The CEO of SharkBytes Gameworld sat in his over-sized office chair and spun, a delicate kick sending him rotating a precise 360° that relocated him in front of his desk again. It was one of the few bad habits that still remained from his youth. A well-spent youth, mind you, involving hovering over computer monitors, wrangling code and killing digital monsters.

Not that he’d been any good at doing either of those last two, though he’d had a lot of fun trying. His best friend, Gus, had been the technical genius.

He was more of an opportunities man—as he told anyone who asked. A natural expert at promoting and selling a product. Why, if it hadn’t been for him, there would be no company. Gus’s concepts would have remained unknown and unused on his laptab until he died of malnutrition. (The man had absolutely no concept of looking after himself when he was in one of his creative starts.)

Now Gus was sitting fat and pretty in his own private office downstairs, surrounded by keepe—assistants—while he worked on Dangerous Dreams, heading off any potential niggles that might affect the launch.

Which was only a matter of days away. His mouth arched into a smile that turned into a grimace as his stomach pitched threateningly.

Anticipation was a strange beast. It was the only emotion that had the power to flood you with excitement and dread at the same time.

Suddenly restless, he rose from his chair and strode to the wall-sized window that was the main feature of his office. What was the use becoming CEO if you didn’t get the benefit of the view from the top after all. Even if that top was only six stories high.

Though it was high enough to make people-watching difficult. The view looked almost like one of Gus’s earliest coding efforts—a dot-based urban sim game that even he hadn’t contemplated selling.

Luckily, for someone with an enquiring mind, the problem was easily solved. He’d been in this office for over ten years after all. Reaching inside a cabinet that visitors probably assumed contained important documents, he retrieved a pair of binoculars and used them to scan the street below. A suitable compromise for a man that needed to convey a certain…distance, while appealing to the peo—

What’s this?

His scan had picked up on a man carrying a slim-lined TorpCam, an expensive piece of vid equipment that only news outlets had the expense accounts to carry on a regular basis. And if he used his binoculars to zoom in just so…. Yes! The bright lettering on the cam read NewsOnline. By no means the biggest fish in the industry, but not exactly a tiddler either.

They must have come about the game, he thought excitedly. Though they were a little early for the official press release. Maybe they were hoping for a few tidbits to put them ahead of the competition.

He made a fist of his left hand and bit into his thumbnail—another habit from his youth, though of an earlier variety.

If interest had grown to this extent already, then Dangerous Dreams was practically guaranteed to be a success. He could almost smell the money in the air!

His glee was interrupted by a gentle tap on his office door.

“Come in!” he shouted, still buoyed up with dreams of mercenary glory. That’ll show those sticks at the Country Club just who they should’ve invested their money in.

A head and hand appeared as his PA leaned timidly into his office. He’d hired the boy as a favour for one of his earliest investors. He was efficient enough, and certainly loved the games the company produced, but lacked the confidence and killer instinct that the CEO prized.

“Come in, Drake. Did you bring the figures for the Dreams collateral?”

“No, I…” If anything, the poor boy looked even more terrified than usual today. He found himself grateful that the big window didn’t open, as he wasn’t convinced that Drake wouldn’t have flung himself from it. And that wasn’t something he wanted to see on the news networks.

“Is it something to do with the cameraman downstairs? Have they been trying to pry game-info out of us?”

A little puff of relief came from the boy, and he rediscovered his use of the English language. “Oh, so you’ve heard then? I was a bit worried you’d be angry, though I assure you, sir, I had no idea—“

The CEO frowned. “What are you talking about? Has the press been scrambling your brains? We give only the information that we discussed. Type, genre, world. If there have been any leaks—“ his voice raised on the word, ire replacing affability “—then heads will roll. I won’t stand for disloyalty in this company.”

“No, no,” the PA assured him, and by this time he’d finally made it all the way inside. He closed the door gently behind him. “This is about the other game.”

“What other game?” He might have to keep the boy around as his uncle’s own personal trophy, but that didn’t mean he had to keep him on the top shelf. If he didn’t get to the point soon, he would find himself emptying the offices’ rubbish cans and scrubbing down—

“Age of Deception. There’s been a technical issue that we could never have foreseen. Totally not our fault at all, I’m sure.”

“Deception has been discontinued. Offline. Defunct. What possible ‘issue’ could it have that’s more important than the Dreams launch?”

“Hmmm,” the boy dithered. “Maybe you should watch NewsOnline. Get it direct from the source, so to speak.”

“It’s in the media? What—? Fine,” the CEO spoke through his teeth as he reached for the controls to darken the office and turn his precious window into a massive vid-screen.

After a few verbal commands, a picture appeared of the dark-haired woman that had been facing the cameraman, standing in front of the building he was currently sitting in.

“—has made no official comment on this issue, not responding to requests made by us or any of the many concerned citizens that have contacted them.

“This abandonment does not speak well of a company that in only a few days will be asking the public to trust in their assurances of personal safety once again, when they introduce their new, much anticipated game, Dangerous Dreams, long touted as being the spiritual successor of Age of Deception. With perhaps the same same safety issues that have trapped Arline Johnson.”

The reporter looked soulfully into the camera, concern coating her voice. “All our hearts and prayers go out to this brave woman, who continues to fight for her life despite overwhelming odds. And with no knowledge that we even know about her plight. How SharkBytes can stand by and not—“

Click.

The CEO released the screen remote's power button and turned on the boy. “What are you standing there for? Get Gus in here immediately!”

——

Getting out of Madagascar proved a tricky operation, but at least one that had no active opponents. The holes were relentless, opening at such a rate that Bert’s digital warnings couldn’t keep up. The poor AI was frazzled by the time we reached the western border wall. I hoped Africa would give him the opportunity to relax a bit.

That is, if we could get there. Little sparks flew out of the dark blue wall, giving me no good vibes about the potential success of our transit. But I’d faced down nastier colour combinations and lived. And this habitat was falling down around us anyway.

As if my thought was a summons, two holes appeared in my periphery and ate up part of the beach. They began to lose definition, narrow, but then grew instead.

I cannot…contain…any more. We must leave.

“Is it safe?” I asked dubiously, eyeing another electrical arc whilst readying myself.

I’m…not sure. What occurs in the portals is not within my purview. But go anyway. Within minutes Madagascar will no longer exist.

Right. Reason enough.

I walked into the portal, flinching from a white spark that coated my body the instant my body made contact.

It was like being an active participant in one of Ben Franklin’s original experiments. You know, the one with the lightning rod. The pain skipped up my nerve endings and stopped my heart, leaving me gasping and thumping my chest in panic. It was only when my entire body had passed through the wall and I heard a wacca-wacca noise that the beat resumed, lurching at first, before taking on a speedy what-the-fuck, what-the-fuck, what-the-fuck, rhythm.

A close call. I just wished I had a stasis suit that had the inbuilt call-out feature that all new suits were required to have. If I had, it would have sent a signal to the local St. John’s ambulance that I was in distress. All (most?) of my problems would have been solved instantly.

I raised my head off the blue floor and sat up gingerly, wincing in instinctive—but not real—pain as my head struck something above me.

A corn ball. I wasted no time in stuffing it into my holding bag. No idea if it would survive the transition, but I could try. My last visit may have soured my appetite for cereal, but it had only proven temporary. After days of eating nothing but sour fruit and snake meat, I was more than ready for a few preservatives and empty calories.

Following the trail like a twisted version of Hansel & Gretel, I stole as many as would fit in my bag. I was either making a gamer very happy or an AI very confused, or both.

I was dumped into Africa before I could find out.

——

“How could this happen?”

“My guess, she diddled with her suit’s software,” Gus offered, flakes of cracker projecting from his mouth to land on the shiny black edifice that was the CEO’s desk. Dave was usually grateful for the nursemaid who constantly foisted food on Gus whenever his focus wavered from his monitor, but today was not the day for snack fallout.

The world was ending.

The PA boldly spoke up. “Then it can’t possibly be our fault—“

“It doesn’t matter,” the CEO stressed. The ramifications of this issue had been churning around in his head since he had listened to the reporter. Along with the contents of his stomach. “This is about public perception, not legal liability. A helpless civilian, stuck in a game—that we created, that we shut down—while her real life body withers. Fuck. It’s an investigative reporter’s dream.” He turned to the three others clustered around his desk. “What do you have for me?”

Peter, his second in command, spoke up first, his calm voice a balm to the charged atmosphere. “Clearly, we need to find this woman and place her body under care. Once that problem is resolved, we can focus on getting her out of the game.”

“How?”

“That would be up to our technical expert.” Peter gave a respectful nod to Gus who hummed in agreement, but thankfully didn’t open his mouth again before swallowing.

“Difficult. Hmm. A fascinating quandary.” Gus had a disturbing glint in his eye that reminded the CEO of his earlier career as a pimpled teenager. Whenever a tricky coding problem cropped up Gus would get that look and hole himself in his room with nothing but energy drinks to sustain him—often for days on end—before reappearing with hyperactivity, a two-hundred-o’clock beard, and a solution.

A good sign, perhaps?

He turned back to his second in command. “So who is this Arline Johnson?”

“We’re having difficulty tracking down—“ Peter began before the CEO interrupted.

“Impossible. Her registration details must be on file. Just dig them out of the archives and get her address.”

“There are a number of Arline Johnsons in our files. And A. Johnson’s. Unless we knock on the doors of people around the world—an action, you understand, which would have enormous political, legal and economic consequences for this company—we cannot determine which one she is.”

“But the game data, surely…” The CEO turned to Gus.

“As I told Pete,” Gus answered, absently brushing crumbs off his shirt—minus one particularly large flake he deemed viable enough to pick off and give a second chance, “we“—crunch, crunch—“have full access to only a backup copy of Age of Deception. The version that was in use at the time of shutdown was deleted, making access impossible at this time.”

“Deleted?” The rest of the occupants of the office made matching dismayed noises. “If the version that she occupies no longer exists, then how can she still be alive?”

“In old-fashioned computer parlance, the game was sitting in a server somewhere, waiting to be overwritten. Some if it may already be gone, but when you contacted me I retrieved what I could, and have now begun a complete restoration and overhaul. I just hope that the main sectors haven’t sustained too much damage.”

“So the recent history files are available?”

“Not yet. And maybe not for a few days. I’ll have to manually replicate pieces of code to replace any that are missing. Automatic replacement bears the risk of flushing the baby out with the bathwater if the system decides she doesn’t match the parameters of the later version. But I’ll watch out for any code that looks like a username.”

“Right. Bring in any techs that you need and trust.” The CEO turned to the man sitting across from him. “Drake, contact our lawyers. I’ll need to make a statement to the press as soon as possible.”

“What about Dangerous Dreams?” Hopper, their promotions manager asked. “Do we delay the launch?”

“No! I’m not flushing five years of development down the gurgler. It would cripple this company.” He paused thoughtfully. Play to your strengths. “We simply have to find a way to work this to our advantage. Become the heroes in this little play…. Suggestions, anyone?”

——

“So hello wind, rise me high-err

“My dreams, they need power

“To give me all that I desire.”

A sudden hitch caught in my my throat, causing me to cough.

Low Oxygen Levels -10 Hit Points!

Cold Immunity Upgrade! Now Level 2!

High Flyer Skill awarded! Increases height and distance travelled by 50%!

I had been so focused on my song that I hadn’t noticed how high the wind had sent me, taking me to the point where breathing and thermodynamics became dicey. The system messages provided a sobering reminder of my own vulnerability.

Utilising the Illusory Storytelling skill was proving to be a steep learning curve. Hell, even a bit of manufactured wind on a still day had its hazards, it seemed.

I dropped a little altitude, just to a point where oxygen-starvation and hypothermia no longer seemed to be imminent. Flying was still the safest way to traverse Africa. An early encounter with a hyena clan had convinced me of that much. This continent was just chocca-block full of hungry beasties slavering for a chance to dine on my pasty white behind. And no doubt angry natives eager to help with the shish-kebabbing.

Avoidance and bypassing. That was the ticket. I only needed to toodle around the pyramids after all. None of this Dr. Livingston crap.

I was still cruising, both mentally and physically, when I felt the first tingling of wing loss. And I realised there was another downside to emulating Icarus. Height squared + Wingless Human = lack of ability to coast into the arms of a friendly bush.

I had time to build up the breath to scream, before my own personal Fate saved the day.

Sound Gives You Wings Skill Upgrade! Now at Level 4!

Automatic Emergency Landing Protocol Awarded!

Cooldown Period reduced to 30 mins!

Red and white material puffed out from God-Knows-Where and halted my descent before it could really get a grip. It looked like that cloth that you see in bucolic pictures of nineteenth century picnickers…on top of their hampers.

Great. I’m advertising my dining potential for miles in every direction. I might as well have posted out invitations: Come One, Come All. Over Here for the Feast! I hope most of the animals around here are colour-blind.

Landing was a less than technical experience. The most I could contribute was making myself as small as possible as the ground reached up towards me, hitting knees and encouraging me to somersault with an elegance that would have made my old PE teacher bounce up and down with excitement. Elegance has never been one of my strong points.

The entire manoeuvre cost only a few hit points as the final vault ended at a boulder that had no business being on a grassy savannah. The only one of its kind in fact. If Bert had still been employed in his previous capacity I would have suspected an edge of vindictive humour to its placement.

Before it moved. Which made me realise that Fate was a bitch after all.

The ‘boulder’ rose and creaked its way upright, a lumbering movement that sent me sliding across its back before I hit the grass for the final time.

Its gradual unearthing gave me the opportunity to see up close just how effectively your eyes can deceive you. The dips and shadings that from a distance had looked like configured rock now resolved itself into panels and spirals formed of keratin. A shell. Legs appeared next, covered in large pieces of what looked like the kind of flattened gravel that rich people use to replace plebian dirt. The head that followed was actually relatively thin, and surveyed me with a sort of geriatric pessimism, before it bent slowly and began cropping the grass.

Passive Sanctuary Perimeter Initiated! Stay within five metres of the African Spurred Tortoise to remain immune to attack!

Huh. My breath released in relief. Unless the programmers had installed acid-spit or fire-farts, tortoises were safe enough.

And it seemed they came with a powerful defensive skill. If I hadn’t had to travel I would have set up a fenced area and gotten a peaceful day’s rest. As it is, I could at least take half an hour to recover and reassess.

I settled a few metres away from the munching reptile and took water and an Energy Ball out of my holding bag. (Still there!) Might as well max out my health bar. Who knew when I’d next have the opportunity to eat.

I had just lifted the Ball to my mouth when pressure from above sent it flying out of my hands, onto the dry ground. The gray head of a dinosaur followed it, attacking the Ball with an enthusiasm that belied its herbivore status. Tortoises love sugar snacks. Who’d have thought?

Before long the Ball was gone entirely; grey mucus dripping from the tortoise’s muzzle the only remaining indicators of its existence. It eyed me hungrily, probably wondering if I was some kind of Energy Ball vending machine, and there was something about that look that reminded me of Gunga.

I’d left her behind when I fled the hyena, confident in an ostrich’s ability to defend herself from any predators. Or flee from them. There had been a kind of suppressed energy to Gunga’s movements from the time she’d arrived in Africa. Like an olympic sprinter forced to keep to a walking pace.

It took the slightest of whistles to summon her, mid-run.

The sudden entrance of a large bird with feathers full spread made the tortoise pull its head into its shell, eyes squinting as it myopically assessed this unexpected threat. It resettled into its grazing stance when the ostrich failed to attack, instead easing herself into position beside me and collapsing a whole lot of leg to sit by my side.

You must have the Luck attributes of the gods, Bert said admiringly. In the past hour you’ve been chased by hyenas, sent into space, fallen ten thousand kilometres, and yet landed in the lap of the rarest safe zone in the game.

“Oh, sure. I’ll buy a lottery ticket just as soon as I’m lucky enough to get out of here.”

I fail to see how a quantifiable ability in a virtual world can have any effect on real life statistical improbability. Unless there are ways to manufacture luck in your world?

“Unfortunately, no. Luck there is merely primitive superstition. Or hope, to many. A way of evening out the playing field without actually having to beat the opposition.”

Your world sounds very strange.

“Well, we made all this, didn’t we? If that’s not a cry for help I don’t know what is.”

I lay back in the grass and made myself cozy, before accessing my system inventory for substitute food items. Energy Balls were clearly an endangered species in this location.

There were two items that could be eaten. Fish and…bacon! My salivary glands revved into active service as I accessed the golden strips. They looked as if they’d been touched by Midas, yet the smell, crunch, and delicious salty taste assured me of their edibility.

The goldfish were less appealing. Tiny, with little crosses for eyes signifying their deadness. I threw one at Gunga and she stabbed it out of the air before turning it in her beak and swallowing it whole. Three more followed the same path.

Hmm. Scales. Fatty acids. Selenium. Iodine. A rich chemistry of vitamins and minerals.

I smiled and retrieved another fish for Gunga to gobble. It was nice to hear Bert muttering his arcane nonsense again. Every sentient being should have a hobby.

I resumed rustling about my inventory. It had been a while since I’d last had the opportunity to see what I’d picked up.

It was mostly bits of herbs and esoteric gatherings that players were supposed to make into potions or sell to vendors. Things like branches of rosemary, or the fingernails of a man condemned to die. Probably great for people that knew how to use them, but useless for a Bard who had no interest in botany or necromancy.

One item did prick my interest, however: the Whistle of the Temptress that had been given to me when I succeeded in liberating the lemurs.

Under the sun’s light it didn’t look particularly prepossessing. It was tiny, carved into the face of a creepy-looking woman, with three holes made in her eyes and mouth to create a scale. In other words, an instrument with the notational complexity of a child bashing three pots of varying sizes with a wooden spoon.

I put my finger over the hole located at her left eye, and supplied the elongated mouthpiece with an experimental puff of air. The trill that came out was surprisingly sweet, given the whistle’s short length.

An ostrich head leaned over and rubbed itself against my shoulder affectionately. More alarmingly, a reptilian head followed, blocking out the sun as it smeared grey goo down the front of my shift. But it was the vulture’s loving nuzzling that proved the final straw.

I jackknifed forward, brushing off the feathered pest as it tried to accompany me, only to come face-to-leg with a giraffe who reached down to nibble on my hair. And I had to get to my feet before the meerkat family succeeded in reaching parts unknown in the expanses of my shirt. Don’t get me wrong, they’re cute little buggers, but not when they’re gnawing through your bra strap.

Whistle of the Temptress indeed. I could only hope that the second note would send them on their way.

I gave it a blow that would have conveyed panic if it had been capable of incapsulating the mood of the user. A long-legged rodent had found the gap at the bottom of my trousers and scurried its way up to my knee.

Shee-eek!

The sound wasn’t as melodious as the first; this was instead a high-pitched shriek of distress. The animals around me hastily relocated, creating a defensive circle and tensing themselves as if in preparation to fight. The giraffe scraped its hoof against the ground, the tortoise hunched, and even the strange-looking rodent bounced and squeaked aggressively.

Weird, just weird. Only in AoD could a mouse behave like a tank.

It was only when I blew the final note, with my finger over the whistle-woman’s mouth, that I lost my Animal Admiration Society. They scuttled off back to wherever they’d appeared from, quickly deserting the human that they’d previously been willing to fight to the death to defend.

The vulture was the last to go, lurking hungrily a few feet away, until I half-heartedly threw a pebble at it to send it on its way. It had probably scented the dead-fish smell still lingering on Gunga.

So, the whistle could prove a potent weapon. If I had the heart to use it. The thought of sending animals—some completely helpless—out to fight was somehow repugnant. An act of brutal servitude. But after reluctant consideration of the practical applications, I put the instrument into my tabard’s historically incorrect top pocket—and immediately felt the urge to wipe my hands down my shift. If it didn’t already have grey muck down it. The stain still hadn’t disappeared, which made me wonder if supplies from different games had properties that made them resistant to local passive effects. I could be wearing a slob badge for the rest of my virtual life. Or until I found a vendor to sell me a replacement. Whichever came first.

The reminder of my mortality sent me prepping to take off. The Sound Gives You Wings skill had become available again and I had many miles to cover before I could sleep.

“I’ll call you at the next stop,” I yelled to Gunga as my wings carried me farther from the ground. My last sighting was a small black dot getting more and more distant as she ran after me, trying valiantly to keep up as I soared high above.