“And someone on this world wrote this book?”
“Yeah.”
“And you just took it?”
“Ma, you know these people aren’t real, right?”
“So they don’t mind? Do you tell them?”
“No, we don’t…” Adam thought about it. They would mind, wouldn’t they? “Mom, we can’t exactly tell them that they aren’t real, that we created them and we really like their work so we’re gonna share it in the real world.”
“Why not?” His mother grunted, sounding disgusted with him. “I thought I raised you better.”
Adam slapped his palm on his chest. “It isn’t up to me, Ma! I don’t make the rules. Besides, I don’t think you could convince these people. They think they’re just as real as you and me. They’d probably lock you up in a padded room until you logged off.”
“Logged off—?”
“Forget it, Ma.”
“What am I supposed to tell my friends?”
“Tell them I’m really good at what I do. Tell them that I can memorize fifteen pages in a single session, word for word. Tell them there’s no way we can copy stuff straight out of the quantum drives, Mom. Say that. Tell them ‘quantum drives.’ Tell them that there are hundreds of thousands of people trying to do what I do, to find that one great work of art in a sea of tripe, and most of them can’t. Tell your friends that I’m really good at seeing the true genius among the piles of plain stories. Tell them that I’ll be the one to find the next Shakespeare, Mom.”
“But you won’t tell him?”
“Tell who?”
“This new Shakespeare. You’ll memorize his stuff, and you won’t tell him.”
Adam cradled the phone to his ear and let out his breath. “He wouldn’t believe me, Ma, even if I did. These people aren’t real. It’s like a video game, just like you said.”
“So Marsha and Reginold—”
“Those are characters in a book written by a virtual person.” Adam said it slowly.
“But they’re in love with each other.”
He sighed. “I suppose they are. In their own weird way.”
“How did a video game write about that?”
“Hey, Ma? I gotta go. I’ve got a class in an hour.”
“Does your girlfriend, does Amanda know this is what you do?”
“Yeah,” Adam lied.
“And she’s okay with it?”
“Of course.” He rubbed his temples.
“When am I going to meet her?”
Not before I do, Adam thought.
“Soon,” he said.
“Okay. Well, I still like the book.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
“Even if you did steal it from some poor person.”
Adam patted his pockets as he left his apartment, making sure he had his keys. It was winter; the days were short. A blanket of black hung over the campus, and a blanket of white covered the ground. He shut the apartment door too hard, rattling the windows. Of late, all doors seemed to close too hard for him or not at all. They were slammed or left wanting. It was about motor control, and Adam was losing his. He looked back to the shuddering window and saw his reflection. The scruff on his jaw measured the long nights, nights such as these when he should sleep but couldn’t. Despite his fatigue, he remained awake, a diurnal creature in the opposite of day.
“Griff?”
Adam turned to find his friend standing at the bottom of his apartment’s stoop, freshly falling snow gathering on his knit cap like stars shaken from the darkness overhead.
“Hey, Samualson.”
“You ready?” Samualson asked. He had a look of concern on his face, a look Adam was getting used to seeing. His friend was a decade older than him and half a foot taller. A neatly trimmed beard and fitted coat lent him a professorial look. He seemed more the English scholar than Adam felt, even though he was a member of the hard sciences. The two of them had become friends after seeing each other in the labs every night. They found there was something less pathetic about coming and going to the sims with another real person.
Adam shrugged his bookbag over his shoulder and followed Samualson down the walk. The campus arranged across the valley below was illuminated by tall night lights and the sliver of a waning moon. The snow on the ground and in the air seemed to gather and magnify the light. The shallow impressions of footsteps littered the ground, already half full again with falling snow. Adam hurried up beside Samualson, their boots crunching and squeaking in the wet pack.
“Hey, did you hear?” Thick smoke streamed out with Samualson’s voice, the moisture of his breath crystallized in the cold night air.
“Did I hear?” Adam tugged his gloves on and patted them together. “Did I hear what? I hear tons. I hear too much.”
“Virginia Tech.” Samualson turned his head as a gust of wind brought cold and a flurry of blown snow. “Their farm got razed.”
“Razed? As in gone?”
“Every single server got deleted. Formatted.”
“You’re shittin’ me.” Adam tucked his scarf into his collar. “When? Last night? Today?” He couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard.
Samualson groped in a pocket and drew out an orb of light, the glow of his phone dazzling the snow. “Just now.” He flashed the screen at Adam. “Read about it on the walk over. They think the Writers Guild might be responsible, but, again, nobody’s taking credit.”
Adam shook his head. “How are they doing this? That’s three farms wiped out this month.”
“Yeah.” They turned a corner around the administration building, entering its lee and escaping the bitter wind. “Three farms went online this month and three others got hosed. That’s pretty weird.”
Adam’s exhalations billowed in the air in front of him before trailing off behind. He pulled his scarf over his mouth. “How many worlds was Tech simming?” His voice was muffled and wet against his nose.
“Sixteen. Four humanoid and the rest xeno. I work with a guy who had remote access to some of them. He’s gonna be crushed. Was in the middle of some good research there.”
“Sixteen worlds. Fuck me, that’s a lot to lose.” Adam glanced up at the sliver of a moon hanging over campus.
“They’re saying something close to eighty billion sentients are gone. No telling how many lesser critters.”
“Or works of art,” Adam reminded him.
Samualson shrugged and stuffed his phone away. His hands were pale blue from the cold. He dug in another pocket and pulled a pair of gloves out, then wiggled them on. “That’s your domain,” he said.
They shuffled in near silence across the campus. Adam could hear the tinkle of invisible sleet hitting the crust of snow around him. It was a small campus, which kept the jaunts short, but it was hilly and made faculty and students alike prone to gasping and wheezing. The university was kept small by necessity, nestled down and crowded in by three rising slopes, like two bosoms and a great belly, all perched on the thin sternum of a high mountain valley. It was a place that caught snow and gathered high-flying and lost souls. Adam considered that as they reached the Madison Mitchell Jr. Computer Science building. He stamped snow off his boots while Samualson fumbled through his ring of keys. Adam watched a snowflake fall on the back of his glove, the white standing out on the black for a moment before the edges of the fragile crystalline structure folded up into a drop of water. The clarity of the transformation was stunning.
“Look how real all this is,” he said aloud, not meaning to.