PROLOGUE She lay near the mouth of the cave. Her bulk oozed between the crags in the wall and floor like semi-molten lava, and her skin had that same red glow. That was one of the first things she had noticed when she awoke--her skin was no longer the pale, fish-belly white of a trip addict, but glowing red and scaly. It covered a grotesque reptilian arm with large black claws. Her gold, slitted eyes scanned the scenery outside the cave as she remembered those first few moments that seemed so long ago. A fairy flitted about not far from the cave mouth. She could tell by its incessant, mindless giggling that it was a bot. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs. This is really overkill, she thought as a stream of fiery breath engulfed the fairy. It flickered out of existence--or rather back into the mainframe to be cycled back into the system. She knew that in this world existence was perpetual. She had been “slain” numerous times by questing knights. It didn’t hurt much, but she hated it. Being conscious in DOS was horrible. No sight, no sound--nothing but a horrible awareness that you are the entire universe, and you fit on the head of a pin. She idly wished that she dared to fry a client just once. Not merely put him out of commission--she had done that--but reduce him to toast. She probably could, actually. But that would mean overriding her programming and giving herself away. She had a faint hope of hacking herself a gateway out of this mess, and she wasn’t willing to screw that up just yet. She couldn’t kill and she couldn’t die; she could just lay in her cave like a fat, bloated neon slug and play their stupid game. For now. Mythosphere/Hart 425 Chapter 1 Diana The lights of the town lay in long wavering streamers across the glossy blackness of the bay, while smaller lights dimly revealed the boats coming and going in the harbor. It was all very pretty, Trevor Martin grudgingly admitted as he sat sipping a beer and gazing out the large window. The two small casinos had already swallowed too much of his graduation money. Tomorrow he would have to decide. He had lingered more than long enough to validate his friend, Eric's judgment--"All you could ask for in a Caribbean island, and less of it." It was not for the island's understated charms that he had come, however, but for Mythosphere. Mythosphere, though, was expensive for what sounded like a computer geek’s version of Dungeons and Dragons. Still, Eric Andersen, his college dorm and fraternity mate, had called it the ultimate trip, and a running back for a big ten team was no geek. Besides, Eric's family was absurdly rich; Eric was no novice at pleasure. His own stay, of course, would be more modest . . . if he did stay. There were so many more popular islands, ones with beautiful, warm, sand-brown bodies--real bodies, not electronic ones. He became slowly aware of a familiar voice over the general murmur and the music drifting on the air like the blue cigarette smoke. He looked eagerly around, then scowled--Carolyn McDonald. She was two booths away, but visible in one of the large mirrors. Damn! Why did fate have to remind him of Carolyn with her sky-blue eyes and blonde hair. And those long, dancer's legs now hidden by the table. But there was another woman, one with a pale face and large, dark eyes. She was slimmer than Carolyn, and her short, dark hair with its geometric cut suggested a fashion model. She was certainly distinctive enough for one, with her black, long-sleeved dress among all the floral prints. One of those artsy types that had always strangely attracted him, though most could cut off a head with a phrase, and do it so deftly that the other talked on for a time before realizing it. Usually he was "the other." They seemed to be speaking of Mythosphere, but that subject was already on his mind, so perhaps he was mistaken. He rose and went for another beer, studying the dark-haired woman as he passed. She was speaking, using her elegant, white hands, which stood out against her dark clothing, as though conducting the words that rose and fell so expressively. Returning, he glanced over, and saw that Carolyn had noticed him. "Hello," he said, forcing a smile. Not clever, he realized, but better than, "fancy meeting you here." "Hello, Trevor," she responded coldly, making the greeting a dismissal, too obviously so to let it pass, especially with the other woman watching. "Small world, isn't it?" Trevor said, then grimaced--he would really have to break himself of such obvious clichés, at least around educated women. "Small island, anyway," Carolyn said. "I didn't think you'd still be here," he said with a note of malice. Carolyn, just out of college, had been with a show that had gone broke on tour, leaving her barely enough to return to New York, and nothing to live on once there. That much he had learned on their one date. "I've decided to stick around for a while," she answered. "Looking for a job at Mythosphere?" he asked, feeling a step ahead of her. "Oh. . . I didn't realize you were listening in." "I was sitting here first," he said quickly, realizing that his defensiveness had cost him points. "I only noticed because I'm going there myself. . . not for a job, of course." Damn, he thought, if you're rich enough you can always have the last word. Too bad he really wasn't. "Have fun," she replied with a wave of her hand. Trevor retreated to more distant a seat, but one from which he could still watch. He had not had quite the last word, but as close to it as he was likely to get. Carolyn was really attractive; too bad things had gone badly. Trevor Martin was not the sort who expected too much for the price of drinks and dinner--but this was different. She had actually needed the dinner, and the bed. Besides, he was a college athlete, and a popular, good-looking guy. Suppose he had taken too much for granted--she had not needed to be so bitchy. College athlete--he should drop that before he turned into one of those whiskey-nosed old windbags still reliving their past triumphs. Maybe if he had put more into it he could have gone pro, but damn it, what did people expect? One game was as much work in a couple of hours as most people did in a month, and yet someone was always dogging him. It occurred to him that he was not really much interested in football, or any other team sport for that matter. He was not sure what he was interested in, except for the slim dark haired woman talking to Carolyn. Maybe Carolyn would leave first. Now that he had committed himself to Mythosphere he had an excuse to approach her. Trevor nursed his beer. After a time Carolyn rose, but then, to his chagrin, the other rose as well. He watched them cross the floor, marvelling again at Carolyn’s long, graceful legs. But what now? He was not ready for bed, but now that he was committed to Mythosphere he had to watch his money. He could still back out, he reminded himself, but he knew that he was caught--more by a pair of large, dark eyes than by anything Eric had told him. But would he see her there?--Mythosphere was clearly a big operation. He was gazing down at his faceted mug, watching the small bubbles that began nowhere, and rose in endless strings, vanishing at the surface, when a sudden shadow blocked the light. He looked up to say that he did not need another drink, and found himself gazing into the dark eyes about which he had been thinking. "May I sit down?" she asked him smiling. He motioned toward the seat across from him, too startled to answer. Things just did not work out this well. "May I buy you a drink?" he said, finding his voice at last. The woman laughed. "No. Let me buy you one. I'll get it all back and more if you're coming to Mythosphere. My name, by the way, is Diana--Diana King." "Trevor Martin," Trevor said rising and extending his hand. Something about her inspired formality, for all her casual manner. "You must be someone of importance at Mythosphere," Miss King, Trevor observed. "Why? Do I look important?" "You said you would get the money back. What should I take that to mean?" Trevor smiled; that was a point for him. "Well, actually I am," Diana said airily. "I'm a goddess." "I thought so from the moment I saw you, Miss King." Trevor smiled; for once he was talking to an arty woman, and not coming off as an idiot. "Thanks," Diana said. "So call me Diana. It's my title as well as my name. Only my most intimate friends call me Miss or Ms King." "Do you have a lot of intimate friends?" Trevor asked, thinking that he, himself, would like to be one. "Well, actually . . . none," Diana answered. "I see," Trevor answered, wishing he could get to know her without having to hold his own in conversation. What he really wanted was to reach out and ruffle the smooth curves and angles of her short, dark hair. It would be reassuring to find that it did not fall immediately and perfectly back into place. "So what is it you have to offer?" Trevor asked, attempting to regain the initiative. "That depends on what you want, and how much money you have," Diana answered. She motioned a waitress over and ordered Trevor a beer, herself a rum and coke. Trevor watched her, fascinated by the way the blue-white crescent of light on her glossy hair moved as she turned her head. "We always take all you have," she added, turning back to Trevor. "I have to keep enough to get home." "Oh yes, of course. Everyone hates broke, ex-customers hanging around the island." Trevor took a deep breath. There was no way to avoid mentioning what would probably seem like a very modest sum. "I can spend forty-two hundred dollars," he said. "I don't suppose that will go far." "Not on the deluxe package, but really that's mostly for rich old men. What you've got will do for a week which, on a ten to one time ratio, is equivalent to over two months." "I've heard about that time-ratio business--how do you do that?" "I don't really know, myself. Does it matter?" "I suppose not." "Did you have some particular kind of activity in mind?" "Not exactly. My friend Eric Andersen . . . " He broke off, realizing that Eric had never said very clearly what one did do here. "Oh yes--the liquor company family. They have a permanent town-house in Samarkand," Diana said, then added proudly, "my city." Trevor smiled. She could hardly consider a friend of the Andersens a pauper. "What do you suggest?" Trevor asked. "Let's consider accommodations first--would your friend let you borrow his townhouse?" "Probably," Trevor said. "Call him tonight. That will be better than renting a room, and will save you money." "Ok," Trevor said, "but I don't quite get this money business." "You're given a certain amount of Samarkand, or other Mythosphere currency, according to what you've paid. Once you're there, if you need more, you can work, just as you would anywhere. Now, as for places to go. . ." "Places?" "Yes, there are several. Samarkand is the oldest city. It was started years ago by my father, but I finished it. It's big, with a lot to do for someone without much money. Outside the city, I have simple peasants too; that appeals to some people--I can't imagine why. You're not the peasant type, though. I have a forest with fairies too. But you don't seem like the fairy type either." "I hope not," Trevor said with a short laugh. "And then there's Camelot, a King Arthur world. They're into action--lots of cuts, bruises, and strenuous activity. Not much range or variety. She gave Trevor a searching look, and an appealing view of her large, dark eyes. Trevor was athletic looking, but she suspected a self-indulgence that she hoped detract from Camelot's appeal. "And then there's the Island of Venus--everything sexual you ever imagined, and probably a few that you haven't." "Sounds interesting," Trevor said. He had kept his tone light, but she could sense his interest. "It's great for extreme sexual tastes. Otherwise, it's a bit much. And sex is really not hard to come by here," Diana said quickly. After spending her evening hustling small customers, she certainly wasn't going to hand them to her little sister. "And there's Byzantium, my uncle, Neptune's city; it's a lot like Samarkand, only smaller and more water oriented. He has some Vikings too, but they're expensive. There's Saba, a desert city, and a few cowboys and Indians, and a little of this and that." She motioned a waitress over. Trevor was just wondering if he should offer to pay for the drinks when a woman stopped beside their table, a tall, full-bodied woman with imposing breasts. "Hello," Diana said, looking up, her tone less self-assured than Trevor had grown used to. "Have you seen Violet?" the woman asked. "Not today," Diana answered. "She's probably at that awful nightclub. Well, if you do, be sure to remind her about the council meeting. Her father will take a fit if she misses again." "I will if I see her." "And don't drink too much, Diana. You don't want to have an accident. Remember, consequences here are more serious than in Mythosphere." The woman had a rich, throaty voice that Trevor found very sensual. Diana batted her eyes innocently. "I've had hardly anything to drink all night." "It would be nice to think so," the woman said. "I'm sorry I interrupted you and your friend." She turned and walked off, as Trevor watched, admiring her fine figure. "No, that wasn't one of my nonexistent intimate friends," Diana said, answering Trevor's questioning look. "That was my mother." "She looks very young," Trevor said. "I suppose so. She must be quarreling with Dad, or she wouldn't be out so late by herself. I wonder what she wanted with Violet." "To tell her to go to the council meeting," Trevor suggested. He was surprised at such openness, not realizing that this was only her way of covering the fact that she never revealed anything that really mattered about herself to anyone. "No, of course not, or she wouldn't have made such an issue of it. We Olympians are a devious lot. Violet, by the way, is my sister. She prefers to be called Venus.” "Does she look like you?" "Not much. She got the looks; I got the brains." The attractive waitress brought the drinks and carried off the empty glasses, but Trevor hardly noticed her. What, he pondered, could Venus look like if she was really that much more attractive than her sister. "But enough about my family," Diana said with a dismissive wave of her small, white hand. "You were asking . . .?" "If I do go to Samarkand, what will I do there?" he asked at last. "Whatever you like, or a little of everything. You can be a warrior, a merchant, a craftsman, a thief, a magician, or something else." "A thief?" "It would surprise you how many very respectable people become thieves. I wouldn't suggest it; there are risks." "How about a warrior?" "I'd think so. You look pretty athletic." "I was a college running back," Trevor said almost noncommittally, remembering his resolution not to dwell upon his college exploits." "And if you get short of cash, you can always sign up as a caravan guard. I've been having trouble with Camelot lately." "Is it dangerous? Could I be killed? . . . I don't suppose that would matter much here." "Oh yes it does; you really don't want that to happen." "Why not?" "We'll talk about that in the morning, that and other details you'll need to know. I'm off duty now." "I'd just as soon know now," Trevor said. He did not consider his own death a detail. Diana shrugged. "Very well. You fill out some tests and questionnaires. From those we determine what place would be the most suitable alternative. If you are killed, you will be brought back there." "So, if I wanted to go to Venus' Island . . ." "No. You don't choose, and you aren't told where it will be." "Why not?" "Because you need fear. Death has to be real and mysterious, or life has no edge." "But it isn't really death." "You aren't there yet. When you are, you'll know in your blood that it is. We have very few suicides." "Is this something I'm supposed to want?" Trevor asked perplexed. "No, but it's something you need. Mythosphere is a world, not an arcade game. Still interested?" "I'm game," Trevor said, responding to the challenge. “Sure you don’t want to back out?” Diana asked with a smile, trapping him with what only seemed an offer of escape. "Not a chance. It sounds like a real adventure." "It is; count on it." Trevor lapsed into thought, while Diana sat watching him, elbows on the table, chin resting on her interlocked fingers. She had wanted to keep it simple, knowing that it is the imaginative person who cares about facts. People like Trevor tended to see their heart's desire as a mist of possibilities behind which images flickered faintly like heat lightning. "We really ought to drink up and get out of here," she said at last. "You'll want an early start." "I suppose so." “Tell the desk to give you a wake-up call. I'll take you home. Where's your hotel?" "Across the bay." "Was afraid of that. If Mother was still here we'd take her Town Car. As it is, you'll have to squeeze into my MG. Lucky the top's down." "Mythosphere is that big building up on the hill, isn't it?" "Yes, but don't worry--someone will pick you up tomorrow." "That's very considerate," Trevor said, breaking into a wide grin. "But don't ask me up for a drink--I only do that with my most intimate friends." "I see," Trevor said, his grin drooping to a faint smile.