doesn't usually sound like that.

“It's a big file,” he says. Dr. Spencer nods.

“Well, let's get started,” she says. “Shirt off, please.”

“Uh. Okay.” He'd expected her to say something. Fine, shirt off. It's been a long time since he's been half naked in front of a woman, and then it was only Anna. Luckily the color of his skin slightly hides the blush. Not completely, but a little.

Nothing hides the scars.

He is no stranger to doctors, hospitals, the tests they put
you through that seem to make no sense. He tracks a point of light with his eyes, touches his fingertips with his thumb, bends over to reach his toes. She points to a section of floor in the corner, different from the rest. More like the floor in a Chimera room, slightly springy, but this one is moving on its own, scrolling at a smooth, brisk walking pace. The sensor she sticks to him itches; she motions for him to step on, eyes already on the screen to see the dismal readings.

He doesn't know anyone else who's had their medical yet, and so he doesn't know whether the two hours it takes is normal. He touches machines and climbs into them, is scanned, prodded, stuck with needles that fill with precious blood. After the initial introduction, he doesn't speak to Dr. Spencer except to answer questions or agree to her instructions. There's no point, and he doesn't want
argumentative
added to his history, though it's likely already there. Tantrums had been forgiven in the early days. Who would expect a child to understand? But when he'd gotten old enough, and did understand, well, then it'd just been unfair.

“All done,” she says finally, her full lips twisting. Her mouth opens and closes, and he waits. “You know,” she says. It's not a question.

“Yeah.”

“And that's why you play.”

“Yeah.”

“I don't blame you,” she whispers, nearly inaudibly. She clears her throat. “But you need to stop.”

“What?”

She looks away, choosing one blank spot on the wall that is apparently more interesting than all the others. “How much time were you given?”

He doesn't need to pretend to remember. “The last doc I saw said I'd probably make it to twenty-one. Age, I mean, not level.”

“He might've been right about the level,” says Dr. Spencer. “You're very good. But I think the other thing was . . . optimistic.”

The filters suck all the air from the room. “Excuse me?”

“I'm sorry,” she says, dragging her eyes back to his. “If you stop placing so much strain on yourself, and by that I mean you go home and start eating your meals in bed, you might have another year. I can't recommend you for the competition. I can't recommend you play at all.”

“You're wrong,” he says, pulse thundering in his ears. He won't measure it here in front of her. “I'm already at Level Twenty. I can make it.”

“If I told you I could take you downstairs and give you a new heart this minute, would you trust me to cut you open?”

He wants to say no. Maybe she's a terrible doctor. But she works for the game. “Yes,” he says.

“Then you need to trust me now.”

No. No, he doesn't. He stares at his feet, teeth clenched.

“I'm sorry,” she repeats. “I wish it were different. I always do, in these situations. We could have helped you.”

“See, that's what I don't get. You all know how to do this stuff, but instead of being out there”—he points out the window—“fixing sick people, you sit in here and wait for them to earn it. They don't even have to be sick, they just have to want dumb shit, like—”

“A biomech finger?” she asks, pointing at his. “If you think Chimera is the reason the best doctors are available to only a few, I suggest the first thing you do when you stop gaming is read a history book.”

“You could still be a doctor out there.”

“I could, but do you think I'd have the time to heal everyone, or the equipment? They're good at many things, but biomech happens in Chimera hospitals.”

“And that's the only thing that's going to help me.”

She doesn't answer, doesn't need to. “I can't recommend you for the competition,” she says again, as if saying it twice will make him realize she's right. She
does
almost sound sorry. “You must be aware of the danger of it.”

“I am.” He wants to curse her, takes a deep breath.
He
understands the danger, what does she care if he dies playing? But Anna's right, the world is going to be watching this, and that would be bad publicity the Gamerunners don't want.

He's known the truth for a long time. He knows how
hard his parents tried to find some alternative, the endless medications and surgeries that gave him only the hairline scars that cross his chest.

“You are going to die, Mr. Anderson,” she says. “If you don't stop playing
now,
it could be very soon. If you insist on continuing, you should at least find the time to say good-bye to your loved ones. Because of confidentiality, I can't tell them anything, but I suggest you do.”

Spots dance on his eyes. He blinks them away to stare at her. “You're serious,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Yes.” A heavy silence vibrates between them.

“I won't make it.”

“No.”

He's gotten bad news before, but it was always distant. Not tomorrow or next week, so he could ignore it.

“Okay,” he says, standing. It's not okay. Nothing's okay. “Thank you.”

He's not grateful.

The arrows reappear to lead him out; he's never been sure whether it's to prevent him from getting lost or to stop him from looking around. But he's not curious now, not today.

Outside, he drops his lenses down and scrolls through more updates. Both his parents are still out, and an empty house is unappealing.

Everything is.

Hoverboards zoom overhead, tiny electric cars cram the streets, their horn volumes set on high. No one cares about noise pollution anymore, it doesn't matter as much as the other kinds.

He stands on the corner, frozen in the warmth.

Well.

Game over.

He, Anna, and Nick are back in the park. It's almost as if time has been rewound to when they were wondering what the test would entail, when excitement over the competition was swelling but hadn't yet reached its pitch. That's what makes the now
now,
the heightened buzz of the chatter around them. Contestants will be announced at midnight, and a bizarre calm has stolen over Miguel in the week since he had his medical. He knows he won't be chosen.