You're in Game! LitRPG Stories from Bestselling Authors Read online

He ambled aimlessly from one table to the next but found nothing of any interest. Nothing he could use; nothing that actually worked. Disgusted, he exited his failed creation and stopped nearby, pondering over the situation.

  Some game they'd made! This didn't look like entertainment at all. More like a sick joke.

  His hunger had subsided somewhat. His thirst, however, kept growing.

  He spent the next few hours experimenting. Now he was surrounded by dummies: a tiny lake, its water as hard as glass; a small area of a park overgrown with plastic greenery — everything he'd managed to visualize or imagine had ultimately turned out to be stage props which copied the objects' form but not their purpose.

  Feeling quite annoyed, Dietrich noticed the change in his surroundings. It had grown noticeably darker: a weird twilight as if cyberspace was reacting to his state of mind. Swirls of ashen dust began to follow him, growing in synch with his anger.

  You're getting tired. You're so hungry and thirsty that you're now losing 3% Life every hour.

  He slumped onto a bench in the park he'd just built. This is only a game. A stupid game that I'm supposed to test. In reality, there's no danger to me whatsoever.

  His mind seemed to be living a life of its own. Half-forgotten images from the past kept surfacing as if the neuroimplant was sifting through his memories, bringing up everything he'd been trying to forget. The darkness grew thicker, forming the outlines of buildings and streets.

  He shook his head free from unwelcome reminiscences and concentrated on more pressing problems. How could he get hold of some water?

  Suddenly it dawned on him. He needed rain! What could be easier?

  True, water falling from the sky promised nothing good to a metropolis dweller. It was nothing but urban emissions condensed into toxic clouds. Acid rain was commonplace. Still, Dietrich remembered the pure rain of his childhood when you could go out into an open-air park and where the taste of rainwater on your lips hadn't been lethal.

  So this reality was adaptive, after all! He watched in surprise as the gloom began to transform, obeying his mental image's command. Heavy clouds gathered overhead; a clap of thunder echoed from afar. The first raindrops fell to the parched ground, rolling together like dust-covered drops of mercury.

  Dietrich offered his hands up to the fresh downpour not even noticing the buildings' outlines approach, more material with every moment, until they formed a fragment of a street.

  The water turned out slightly salty but he gulped it down greedily, ignoring the pinkish trickle that ran down his wrists.

  Only after having drunk his fill, did he finally realize something was wrong. He glanced at his hands and cussed.

  Blood? Where could it have come from? I hadn't hurt myself, had I?

  He suppressed a gag, then looked around himself. The weather was getting worse by the minute. The rain pelted down, concealing the buildings' outlines. Bolts of lightning alone ripped through the dark, briefly illuminating his surroundings.

  In the deadly light of a new flash Dietrich watched one of the ashen swirls take human shape.

  A skinny youngster, his face a bloodied mess, his broken right arm hanging lifelessly.

  In real life, Dietrich had never been afraid of anyone but now he broke out in a cold sweat. The phantom figure stepped toward him, gaining detail, apparently trying to say something. Froth bubbled on the creature's bloodied lips; his throat gargled and wheezed.

  Now Dietrich recognized him. Instinctively he recoiled, looking around. He remembered the street.

  He'd wanted his childhood back, the idiot! A flash of unwelcome memories electrocuted him, paralyzing his brain.

  So we're thirsty, are we? His inner voice was now mocking, sarcastic, apparently wanting Dietrich to remember himself as a fifteen-year-old kid and bring back the day when he'd first learned to solve his problems, becoming the alpha dog in a gang of equally underage hoods.

  "Do you... remember me?" the phantom wheezed.

  "Piss off!"

  The phantom didn't obey. On the contrary: the more Dietrich concentrated on him, the more real he looked. "Fuck off!"

  The rain pelted down. More ashen swirls began coming to life, transforming into the people he'd long forgotten — whose images he'd buried shamelessly within the deepest recesses of his memory. It's human nature to come up with lies in order to justify one's actions: I simply had no choice, there was no other way, I did the right thing.

  Over time, those painful memories had faded, replaced by fresher and more vivid ones. This was the way he'd lived his life.

  Damn their absolute memory! He'd always lived by the "Death solves all problems" adage. How many more incidents like these were stored in the recesses of his mind? No idea. Was he supposed to face all of them now?

  Seven days! He wouldn't last an hour!

  Desperate, Dietrich looked around himself as more and more ashen swirls rose into the air, crowding him out.

  Spending his brief prison term stuck in his own personal hell was the last thing he needed. He had no desire to tick off his mortal sins as he studied the scabby scars covering his conscience.

  He'd have loved to remember something positive and uplifting, something good — but all his life until now had been one long, unscrupulous and bloodied path to the top toward wealth, power and fleeting prosperity.

  He knew this was only his neuroimplant reading his memory like an open book. The phantoms surrounding him didn't exist. Still, how was he supposed to get rid of them? Was he really so powerless?

  Thoughts came in fits and starts as he kept sinking into this purgatory, recognizing more faces and recalling the events they triggered.

  The teenager whose name he'd never known — the one who'd been beaten to death — got to him first. Wheezing, he reached out his good hand, clutching at Dietrich's clothes and leaving bloodied handprints which the rain didn't seem to wash away.

  Dietrich recoiled but he had nowhere to retreat to anymore. Phantoms had closed in, surrounding him.

  He couldn't think straight. Rage enveloped his mind in a crimson haze. He had no wish to control himself anymore. His old instincts kicked back in.

  You'll all be dead in a moment!

  Uncontrollable fury flooded his mind. His hand closed around something cold and heavy. The first and only item he'd as yet managed to will to life was a sharp dagger — a winning argument in this fight with his own past.

  He invested all his strength into the blow. The phantom rippled, surging with interference, but Dietrich couldn't stop himself anymore. He kept stabbing the air in silent rage, feeling his fear subside. Thoughts began to fade; a viscous darkness thickened around him, devouring his mind.

  In a flash of agony, the world disappeared.

  * * *

  "HIS IDENTITY MATRIX has been stabilized. Vital functions return to normal."

  Finally the classified lab's medical and neurotech staff could breathe a sigh of relief.

  "Good job, guys," the military representative said, checking the subject's biometric data.

  "Allow me to point out, Sir, that the subject is completely burned out."

  "What do you mean?"

  "His metabolism has accelerated beyond all human endurance. He's lost fifteen pounds in less than five minutes. His brain has suffered a massive loss of nervous cells. I don't think he'll survive another immersion."

  "That shouldn't worry you," the military representative said. "This is a convict who's paying the price for his crimes. We will continue with the project."

  Jurgen cast him an unfriendly glance. "There's no need to. We've received extensive data proving that the neuroimplant in its current form is unfit for human use. The risks are too high. This technology is lethal. No one's gonna opt for this kind of immortality. We all have our skeletons in our closets."

  "It's a good job you're not in charge. It's not your decision."

  "But it's my job as an expert to write the implant's assessment."

  "If it's for your cor
poration, be my guest."

  "We're supposed to create the game of the future," Jurgen insisted. "Its absolute authenticity is its main selling point. The implant is supposed to offer experiences identical to the player's actions in the game, not to pull ghosts out of his past!"

  "You'd better get back to work then, hadn't you? You need to go through all the spectrum of potential effects on the subject's mind and choose those suitable for use in the game. The Infosystems Corporation agreed to purchase a truncated version of the neuroimplant which would only serve the game's purposes."

  Jurgen preserved a moody silence, studying the schemes. Finally, he overcame his resentment, "Mind telling me where you got this technology from? Somehow I don't think you developed it from scratch."

  "Mind your own business," the military representative snapped. "Ask no questions, tell no lies. Unless you want to become the next test subject."

  He switched on the intercom. "You can get our man ready," he spoke into the microphone. "Identity matrix upload in one hour. Make sure he knows his cover story."

  * * *

  DIETRICH HAD no idea how long he'd been in pain. Finally, the agony subsided. The crimson haze before his eyes began to dissipate, revealing the same old drab landscape.

  But the phantoms were gone. Ditto for the clumsy street setting. Instead, a man was sitting on a boulder nearby, chewing on a twig and staring at the caked ground, looking utterly bored.

  For a while, Dietrich watched the stranger surreptitiously. He was short and stocky, about thirty years old, with a round and good-natured rosy-cheeked face. His clothes were rather plain. He'd never met anyone like him before, that's for sure. He couldn't have anything to do with the ghosts of his past. Which was good news even though it didn't explain where he'd come from or what he needed here. Had he been waiting for Dietrich to come round?

  "What do you want?" Dietrich croaked, trying to scramble back to his feet. His head spun, sending him reeling. After everything that had happened to him, he expected another catch.

  He was wrong though.

  The stranger didn't show any signs of aggression. His gaze was filled with respectful disapproval. "You're strong but stupid," he said. "If you go on like this, you won't last long."

  "Why, what have I done?"

  "You've probably destroyed one or two of your own memories by the looks of it. Am I right?"

  Dietrich pricked up his ears. "Is that possible?"

  The stranger chuckled. "It's easier than you think. Not recommended for frequent use, though. Trust me."

  "Why not?"

  "Not a healthy idea. Memories are part of your identity. By destroying them, you're destroying yourself."

  "Bullshit! I've lived all my life without them. Couldn't have been better."

  "That's what you think. The human brain doesn't forget anything. It's just that we normally try not to rake up the past."

  "What's your name again?" Dietrich mumbled, trying to change the subject.

  "Rich."

  "So what do you want, Rich?"

  "Just passing by. Saw you lying here unconscious. We don't have many newbs here. I was curious."

  "Are there many other convicts here?"

  Rich arched a surprised eyebrow. "Not that I know of."

  "Do you mean you're here of your own free will?"

  "Sure. Earning my bit on the side. They pay good money for implant testing. The contract is a bastard though. I'm stuck here for another six months. They block your logout the moment you enter."

  "What is this place, anyway? Can you tell me?"

  "This? This is the Infosystems Corporation testing grounds," Rich replied eagerly as he created a table with two easy chairs. "Come and take a seat. And give it a break, will you? Of course I'm interested in you. We might do a bit of trading. But first I need to explain something to you."

  Unwilling to give him the impression of being paranoid, Dietrich took one of the chairs. He didn't believe in good Samaritans. Still, it would be stupid to pass by the rare chance of getting some information on board.

  "Spit it out," he said.

  Rich cast a wary look around, then leaned closer to him. A plastic water bottle materialized on the table. "Help yourself. I can see you could use a drink. It's against the rules but I don't think they'll notice. Consider it a gesture of good will."

  Dietrich didn't have to ask himself twice. His life bar had already shrunk to half its original size. He was parched, too.

  The water turned out to be fresh and clear. He'd only taken a few swigs when a new system message appeared,

  You're not thirsty anymore. Your Health is restoring.

  "Why did you think they wouldn't notice?" he asked.

  "You should keep an eye on the sky. If you notice a thin purple strip running across it, that's them doing the scanning. Then you should be careful. They won't punish you for something petty like this. Still, better to be safe than sorry."

  The moment Dietrich finished the water, the bottle disappeared.

  "If I understand correctly, you're a convict?" Rich asked.

  "Yeah. Seven days. My lawyer made a deal," Dietrich chose to tell him the truth.

  "I see now. They didn't tell you anything, did they? I can see all the twisters swirling around you."

  "Is it bad?"

  "Bad memories, yeah. Good ones manifest themselves differently. Like a gentle warm breeze or a ray of sunlight. It depends."

  "What am I supposed to do with them?"

  "Just accept them. If you want to survive, that is. This place is like purgatory."

  "Are you suggesting I have to spend a week in my personal hell surrounded by ghosts?"

  "Why, is it so bad? Your past, I mean?"

  Dietrich frowned. "You could say that. Never mind. I'll sort it all out. Now tell me why you came. What kind of trading do you mean? Water? Food? I've nothing to offer you. How did you make the water, by the way?"

  "Easy. You need to visualize any kind of plastic container, then add its chemical formula to the image. Same with water. Just add H2O and you have it."

  "All I've managed to make is some gray powder. Everything made of it immediately crumbles to dust. How am I supposed to know chemical formulas? What a bunch of morons! I was told they were making a new game. That's bullshit! A game should make money! And this," Dietrich swept his hand around, barely missing a few of the noticeably grown ash twisters, "this is crap! You think someone's gonna pay for this?"

  "Quit belly-aching," Rich replied calmly. "They are making a new game, don't you worry. I even know what they want to call it: Phantom Server. Both interaction and authenticity levels are going to be out of this world. And this place, if you absolutely need to know, is where they test neuroimplants. They want to find out what an artificial neural network can and can't do. This technology is new. They're obliged to make it difficult and set all sorts of non-game tasks."

  This didn't sound good. Surviving these seven days might turn out to be a job and a half. "Okay," Dietrich said. "You're the smartass. You know formulas and stuff. Think you can make a simple object?"

  "Depends what it is."

  Dietrich willed the table top to become soft and malleable. With a few practiced motions, he scratched a scheme of the desired object upon its surface.

  Rich paused, thinking. "I can do it," he finally said. "But," he leaned back in his seat, "I told you you shouldn't take risks."

  "Why not?" Dietrich insisted.

  "All right, I'll explain. If you can't work it out yourself, listen to me. When you were a child, you learned to recognize objects, colors and images. When you grew up a little, you began accumulating experiences. Your identity is in fact based on your memory which in turn is just a sequence of smaller separate memories. Good ones, bad ones, all sorts. You get my point?"

  "Not really."

  "If you keep getting rid of your memories, you'll destroy yourself. Your identity will crumble like a house of cards."

  Dietrich winced. "Was that why
it hurt so much when I killed that scumbag?"

  "I don't know who you're talking about but it does hurt, yes. If your life hasn't been too charitable, you'll have plenty of nasty ghosts to handle. Just don't think you can find peace by destroying them."

  "I told you I'd sort it out. Just name your price. What do you want in return?"

  "Well," Rich faltered, "to put it bluntly, all of us used to have a life and an objective. We all had to sacrifice a lot on our way to our goals. And here, all of a sudden it becomes a problem. Here you just can't experience something you've never had. You can't use something you know nothing about. You know what I mean?"

  "I think so."

  "Right. How was your sex life?"

  Dietrich didn't know what to say. He expected anything but that.

  "All right, all right, let me explain," Rich said. "You shouldn't get any ideas. You see, all my life has been strictly professional. On one hand, this was good. Now that I have the neuroimplant, I can do lots of things thanks to my old skills. But I've never been a ladies' man. It never seemed to quite work out. I never thought it mattered anyway. Not compared to my career and stuff."

  "What did you do then?"

  "I was an engineer in a space settlement."

  "With Space Forces?"

  "Yeah. Don't ask why they got rid of me. The fact remains I missed out on lots of things in life. And here it makes me feel inadequate."

  "What have I got to do with it?"

  "I repeat the question. How often did you have sex?"

  This time Dietrich replied without embarrassment, "More often than I'd like to admit."

  "That's good," Rich said. "If you give me a couple of your memories, that'll allow me to... to fill in the gap."

  "Be my guest. I have tons of them. But how are we supposed to do the swap? Didn't you just say I should take good care of my memories?"

  "A swap is not the same as a kill. It doesn't hurt. There'll be no damage to your identity provided you have plenty left as you've just said."

  "Okay. What do I get in return?"

  "How about this?" Rich pointed at the clumsy drawing of a gun scratched into the tabletop. "A pulse Steiger, good enough?"