That was the end of her writing career, at least under her own name. She had become a literary unperson. Her sales figures were recorded in electromagnetic form in computers in the offices of the major distributors. The figures proved that her books didn’t sell-no publisher in his right mind would take a chance on her.
That none of this was her fault was not on record anywhere.
That her career track was not at all untypical-that the career of practically every other SF or fantasy writer at her two publishing houses also cratered-did not make the situation any easier to bear, but only filled her with a rage that had no point and no direction.
The career collapse occurred simultaneously with a crisis in her marriage. Aubrey had always wanted children, and thus far she had managed to delay the final decision. But he was fourteen years older than she and wanted the children grown and out of the house “before I get too far into my declining years.” He felt he’d indulged her long enough. Considering the death of her career, it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do.
Dagmar thought he might have a point and stopped taking her pill. And then she reflected that she’d had three affaires during her marriage-each during a trip out of town, each short but extremely satisfying-and that rather than have a baby with Aubrey, she’d much rather march over to the Hepworth statue in Churchill College and rip the clothes off the first halfway attractive undergraduate she met.
It wasn’t very nice, she reckoned, but it was true. And things that were true had their own weight, independent of whether they were decorous or not.
She’d lived in two places in the U.S.: Cleveland and Greater Los Angeles. Going west was what Americans did to start over. And so she went back on the pill, packed a pair of suitcases, shipped a copy of the Complete Works of Dagmar Shaw to Charlie by surface mail, and flew to Orange County. When the divorce decree arrived some months later, she signed it.
The only regret she had was that she’d left Aubrey with so many regrets. It hadn’t been his fault.
Over the eight years she’d been away, Dagmar had kept in touch with Austin, Charlie, and BJ. Austin had become a successful venture capitalist and started his own company. Charlie and BJ had gone into business together: Charlie had done extremely well, but BJ was still, as the saying went, working on his first million.
The versions of how that had come about were so wildly different that Dagmar found them impossible to reconcile at a distance. The stories weren’t any more compatible close up, but the anger was a good deal more visible. All Dagmar could do was make sure that Charlie and BJ never met.
She was looking around for jobs in IT when Charlie asked her to lunch.
“I think it would be wicked cool to own a game company,” he said. “Would you like to run it for me?”
The next morning, at an hour chosen randomly in order to foil kidnappers, Dagmar went for the daily hopeless visit to see if Mr. Tong was able to help with any airline reservations. Instead of Tong, the office of the concierge was occupied by a small Javanese woman in a white Muslim headdress.
“Mr. Tong no here,” she said. She didn’t add anything more, even after Dagmar started asking questions.
Tong had gone up in flames with Glodok. Or so Dagmar could only suppose.
A few hours later the protesters came again, and there were no police to stop them. Most of the demonstrators marched past the Royal Jakarta north to the presidential palace, but a group at the tail of the column began throwing rocks at the hotel and smashing those windows that had survived the riot on Tuesday. When this produced no response, they stormed the hotel and looted all the shops on the first floor.
The Sikh doorman in his imposing uniform decided not to die for his masters and instead ran for the manager’s office and locked himself inside.
Dagmar didn’t know that any of this had happened until hours later, when she went to the hotel restaurant for dinner. The sight of the lobby, with smashed glass and furniture and glossy tourist brochures scattered like bright flower petals over the fine marble, sent Dagmar straight back to her room in terror. She emailed Charlie and called Tomer Zan.
“We’re still working on moving you to a safer place,” Zan said.
“The hotel got looted.”
“We’re working on it. We’ve got an advanced team in Singapore setting up logistics.”
How many logistics does it take to move a single person? Dagmar almost screamed.
A lot, apparently.
An alternate reality game was made simpler if the players were helping a sympathetic character. The woman lost in her own hotel room was just such a person.
But how did she get in the hotel room, and what did that have to do with Planet Nine?
If Planet Nine was like other MMORPGs, there would be places in the game world where people could meet. In fantasy games, this was usually a tavern, where the player-characters could swill ale, eat hearty stew, and find like-minded individuals with whom to embark on quests.
Presumably there was a similar place in the Planet Nine setup.
If there was a room somewhere in the Planet Nine world where only the players of Dagmar’s ARG could meet to exchange information, that would be useful to the game.
But what, she thought, if bad guys had a place to meet, too?
People who played in MMORPGs lived all over the world. They adopted online identities and knew one another only by those identities.
They could be anybody. Students, lawyers, teachers, truck drivers, or-as in the old New Yorker cartoon-dogs.
They could be criminals. Killers. Terrorists.
Suppose, Dagmar thought, some bad people were meeting in the Planet Nine world to anonymously plan their activities? Suppose they were overheard, by another player or a systems administrator?
Suppose that person then ended up dead, not in the game but in the real world?
That, she thought, was your rabbit hole.
And if the rabbit hole led to the woman in the hotel room-if the woman was the lover or daughter or sister of the man who died-then what Dagmar had was the shape of her story.
CHAPTER EIGHT This Is Not a Flashback
“Are you afraid?”
Dagmar sat up in the bed, stared wildly into the darkened hotel room with the telephone handset pressed to her ear. Shots crackled in the distance. Sweat dripped from her chin onto her chest.
“Are you afraid?” the woman said. “It’s all right to be afraid.”
Through a film of sleep and fear, Dagmar thought she recognized the voice. “Mrs. Tippel?”
“You can call me Anna, dear.”
Dagmar put her head between her knees and sucked in air.
“I’m not sure I understand what this call is about,” she said.
“We hadn’t seen you since yesterday. We thought you might be lonely and afraid, especially after what’s happened to that building.”
Another dose of fear, this one slow and terrible, crept up Dagmar’s spine.
“Building?” she said.
There was a moment of silence before Anna Tippel responded. “Oh my God, you didn’t know. I’m so very sorry.”
“What building?” Dagmar demanded.
“There’s another hotel. The Palms. It’s on fire. I’m sorry you didn’t know.”
Dagmar bounded out of bed and slapped aside the curtains. The burning building was in plain sight, one of the many great towers just to the north of the Royal Jakarta. Black, dense smoke poured from broken windows at the level of the eighth or ninth floor. The fire had burned upward from lower stories: the windows on the lower levels were all shattered, the walls all black.
She imagined the fire rising, driving the people upward floor by floor until there was nowhere else to go, nowhere but into space, spilling by twos and threes from the blackened roof.