Dizzy blinked a few times, clearing her eyes. What had just happened? Had they truly exited the Dreamworld, and were they now back in “reality?” It appeared so. The Mind-Meld had been successful . . . and her fingertips still hurt from playing the guitar solo. Her guitar was still in her hands; she had been holding it in the Dreamworld, and was still holding it now. Gadget stood to her right, and Misto, Mystikite, Buffy, and Darmok stood a little ways away from them. Pris, of course, wasn’t there. Dizzy sucked in a breath of this world’s oxygen. It was raining, here.

  “Gadget?” she said. “We did it.”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking around, blinking. “I guess we did. But where did Ravenkroft go? And Viktor?”

  “I guess they . . . vanished into the other world’s reality matrix,” said Dizzy. “Viktor when he . . . when he died, and Ravenkroft, when we defeated the Dragon.”

  “Is it over?” asked Buffy, walking up to them. “Really over? Did we do it?”

  “Yeah,” said Mystikite, as he, Misto, and Darmok joined her. “It’s over. We did it. The Alien and Ravenkroft are both dead as doornails. Right G-man? Right, Dizzy?”

  “Roger that,” said Dizzy. “They’re both gone now. Evaporated into cosmic dust. Splitsville. Adios amigos. Hasta la vista, baby. Exit, stage left, even.”

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Misto.

  “It would appear my mission is complete, then,” said Darmok. She cast a sidelong glance at Misto. “But without my ship, I cannot return home. It appears I will need to make use of the Zarcturean’s ship.”

  “Right,” said Misto, looking a little downtrodden at her mentioning this. “Y’know, though, we never did finish that conversation. On the Demonbane.”

  “Perhaps now, then, would be a good time to do so,” said Darmok, turning to face him.

  “Maybe,” said Misto.

  “Wait, what?” said Dizzy, turning around. “What conversation?”

  Misto sighed. “You might as well know, Diz. Darmok’s offered to let me come with her. Back to her home planet of Shyphtor. Look, I don’t belong here anymore, Diz. Not the way . . . the way that I am now. I’ll never fit in to Mundane — or even into Human — society like this. It’s just not possible. On her planet, I won’t have to worry about that. And plus there, she and I can be . . . we can be together. I think I’ll even be . . . happy there. Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is that I have to do this. I think it’s the right move for me. I don’t want to leave you alone. I don’t. That’s the last thing I want to do. I promised your father I would take care of you, that I would look after you. And I don’t want to break that promise. But Diz . . . I want to be happy again. I haven’t been happy since . . . since Coraline died. And I so want to be happy again. Do you understand? Please tell me you do.”

  Dizzy gazed at him for a long moment. The truth was, she did understand. She had understood from the beginning. She had seen how over the past two years, he had gone from being such an outgoing, fun-loving guy to being such a down-in-the-dumps mope, had seen how Coraline’s death had affected him. She had seen how he had taken to staying indoors more, never getting out, never having any fun. Hell, just getting him to come to con this year had been a major concession from him. Seeing him with Jetta this year had been encouraging. And now, to hear this . . . to hear that he was ready to move on, ready to try and give it a go with someone new . . . it was such a drastic turnaround that she was almost afraid he was moving too fast. But then again, it was time. Time for him to move on, to start getting his life back together. And if that entailed moving to a new planet, well, who was she to stand in his way? It was time for her to get on with her own life, too. Time for her to grow up and take care of herself. She would miss him — oh dear gods, how she would miss him so much! — and it brought tears to her eyes now. She fought them — fought them hard and bitterly — but in the end, she won. Well, almost.

  “If that’s what you want to do,” she said, struggling to keep her voice from cracking, “then by gods, I say ‘what the frak!’ Misto, you need this. You two make a good couple. I think. Catwoman and Werewolf. Dogs and cats, living together. Mass hysteria.” She burst into laughter and tears streaked down her cheeks. She let them come and hugged Misto tightly.

  “Dude,” said Mystikite, grimacing. “I feel like I’m watching my parents’ wedding video, or something. This is so not cool.”

  ‘Well I’m happy for you two,” said Buffy, grinning at them. “Please ignore my boyfriend. Some of us know how to be emotionally mature.”

  “Boyfriend?” said Mystikite. “Try husband.” Buffy gasped, and turned to face him. “Yeah, you heard me,” he said. “We’re Vampires now. Which means we live forever. So I figure if we’re in this together — forever — we might as well make it official. What do you say, Zoe. Will you have me? I know I don’t deserve you. I know I probably don’t even have a right to ask, after all that I’ve put you through. And I know becoming a vamp wasn’t exactly your idea of how to spend eternity. But what do you say. Lead the Vampire Nation with me, by my side, maybe?”

  “Yes,” she said, and kissed him, and grinned. “I say yes!” She laughed, and hugged him.

  Gadget shifted uncomfortably, put his hands in his pockets, and stared at his shoes for a moment.

  “You wanna be my best man?” asked Mystikite, turning to him. “I can think of no one else I’d like to have the job more.”

  “Who, me?” asked Gadget.

  “Yeah, you!” said Mystikite, grinning. “Who else would I ask!”

  Gadget smiled. “Sure. Of course I’ll do it. Who else would be your best man? Plus, this way I get to plan the bachelor party!”

  “Whoa shit,” said Mystikite. “I’m in trouble!”

  Gadget snickered menacingly. But Dizzy sensed there were more emotions lurking beneath his jocular fa?ade. “Oh you have no idea,” he said. He sounded like he was having fun, and he hid it well, but Dizzy could tell, a part of his heart had just broken. It was in his eyes.

  “There might not be time for a bachelor party,” said Buffy. “The con doesn’t end for another three days . . . and there’s still that guy there who’s an ordained minister. I think his name is Rob. If we can find him, he can marry us right then and there.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Dizzy. “We’ll have to take the Fangirl back to the Renaissance Regency. I wonder what’s transpired there while we’ve been gone. When last we left, the city was under siege from Homeland Security, the cops, the Army National Guard, and the fire department, thanks to our buddy Orogrü-Nathr?k. There was panic in the streets. Real mass hysteria. I wonder if the con is even still in swing.”

  “Well I hope so,” said Buffy. “Otherwise the minister won’t be there.”

  “It’s perverse,” said Mystikite, still grinning. “We’re Vampires. Unholy creatures of the night. Yet we’re going to ask an ordained minister to marry us in holy matrimony, just to get legal with the State. I love it!”

  “Yeah, it’s great!” said Gadget, but Dizzy knew a half-hearted response full of feigned enthusiasm when she heard one. Something deep and unsettling was bothering Gadget, but he didn’t feel like sharing. That was okay; he would in time.

  They made their way back into the summer-home. It was eerie inside without Viktor or Ravenkroft there. The lab equipment sat eerily silent, as though awaiting its master’s return.

  “What the hell are we gonna do with all this stuff?” asked Buffy.

  “‘Bag it and tag it,’ to quote Warehouse 13,” said Dizzy, putting her hands on her hips. “That’s what we’re gonna do with it. All of this junk is officially the property of Mjolnir Propulsion Systems, as of right now. Viktor had no heirs, and Ravenkroft sure as hell didn’t. And some of this stuff is far too dangerous to let the average Joe Schmoe get their hands on it. So it all goes to Mjolnir. It has to. Special Projects Research Division. Which you just got placed in charge of, Gadget. Congratulations on your new position with the company. I know you’ll do great things with it.”

  “Say — wait — say what?” said Gadget. “I’m, what — promoted? I’m off your special team?”

  “Nope,” said Dizzy, “you’re still on the team, but now you have two jobs. Congratulations. Again.”

  “Uh, okay,” said Gadget. “Thanks. I guess.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  “What — what’ll I do?” he said.

  “After con is over, in three days,” said Dizzy, “you’ll bring a team back here and will exhaustively catalogue everything that Ravenkroft and Viktor were working on or developed, and will inventory the whole house into a custom database solution that Mystikite will develop for you. Right Mystikite? Right. Then you’ll start working on whichever thing suits your fancy, trying to crack the secrets of whatever weird tech Ravenkroft was working on that we haven’t mastered here on Earth yet. It should be some pretty frakkin’ exciting stuff. Of course that cross-pollenates with your work on my special team, don’t ya know. Counts as work done for both, in other words.”

  “Uh, right,” said Gadget. “I think I’ve got it. So when do we head back to the con?”

  “Well, right now would be okay,” said Dizzy. “But let’s check out that Zarcturean ship first.”

  “Excellent idea,” said Darmok. “I’ll need that to get home, after all.”

  They made their way to the front of the house, and back out onto the front lawn. There, parked a dozen yards away, was the Zarcturean ship, all sleek gray, its two saucer-halves gleaming in the cool moonlight, its plasma-globe hemispheres glowing slightly. As Darmok approached, the portal appeared on the side of it, and the metal gangplank extended. Apparently, the telepathic security system still recognized her from the last time she had accessed the ship. Her own ship, the Renegade Angel, would never fly again. Pity. She had loved that ship. And its amazing engine design. Oh well. She would build another one. Meanwhile, the task at hand was to fly this bucket of bolts back to Planet Shyphtor in one piece.

  She marched up the gangplank and through the transdimensional portal, with Dizzy and the others close behind her. She heard Dizzy and the others gasp in awe as they walked through the portal and into the cavernous space beyond, but for her, this was old-hat. She stepped onto the metal walkway that led through the black, inky, infinite space, and that led to the raised platform in the “center.” She walked towards it, up the stairs, and toward the raised control dais. She looked around at the various iris-like doors that led to the other compartments — the medical bay, the engine room, the armory. She inspected the controls on the dais, the holographic readouts, the crystalline chutes. Yes, this was simple enough. This would do.

  “Yes, I think I can fly her,” she said, nodding. “The controls are pretty basic. The computer system is artificially intelligent and the navigation system is very basic. It relies on star-charts, heuristics, and your basic inflationary model of the universe, taking into account dark matter and galactic rotation, etcetera. The engines are your standard hyperdrive, utilizing a hyperspace tunneling model rather than a jump-drive or warp-field model. Not as advanced as my engine design, of course. Not nearly. But oh well. She’ll do for the return journey. Shouldn’t take us more than . . . oh, say, a week to get there via standard hyperspace travel. We’ll have to drop by Walmart or Kroger to pick up some food for the journey. I won’t eat Zarcturean field rations. Yuck.”

  Misto grinned. “Sounds good to me.”

  Dizzy was still looking around in awe. “Wow. This is . . . bigger than your ship was inside, Darmok. Does it use the same basic theoretical principle? A pocket universe inside a smaller structure, but connected to it somehow? Tethered to it?”

  “Basically yes,” said Darmok. “The inside is bigger than the outside. My ship’s implementation of the concept was more advanced, allowing for more efficient use of the spatial constructs within the transdimensional pocket. But yes, the idea is the same. Most spacefaring species have mastered the concept. It’s an efficient method of building small starships that don’t need to be enormous on the outside. Now of course, some ships are still enormous . . . but that’s because in their case, they contain many smaller ships, like fighters and other small craft, or because they haul freight or whatever, and it isn’t deemed a necessity that they use this tech, which can be expensive to implement. But for the most part, yeah, this is how advanced species build their spaceships — bigger on the inside. You Humans have got a long way to go.”

  “I’ll say,” said Dizzy in a small voice, still looking around.

  “I’m more interested in the thing’s computer system,” said Mystikite, looking over the control panel. “You said it was telepathic. It can interface with its user’s brainwaves? You mean it can read your thoughts and just know what you want it to do?”

  “Well, not exactly,” said Darmok. “And no, my ship couldn’t do that either, of course. That’s why we had to pilot it manually, just like you have to pilot this ship. What it can do, though, is interface with its user telepathically and send them information — like ‘low fuel pressure,’ or ‘instability in the hyperdrive’ or ‘right thruster losing power,’ etcetera. Or the user can send it basic commands, like ‘power up hyperdrive’ or ‘power up weapons.’ Things like that. However — one exception is the Dreaming protocol. The system can interface with the user’s brain and can shape and mold their dreams while they’re in cryo-sleep for long journeys, sort of like being in the NeuroScape. I was able to tap into that capacity of the system using my Affinity and use it as a back door to defeat the security system earlier.”

  “Wow,” said Mystikite. “You’re quite the freakin’ hacker, then. Black hats off to you, girlfriend.”

  “How do the engines work?” asked Gadget. “I mean, you said it uses ‘hyperspace tunneling.’ What does that mean?”

  “Hmm, how best to explain that,” said Darmok, thinking for a moment, frowning. “Ah, alright. The ship uses high-intensity, rotating exotic-energy fields to open a doorway into hyperspace, whereupon it follows a trajectory through hyperspace that corresponds to a trajectory through ordinary space that takes it to its destination. It’s very simple, really. Travel through hyperspace — the five dimensional bulk outside the normal four-dimensional universe, that is — shortcuts the travel-time. It’s like having a portable wormhole that goes anywhere you want it to, anytime you want it. My home planet is 473 lightyears away, for instance. But with hyperspace travel, it shouldn’t take Misto and I but about nine days to reach it.”

  “What does it use for fuel, though?” asked Gadget. “And how does it maintain the transdimensional pocket universe?”

  “With one of those,” said Darmok. She pointed to the reactor in Dizzy’s chest, and smiled. “Only larger, and more powerful, and with a redundancy, of course. Zero-point energy is the only practical solution. We — well, I hate to put myself in the company of the Zarcturean, but oh well; when I say ‘we,’ I mean most advanced, spacefaring species — suck our power right out of the spacetime continuum. Right out of the quantum vacuum itself. There’s no other workable solution for our power needs. Some of us — though again, this isn’t true for all of us — also build what you call ‘Dyson Spheres’ around our suns. Planet Shyphtor has one, in fact.”

  “Incredible,” breathed Misto. “I can’t wait to see that in action.”

  “Well, you will, soon enough,” said Darmok, as she rearranged the crystalline chutes on the control console.

  “I’m going to miss you, Misto, you know that?” said Buffy, speaking up at last. She put a hand on Misto’s furry arm. “And here I just got to know you, too.”

  “I’m going to miss all of you,” said Misto. He put his arm around Buffy. “It was great getting to know you guys.”

  “Same here,” said Gadget.

  “Yeah, likewise, dude,” said Mystikite. “We barely got to know you, and now you’re going away.”

  “Don’t be sad guys,” said Dizzy, though she herself looked as sad as could be, Darmok thought. She said nothing, though. A pang of guilt went through her. Was she doing the right thing, taking Misto with her? Was she breaking up a family? She pushed the thought away. No — she was doing what was best for Misto. He would be an outcast, a pariah on Earth, in that body of his. Of course he would be. He was not safe here. Only on Planet Shyphtor would he be accepted, the way that he was, now. Only there could be find some semblance of peace. And she did love him. She had to admit that. As stranger as it was, she did. There was no denying it, even to herself. She had not come on this mission expecting to fall in love, of all the ridiculous things. Especially not with a Human. Especially not with a Human werewolf. But life, she supposed, was like that. It threw you curveballs when you least expected it, when you were least ready for it. The best you could do was try and keep up with the relentless assault and try to keep a smile on your face, even when life punched you in the face with something wholly unforeseen and unbidden. Like love.

  “Yeah, don’t be sad, guys,” said Misto. “I’m heading to the stars! ‘Star trekkin’, across the universe . . .’”

  “‘Always going forward,’” quoted Dizzy, and she grinned.

  “‘Cause we can’t find reverse,’” finished Misto, and smiled.

  “Hey Darmok,” said Gadget, “are you about done checking out the ship?”

  “Yeah, I’m almost finished here,” she said. “Why?”

  “I thought we might return to the con soon,” he said. “All our stuff is still there, at the hotel. The wreckage of your ship is still on top of that one building. We need to see to that. Dizzy probably needs to make some phone calls regarding safeguarding it, via Mjolnir Propulsion. And hey . . . it’s con. It only comes once a year. We should finish out the week there. You and Misto can leave after it’s over, can’t you?”

  Darmok and Misto exchanged a glance.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” said Misto, and he smiled. “Why the hell not.”

  Once they had piled into the Fangirl, Dizzy started the ignition and took off toward the city once again. They passed over the woods and soon zoomed back over Cambridge. It looked as if the Army National Guard, the city fire department, and the police were all out in force, concentrated around the buildings where the disturbances had taken place. Luckily, they had not gotten to the rooftops of some of the buildings in question yet; the rooftop where Darmok’s ship had crashed was still vacant of any officers or firefighters. The wreckage of the ship lay there, with the roof crushed underneath it, the flames having died out long ago. The rooftop of the Renaissance Regency, similarly, had not received any attention, despite the massive number of dead Biomechs and Vampires that littered it. Thankfully. It looked like the con was still in full swing; costumed heroes still hung out on a few balconies, and the pool area out in back of the hotel swarmed with cosplayers and what were presumably other fandom fanatics as well. Gadget’s heart skipped a beat when he saw this. You couldn’t keep fandom down, it appeared.

  When they were almost there, Dizzy activated the cell-phone in the Fangirl’s dashboard and called Mjolnir Propulsion Systems. The desk clerk who answered immediately dropped his sarcasm at the lateness of the hour when Dizzy identified herself, and put her through to the Special Projects Division’s Containment Team Detachment. After talking with them for a few minutes, Dizzy made clear what she wanted and where she needed them — the rooftops of the two buildings, and what they were to do, and how quickly it needed doing. They responded with a crisp professionalism that Gadget found unnerving. When Dizzy hung up the call, what he found even more unnerving was the fact that she had that kind of authority . . . to override even the police and the National Guard.

  Dizzy landed the Fangirl on the rooftop of the Renaissance Regency, amid the scattered bodies of the Biomechs and Vampires. Getting out among all those corpses was creepy as hell, Gadget found. The fact that Dizzy was able to just ignore all of that death was even creepier. They walked past the bodies — Gadget had to step over the body of Vynovich — in order to reach the stairwell entrance. They entered the building, and descended the stairs.

  They exited the stairwell on the top floor of the hotel, and came out into the hallway amidst partying cosplayers and other con-goers. Being back at the con felt like coming home after a long day at the office. They made their way to the elevators. Dizzy pushed the button to call for a car, the doors opened, and they got on. They shared the car with a Doctor Manhattan and a female Andorian from the Star Trek universe, both covered in blue body-paint. The Andorian was dressed in wild-west garb, and the Doctor Manhattan wore only a loincloth. The two were making out hot and heavy in the corner of the elevator.

  “Jeez, talk about excessive P.D.A.,” muttered Gadget.

  “Hey,” said the Doctor Manhattan, breaking off his kiss with the Andorian. “You’re just jealous this isn’t you and your friend in the Evangeliojaeger there, pal.”

  Gadget winced. How true.

  They got off the elevator on the second floor, and made their way to rooms 217 and 219. Dizzy slid the keycard into the door and popped it open. One by one, they filed inside, into the cool of the air conditioning, which was still set on the maximum setting. Gadget took off the Mind-Weirding Helm and set it on the table. It felt good to have the thing off his head. His hair was all sweaty underneath. He ran a hand through it and sighed. It would be good to not have to deal with that thing for a while.

  Dizzy said, “Hey Gadget. Or Misto. One of you — would you mind catching me?”

  “Sure,” said Gadget. He stood in front of her, his arms outstretched.

  “Depulso Evangeliojaeger!” she said. The Evangeliojaeger began to unlatch from her body and fold up into its component pieces, detaching from her and compressing itself down into its suitcase form. She collapsed forward into Gadget’s arms, and he helped set her down into her wheelchair by the bed. “Thank God,” she said. “Feels good to finally be out of that thing!”

  Gadget found it curious how her sentiments toward the Evangeliojaeger mirrored his sentiments about the Mind-Weirding Helm.

  “So,” said Mystikite. “I’ve got an idea. How about we all doing something to freaking unwind? I’ve got just the thing.”

  “Oh?” said Buffy. “And what would that be, love?”

  Mystikite grinned. “A friendly one-shot campaign of D&D. Come on. Let’s roll-up some characters.”

  “I’m in,” said Gadget.

  “Me too,” said Dizzy.

  “Yeah, I’m down,” said Misto.

  “Me as well,” said Buffy. “Let’s do it.”

  “D and D?” said Darmok. “You mean the game?”

  “Of course,” said Mystikite. “What else would I mean?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never played,” she said.

  “Well then it’s a perfect time to learn!” said Mystikite, and he grinned. “Let’s see. You strike me . . . as a Rogue.”

  “A Rogue?” asked Darmok. “What’s a Rogue?”

  “So glad you asked,” said Mystikite. “Step into my office. Misto, if you would, clear off this table. I’m gonna get my books out.”

  “Gimme just a second, guys. I know it’s here somewhere.” Mystikite shuffled in his folding metal chair as he dug through his satchel, not finding what he wanted. He leaned forward on their makeshift gaming table — which they’d created by putting both the suite’s tables together and borrowing a couple of chairs from a nearby room closed for housekeeping — and then checked his book-bag. He came up empty there, too. Dammit, why did inanimate objects constantly cloak themselves from his sight, or secretly run away to the Twilight Zone whenever he wasn’t looking? “Hey, Buffy? Where’s all my Wizards of the Coast stuff? Like my D&D 5E Monster Manual?”

  “Did you check your satchel?” she called through the bathroom door.

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Did you check the book-bag?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Did you check your suitcase?”

  “I don’t think I would’ve packed it there.”

  “Check in there anyway. We brought it all over from the other hotel for you, so it should be in there.”

  Mystikite sighed. “Okay, sure, whatever. But I’m telling you — ” He leaned over to the bed, unzipped his suitcase, and there it was, right on top of a change of his swanky black clothing: His Dungeons & Dragons Monster Manual, Fifth Edition. “Never mind. I found it.”

  Buffy laughed, her voice echoing in the bathroom. “Ha! Told ya it was there.”

  Mystikite stuck his tongue out and pantomimed choking someone. A moment later he heard toilet flush and the bathroom door opened. Buffy exited, came in, and sat down next to him.

  “Hey Buffy,” he said. “Would you reach into the suitcase there and grab that extra tube of dice so that Darmok can use them?”

  “Last I checked,” said Buffy, with a wry tone to her voice, “Neither your interphalangeal articulations of hand nor your metacarpophalangeal joints were broken. In fact, quite the opposite; you have very talented fingers, if I do say so myself.”

  “Oh for frak’s sake, guys,” muttered Gadget, rolling his eyes at them. “There’s public displays of affection, and then there’s you two. Will no one think of the children?”

  Mystikite sighed. “Please, Buffy? You’re closer. And smack Gadget while you’re at it.”

  Buffy sighed, rolled her eyes, got up, and began rifling through his suitcase until she found the tube of dice. She tossed it to Dizzy, who caught it and handed it to Darmok.

  “Thanks, Buffy,” said Darmok. She took the dice out of the tube and handled them, as though she were handling alien artifacts of a strange and bizarre nature. Perhaps she was, in fact. “So you use these to play the game as well as roll characters?”

  “Not a problem,” replied Buffy, sitting back down and side-eyeing Mystikite. “And yes. You use these to decide the outcome of probabilities in the game. For making decisions, basically. You’ll catch on.”

  “But-but — you didn’t smack Gadget!” complained Mystikite. “I specifically asked for Gadget to be smacked!”

  “How ‘bout I specifically ask that you bite me?” replied Buffy.

  “With pleasure, as always,” he said, and snickered.

  “Are they always like this?” Darmok asked Misto.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” replied Misto.

  “In a way, I actually find it entertaining,” said Dizzy. ”It’s kinda like the dialogue in amateur soft-core porno films, really. Either that, or like dropping acid and watching the Discovery channel when they do one of those shows on mating habits.”

  Gadget sniggered — as did Mystikite. He liked her sense of humor. It was a shame she was going to be leaving so soon. A shame about Misto leaving, too. He found he would actually miss the guy.

  “Amateur porn?” he said, raising an eyebrow and smiling slightly. “I think not, my dear. Buffy and I are professionals, thank you.”

  “Mystikite!” said Buffy. “Shh! That was supposed to be a secret!”

  “Aw, man!” cringed Gadget. “Now I know where my camera’s been disappearing to at night. Guys, I sleep in the same room as that thing. Now all I can think about is it sitting over there on the shelf all . . . defunkticated with cooties, and whatnot, its cyclopean eye watching me, just as it once watched . . . that.”

  Mystikite chuckled, and returned his attention to the game, flipping through the dog-eared pages of the Monster Manual. Sure, his laptop sat right there beside him, along with his tablet and smartphone, all of which he could use to access any number of online Pathfinder or d20 resources . . . However, actual, physical books had an endearing quality to them; they had a feel, a smell, and a weight that couldn’t be replicated with ones and zeros. Well, not yet, at least. Theoretically, that’s what the NeuroScape was for. Back in the days when he’d first cut his teeth on the game, pen and paper had been all the rage. And despite being an ultra-modern überhacker, he sometimes longed for simpler times. A few more page-turns, and he’d found what he’d been looking for; he copied down a few stats in the battered notebook he carried with him everywhere. His players were going to face an Adult Red Dragon. It had an Armor Class of 19, 256 hit points, and was worth 18,000 experience points if they could beat it. It was truly a motherfucker of a challenge. He grinned, his fangs gleaming. Gods, he loved being a bastard.

  “Okay, here we go,” said Mystikite. “You’re all twentieth level characters, except for Darmok, who we rolled as just a tenth level character, because she’s so new to the game. So that evens the odds here. And Tristania, you’re the tank of the group, since you have the most hit-points.”

  “Right, and I’m Tristania. I have no problem with that,” said Buffy, shuffling her character sheet in front of her.

  “Okay. Right then,” said Mystikite. He tried to clear his mind and his throat, leaned forward on the table, and continued on from where he’d been before Buffy had had to use the bathroom. He cleared his throat. “The five of you step cautiously through the dark, cobwebbed passageway, your boot-heels clicking on the stone. The black crypts surrounding you lay decaying, the skeletons in them smashed by some unknown force. Rats crawl on corpses, the white of their bones gleaming. The only sound is the occasional crush of the odd skull beneath your boots. But, encouraged by the dim, flickering glow emanating from the archway just a few yards ahead and to the left, you venture on, until you’re just a few feet away. There are no other ways in or out. So. Ash Boomstick. Tristania Covenya. Discordia Riversong. Hammer Storvengard. Daenya Delveignia. What do you do now?”

  “Well, Lord Boomstick? What now, now that those of us who can’t be bitten — along with those of us who can — have braved the damn Phase Spider and come out alive? What now?” Discordia Riversong — a Druid Cleric of the wise, elemental Gensai race — sounded very put out, and with good reason; the Phase Spider had gotten in a bite on her, and had poisoned her. Thankfully, she’d been able to heal herself, but not without great cost.

  She stood about six feet tall, her powder-blue skin etched with the szuldar — strange, intricate lines of elemental energy — and wore a plate-armored kilt, bracers, vanguards, and boots, as well as a plate-armored corset, and an open-faced spangenhelm decorated with a ponytail made from a black unicorn’s mane. She carried a light crossbow in her hand, and crisscrossed across her back, she kept her quarterstaff and her mace handy. She stood in the cavernous, craggy tomb’s corridor with Ash Boomstick — the metal-skinned, mostly-clockwork Warforged Artificer and Sorcerer whom she had come on this long journey with and whom she had met, ages ago it seemed, in a small inn’s common room somewhere near a storm-ravaged mountain pass in the Northern Wastes — along with the rest of their rag-tag team of would-be heroes, discussing their next move. There seemed to be some debate as to what it should be.

  “I say we forge ahead anyway,” said Ash, his voice a deep, metallic echo, the gears on either side of his facial parts spinning as his jaw moved up and down. He stood seven feet tall, his hulking, metal body rather like a suit of armor come to life, with large wheels, gears, and pistons mounted to its extremities, a symphony of whirling motion whenever he walked, talked, or gestured with his arms. His eyes were like twin fire-gems that glowed a bright blue-white from within, and a hot, red glow shined out through the seams of the metal pieces that comprised his body. “We’ve come this far, haven’t we? It’s a little late to back out now! Besides, Tristania — I thought you were in this for the gold. And there’s plenty of plunder to be had on this quest, I assure you! Just a little farther, and we’re there! And Discordia — I know the Spider was bad-but — you knew this would be dangerous when you agreed to come along!”

  “I serve the forces of chaos, dear Ash,” grinned Discordia, “and the Dragon who thinks it’s his job to impose his brand of ‘order’ on the world has to die. And we’ve tracked him this far. I see no reason to give up now. He killed your master, your mentor, you want him dead for that. I understand. You think I’m going to give up so easily? Because some damnable Phase Spider bit my leg? Perish the thought. I was simply asking how we should proceed, is all.”

  “Well I don’t like this,” said Tristania. “If you ask me, we’re headed straight into a trap. The Phase Spider was only there to soften us up, make us easier to kill. I vote we get out while we still can. Gold is useless if you’re not alive to spend it.” She folded her arms across her chest. She was ravishingly beautiful, and would’ve been prettier if she had smiled more often. A Tiefling Wizard and Fighter in one, she stood five feet, five inches tall, had fiery red hair that coruscated down her back like a crimson waterfall of curls, fair skin, pointed ears, and an impish face, with a forever-furrowed brow. She wore brown leather trousers and knee-high leather boots, a forest-green, long-sleeved leather tunic beneath her metallic corset, and a flowing cape of thick green silk billowed behind her, affixed to her shoulders with golden epaulettes.

  “Now wait just a minute, Tristania,” said Hammer Storvengard, the Dragonborn Ranger who had also come along on the journey. He was shorter than Tristania, and his skin, dark green and covered in leathery scales, glistened in the flickering torchlight. He wore a brown tunic and leather trousers, deerskin boots and gloves, and carried a longbow, a quiver full of arrows on his back; he had stowed his crossbow on his belt, where it dangled from a leather strap; the bolts hung from another strap that he wore across his chest. “That’s not what you said back at the inn. There, you said that this dragon’s horde hid a treasure that nothing would keep you from; you said you’d sought it for years, and that if teaming up with us meant getting at this dragon’s treasure trove, you’d see it through to the end. You mean to tell me that facing one Phase Spider is enough to deter you from your goal? I thought you were made of tougher stuff than that. I see I was wrong.”

  “I can handle myself,” said Tristania, puffing herself up. “I was just testing your resolve, Hammer. Just wanted to see if you were still up for this. That’s all.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Hammer. “No fear in your voice. None at all.”

  (“I don’t know what to do here,” said Darmok. “What should my character say?”

  “Whatever you want her to,” said Mystikite. “That’s the fun of it!”

  “But what if she’s a coward?” said Darmok. “What if she thinks the smart thing to do is just run the hell away?”

  “Well then,” said Misto, “she should say so.”

  “Okay . . .” said Darmok. “I’ll do that, then.”

  “Yeah,” said Gadget, “but you gotta ham it up! Really throw yourself into the role! Do a voice with it, and everything!”

  “I feel foolish,” said Darmok. “I’ve never done this before.””

  “Oh c’mon!” said Dizzy, grinning at her. “Go for it! Lights! Camera! Annnd . . . action!”)

  “I think I just wanna go home, now,” whined Daenya Delveignia, the youngest member of their party. She stood a little taller than Hammer, but not by much. She had long, blonde hair, and was Human, and wore the finery of a noblewoman, though her outfit had been dirtied-up by their adventure thus far, bloodied and muddied by their scuffle with the Phase Spider, and torn in several places. Over that she wore a black cloak, which hid her dagger, her sword, and her rapier from view. She had stolen the finery, the cloak, and the weapons; an urchin, a Rogue and a Bard who had attended the College of Swords; the others only trusted her about as far as they could throw her. “This is all so new to me. I can’t . . . I don’t know what to make of all this. Phase Spiders! Tombs! Dragons! Can’t we just . . . I don’t know . . . Can’t we just go back to the inn? Can’t we just hire someone to go fight the Dragon for us, while we all enjoy another round of ale and cast magic missile on some swamp-rats or zombies or something? I mean, that’s fun, isn’t it?”

  “Ha!” said Hammer. “Some expert tomb-raider you turned out to be. Where’s your sense of adventure, girl? Stick with us, and I promise you a thief’s payday you won’t soon forget. Now come on — buck up. We’ll soon be swimming in so much gold you’ll be able to buy yourself a pretty new cloak to replace that ruined one, I swear by my pretty floral bonnet. Heh.”

  “So it’s agreed,” said Ash, in his deep, metallic voice. “We continue on from here?”

  “Aye, it looks that way,” said Discordia. “But which direction?”

  The corridor in front of them branched off in three directions, one going north, one heading east, and one that went west. Torches in cobwebbed sconces lit the walls. Who or what had lit them? Who else had come this way? Rats crawled along the corners of the leaky stone walls, and the gnawed bones of ages past littered the dusty, dirty floor. Flickering shadows played upon the walls as the light disappeared down the yawning corridors that led off in the three directions, down further into the depths of the tomb.

  “Well we obviously need to pick one,” said Ash.

  “Let’s let Lady Luck decide for us,” said Discordia. She took out a coin from her leather purse and held it on her upturned thumb. “Heads we go north, tails, we go west or east.”

  (“Okay,” said Mystikite, “Dizzy — make a religion check.”

  “Right,” said Dizzy. She rolled a twenty-sided die. “I got an eleven.”

  “You flip the coin, and the coin lands heads-up.”

  “Well, that settles that,” said Dizzy. “Doesn’t it?”)

  “Looks like we head north, lads and lassies,” said Discordia. “Let us press on, then.”

  They moved on into the north corridor, careful to avoid the crunchy bones underfoot, with Ash ducking his height beneath the low-hanging stone arch carved over the entryway to the passage. The torchlight was dimmer here, as the torches were placed farther apart, and the corridor was long — it stretched further on into the tomb, going deeper into the mountain, with entrances to side-chambers visible every so often, most of them sealed-off with walls of stone, or caved-in piles of rubble that had long-since fallen into place. Ruins of ceremonial altars and pillars dotted some of these ancient chambers, now vacant and dark, save for rats that gnawed on skeletons that no longer had any meat on them, dressed in torn rags and dusty shrouds, buried here with musty trinkets and in wooden caskets that rotted and stank. As they neared the end of the passageway, it began to brighten somewhat all around them. Soon, the passageway was bathed in a dim golden glow, and it was coming from the large chamber that lay directly ahead, a chamber much larger than any of the others that lay to either side of the passageway. The doors to the chamber had long since gone missing; it lay open for them to see inside. The golden glow came not from torches, but from light reflected off of gold and silver — mountains of gold and silver pieces — all piled high upon the floor, and something moved within the chamber; a huge, lumbering shape . . .

  (“Ooh, is that the dragon?” asked Darmok. “I bet it’s the dragon, isn’t it!”

  “Well, you’ll find out, won’t you,” said Mystikite. “Don’t meta-game so much. Just relax and enjoy the story.”

  “What’s ‘meta-game’ mean?” she asked.

  “Meta-gaming is where you’re thinking about the game ‘as a game,’” said Buffy. “It takes away from the fun, takes you out of the fantasy.”

  “Oh,” said Darmok. “I see. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” said Gadget. “Just relax into the role! You’re a Rogue and a Bard. So think like one. You’re scared for your life, but you’re also thinking about the yuuuge payday you’re going to get out of this if we manage to defeat the dragon. Remember to check your character sheet and take stock of what weapons you have. Here, look. You have a dagger, a shortsword, and a rapier. Looks like the rapier has the highest attack bonus, so that’s the one you’ll want to bust out when the action starts.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Darmok. “This is a bit complex. But it is fun.” She grinned. “I think I get the gist of it.”

  “Just remember,” said Misto, “when we engage the dragon — because I think it’s the dragon in there too, myself — you have a bunch of spells you can use as a Bard. You don’t just have your Rogue weapons. You have magic, too.”

  “Where are the spells?” asked Darmok.

  “Right here,” said Buffy. She flipped open Mystikite’s Player’s Handbook to reveal the Magic section, and pointed to the spell lists. “I think you have these . . . some of these . . . annnd these, here.”

  “Oh, cool,” said Darmok. “Neat. I can use any of those I want?”

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  “These levels only, though,” said Misto, and he pointed. “See?”

  “Er, yeah,” said Darmok. “And I thought rolling up the character was complicated.”

  “You can use these spells in your spell slots,” said Gadget. “Think of a spell slot as a . . . well, as a slot that you can slide a spell into.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Darmok. “Yes.”)

  They approached the inner chamber cautiously, with Discordia in the lead. They paused at the entrance. Discordia lowered her voice, and said, “Tristania. You’re the hardiest of us by far, and the most skilled with your weapons and with magic. You should go in first.”

  “Me?” said Tristania. “Me? Why the hell do I have to go in first? Ash is just as strong as I am, and he’s the Sorcerer. He should go in first.”

  “Yes,” said Discordia, “but you are the stoutest of us. I happen to know your secret . . . Being of the Tiefling race, you can withstand the most damage. Therefore you should go in first.”

  Tristania heaved a heavy sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll go in first. But I want a more-than-fair cut of the treasure for it, if we survive this!”

  “Fine by me,” said Discordia. “Ash and I are right behind you. Hammer and Daenya, you’re behind me and Ash. We move on the count of three. Everyone ready? One . . . two . . . three.”

  One by one, they walked into the chamber, with Tristania in the lead, basking in the growing golden glow of the light that emanated from it. The chamber was larger than all the rest — much larger — and the paving stones on its floor were in much better repair, though cracks of age had appeared in many of them. Mountains of gold coins were piled here and there, amid piles of other treasures — silver urns and chains, jeweled pendants and bracelets, brooches and tiaras, crowns and diadems, scepters and golden staves — and the torches along the walls burned, though the wood in them was very old, and the metal in the sconces was falling apart. But that was all secondary to the main thing that of course drew their eyes immediately: In the center of the room, taking up a grand two-thousand-and-someodd square feet of space, stomped and curled an enormous Adult Red Dragon, its fearsome features twisted into a grim scowl, and breathing gusts of flame through its nostrils. It turned its mighty head toward them, fixed them with its icy stare, and roared.

  “Everybody, spread out a little!” cried Discordia.

  (“Okay everybody,” said Mystikite. “Roll initiative, and add your initiative bonus.”

  “Here we go,” said Misto, and he sucked in a breath. He rolled a twenty-sided die, as did everyone else. “Okay, I got a ten, and my bonus is two, so, twelve.”

  “Twelve for me,” said Gadget. “And my initiative is zero, so, twelve.”

  “Okay,” said Mystikite. “You two — roll again.”

  Gadget and Misto both rolled.

  “I got a seven,” said Misto. “So nine.”

  “I got a ten,” said Gadget. “So ten.”

  “Alright,” said Mystikite. “So it is, then.”

  “Eight for me,” said Buffy. “And my bonus is zero, so just eight.”

  “Aw man . . . just a lousy four,” said Darmok, grimacing. “But my initiative says . . . plus three, so . . . seven? Is that right?”

  “Right,” said Mystikite. “Seven.”

  “Wow, thirteen,” said Dizzy. “And my bonus is two, so fifteen for me.”

  Mystikite rolled, “Okay. The dragon gets a fourteen. He doesn’t have a bonus, so just fourteen. That makes the combat order Dizzy, then the dragon, then Gadget, then Misto, then Buffy, then Darmok. You guys got so lucky that you get to get in an attack before the Dragon attacks you. The dice are kind tonight. And just to be even kinder, I’m not gonna let the dragon use Legendary Resistance. So. Dizzy. The advantage is yours. You attack first.”)

  Discordia ran toward the Dragon and threw out her hands, and began a magical incantation. She then reached into her learther purse and pulled out her spellcasting focus — a broken pocket-watch she carried with her everywhere — and continued to chant the invocation. She then ended the spell with the words, “. . . And so with this Spell, I banish thee!”

  (“Okay Dizzy. Roll for the spell. Difficulty is nineteen.”

  “Gotcha,” said Dizzy. She rolled the dice.

  “Fuck yeah! I got a ten. Plus my spellcasting ability mod, which is five, plus my proficiency bonus, eleven, is twenty-six!” She grinned.)

  The intricate lines etched into her skin all glowed a bright blue-white color for a moment, and a bolt of elemental magical energy flew forth from her outstretched hand, toward the dragon.

  (“My turn to roll,” said Mystikite. “So you know, Darmok: What I’m doing is making what’s called a saving throw. I’m rolling a twenty-sided die, then adding my dragon’s Charisma modifier plus his bonus, and comparing it to Dizzy’s Wisdom score, which is her spellcasting ability. Which is . . .”

  “A twenty as well,” said Dizzy, who smiled wryly. “Because I’m a twentieth level hybrid between a Cleric and a Druid. In other words, a certified badass.”

  “Uh, yeah,” said Mystikite. “If I fail, Dizzy’s spell will banish the dragon to another plane of existence for one minute of game-time. Pretty powerful spell. Annnd . . .” He rolled the die. “Well, hot-damn. I succeeded — but just barely. Twenty-one. Ha! The spell fizzles! The dragon says ‘fuck you and your Cleric magic!’”)

  The bolt of magical energy faded as it reached the dragon’s hulking form, though, flickering into nothingness. The dragon roared again, and Discordia’s face fell. “Damn!” she cursed. “Thought I had him!”

  “My turn!” said the dragon.

  “It talks?” shrieked Darmok, turning to the others, stunned surprise etched onto her features.

  “Well apparently so!” said Tristania.

  “The important question,” growled Hammer, “is — does it bleed!”

  (“Hey Mystikite, can I do a quick perception check as an incidental action?” asked Gadget.

  “Sure,” said Mystikite. “You can always do that.”

  “Cool,” said Gadget. “I want to see if I can anticipate the dragon’s next attack and if I can, I want to yell at Discordia to look out for it, so she can steel herself for the blow if it’s a tail, bite, or claw attack.”

  “Hmm,” said Mystikite. “Okay, I’ll allow it. Do a perception check, followed by an Insight check.”

  Gadget rolled a die. “Got a total of twenty-one on the Perception roll, with bonuses added.” He rolled again. “And a total of thirty on Insight.”

  “You look, and you see the dragon getting ready to make a tail attack,” said Mystikite.)

  “Discordia, look out! The dragon’s tail!” cried Ash.

  (“I want to try and move out of the way before it can hit me,” said Dizzy.

  “Roll your Dexterity,” said Mystikite.

  Dizzy rolled. “Ugh. Two. Plus my bonus, which is also two. So four, total.”

  Mystikite smiled a devilish smile. “You try to move, but you need to subtract like twenty hit-points from your total, like right now. Because — ”)

  Discordia looked and tried to move out of the way, but it was too late — the dragon raised its thorny, spiked tail and whipped it around and lashed out with it, whipping it at her like a mace. It hit her full-force, and she went flying across the chamber through the air with a cry of pain as the spikes of its tail went straight through her armor, and she went slamming into the stone wall with a loud thud. She slid down the wall and hit the paving stones hard, again crying out in agony. Blood appeared on the stone behind her. She winced, and slowly got to her feet, just as Ash said —

  “Alright, you son of a bitch. Try this on for size!” He readied himself, steadying himself on his feet, and then raised his metal, armored arms before him, holding his hand aloft and began the complex incantation for a sixth-level Disintegration spell cast at the twentieth level.

  (“Yeah, I’m really gonna do that,” said Gadget, grinning.

  “How much damage will that do?” asked Mystikite.

  “Well, it says it does ten-d-six damage plus forty, plus three-d-six for every spell slot above sixth-level. So fifty-fucking-two-d-six plus forty if the dragon fails his Dexterity saving throw against it!”

  “Well fuck,” said Mystikite, his eyebrows going up. That’s a hell of a spell. Roll for the attack.”

  Gadget took the die in hand and shook it in his fist. “Come on, come on . . . daddy needs a new pair of seven league boots . . .” He threw the die. “Eleven. Plus my spellcasting ability mod, which is . . . uh, three, plus my prof bonus, which is eleven, is, all totaled, twenty-five.”

  “And the dragon’s AC is only nineteen. Congratulations. You hit. But now for that saving throw . . .” Mystikite rolled. “What’s your raw spellcasting ability?”

  “Uh, sixteen,” said Gadget.

  Mystikite grinned. “Sorry. But — ”)

  Even as the bolt of magical energy that flew forth from Ash’s hands landed a glowing blow upon the dragon’s scaly hide, the spell fizzled and dissipated, the energy evaporating.

  “Dammit!” said Ash. “The spell didn’t work! Fuck me running up hill and with a chainsaw!”

  (“Do chainsaws exist in this world?” asked Darmok.

  “I don’t know,” said Gadget. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then how likely is it that your character would actually say that?” said Dizzy.

  “Not bloody likely,” said Gadget.

  “Well then,” said Darmok. “That takes me right out of the fantasy.”

  “Oh piss on you,” said Gadget.

  “Now see,” said Darmok, “that’s the sort of thing he would say.”)

  “Let me show you how it’s done!” said Hammer. “Have at thee, dragon!” He strode forward and with a mighty yell, he loosed three bolts from his crossbow at the dragon.

  (“Okay, roll for the attack, Mister Misto.”

  “Right.” Misto rolled the die. “Sixteen. Plus my attack bonus, which is nine, gives me Twenty-five.”

  “Alright, you hit,” said Mystikite. “Roll for damage.”

  Misto rolled a six-sided die. He got a five. “Eight total.”)

  The bolts flew through the air, and struck the dragon right in its snout, sticking deep into its scaly flesh, and drawing out golden, molten blood. It let loose a wounded roar and —

  (“Congratulations, you just drew first blood against the dragon and did eight total damage to it. And now it takes a reaction, and breathes fucking fire at you, bitch.” He rolled the dice and smiled. “What’s your armor class.”

  “Uh, twenty-one.”

  “Do a dexterity check, my good man.”

  Misto’s smile faltered, and he rolled the twenty-sided die.

  “Uh, eighteen. Plus eight. So . . twenty-six?”

  Mystikite narrowed his eyes at Misto and frowned.

  “Who’s the man,” said Misto. “Who’s the fucking man!”)

  The dragon breathed a plume of flame at Hammer, which Hammer managed to dodge just in the nick of time. He landed on the floor next to Ash, the crossbow knocked from his hands. He scrambled to get it back.

  “I guess it’s up to a lady to show you how it’s done, Ash,” said Tristania. She spread her hands apart and began the magical invocation for the same Disintegration spell that Ash had failed to cast.

  (“Alright babe. Roll for the attack,” said Mystikite. “You’re up against a DC of twenty-three.”

  Buffy rolled. “Adding in my bonus, I got a twenty-five.”

  “See, now if you actually pull this off, I’m gonna be accused of favoritism, because meta-game, we’re fucking.”

  “Oh come on,” she said. “Roll the goddamn dice.”

  Mystikite sighed. “Your spell hits the dragon. But the dragon makes a saving throw . . .”)

  The power built up, and lightning arced between Tristania’s palms as she thrust them away from her and the bolt of magical energy flew forth from her body, and collided with the dragon. The magical energy coursed through its body, and —

  (Mystikite rolled a twenty-sided die. “Annnd . . . sure fucking enough . . . he loses the goddamn saving throw. See? Now you’ve gone and done it. The dragon takes fifty-fucking-two-d-six plus forty hit points of damage from your attack. See what you’ve done? I hope you’re happy. You deserve to be arrested for cruelty to dragons.”

  “Yes!” said Buffy, and she punched the air with her fist. “High five!” Gadget high-fived her, as did Dizzy, Darmok, and Misto. “Rolling for damage.” She began rolling the six-sided die multiple times, and wrote down the number each time. By the time she was done — she rolled it fifty-two times, just like the rule specified — she had a column of numbers the length of her character sheet. She began adding. “Okay,” she said when finished. “I did two hundred and eighteen hit points worth of damage to that scaly-hided fucker. He can’t have that many hit points left.”

  Mystikite only grinned. “Guess again. That’s one tough fucking dragon you guys are facing. And now he gets a reaction. He turns his head toward you and — ”)

  The dragon roared in pain and agony as the magic rushed through its skeleton and musculature, coursing through its nerves and sinew, cooking it from the inside out, but no sooner did it recover than it turned its massive head toward Tristania and breathed fire at her, a sixty-foot cone of orange hellfire that bloomed from its jaws, a raging inferno that threatened to cook her alive. She moved to dodge it and jump out of the way, and —

  (“Make a dex saving throw,” said Mystikite.

  “Shit,” said Buffy. “Okay.” She rolled, and then gulped. “Eighteen?”

  Mystikite smiled slyly. “Sorry. The difficulty was twenty-one. Subtract seventy hit points from your total.”

  “Seventy!”

  “Yep. I cannot let you forget that I am, after all is said and done, a bastard of a DM.”)

  But she didn’t quite make it in time. She leaped out of the way, but not before the flames caught up to her and blazed at her back, nearly roasting her in her tracks, but singeing her skin and hair, inflicting burns upon her. She screamed in torment as the fire cooked her flesh and as she flew through the air in her attempt to flee the conflagration, and landed, smoking and smoldering, on the paving stones near to where Discordia had landed earlier. She scrambled to her feet, but not without agony. The flesh on the back of her legs had melted and fused to her trousers and boots; the skin on the back of her arms was singed and burnt; her clothing had been scorched, and her palms were reddened. She could barely hold her weapon without pain.

  (“Okay Darmok, it’s your turn to attack,” said Mystikite. “What’ll it be?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” said Darmok. “What should I do?”

  “Well, you’ve got choices,” said Buffy. “You can either attack with one of your weapons — you appear to have a Dagger, a Shortsword, and a Rapier, all with decent attack bonuses — or you can use magic. I recommend attacking with magic. It has the least risk involved.”

  “Not from what I’ve seen!” said Darmok.

  “Well, relatively speaking,” said Gadget.

  “Yeah,” said Misto. “That dragon is just a tough motherfucker, is all.”

  “Right,” said Dizzy. “It’s just a hard nut to crack. Magic at least keeps you away from its claws and teeth.”

  “Okay, but which spell?” said Darmok. She looked over the list in the Player’s Handbook. “Hmm. I’m gonna go with Cloud of Daggers, since I’m tenth level, and the damage increases by two-d-six with every level above second. I’m going to try and cast it as a tenth level spell. For a reason.”

  “Alright,” said Mystikite. “Roll for the initial attack, and add your spell attack bonus.”

  Darmok rolled, and smiled. “Twenty-two.”)

  Daenya loosed the spell from her hands, the glow of the magical energy flying from her body toward the dragon. The bolt of eldritch power hit the beast square in the forehead, and began to course through its scaly hide, lighting it up from head to tail. It roared an angry cry of surprise and pain, and —

  (“Okay, now roll for damage,” said Mystikite. “Let’s see. You’re tenth level, and the spell does four-d-four of damage, plus two-d-four for every level above second . . . so that’s twenty-d-four of damage. Shit. Okay. So roll a d-four twenty times and add it all up.”

  Darmok obediently rolled the four-sided die twenty times, adding the numbers on the back of her character sheet. “Fifty-two.”

  Mystikite’s face fell. “The dragon . . . My beautiful dragon, you’ve . . . You’ve killed the poor fucker!”

  “Awesome Darmok!” exclaimed Dizzy.

  “Yes! You did it!” said Gadget.

  “I knew you had it in you,” said Misto.

  “Way to go,” said Buffy. “Your first game of D&D, and you bagged yourself a dragon.”

  “Looks like you’re the real Dràchynthyr, Darmok,” said Gadget, and clapped her on the shoulder. Darmok smiled.)

  The mystical energy from the spell surrounded the dragon’s head and from out of the cloud of mist that formed around its spiked skull, there formed bladed weapons, coalescing out of the air, spinning in place. They rotated in the air and began cutting the dragon’s face, stabbing it in the eyes repeatedly, and slicing into its scaly flesh. They stuck into it at odd angles, stabbing it, gouging its musculature and jaws. It roared in angry protest, backing away from Daenya and the others it did so, molten-golden blood pouring from its wounds as the cloud of daggers continued to attack it, driving it back and away from them. The dragon winced and growled, snarling at them as the daggers stuck into it and pulled themselves back out, only to stab it once again, over and over, penetrating deep into its flesh, tearing long gashes into its muscles and opening its veins, ripping open its scaly hide and plunging deep into its throat and forehead. At the last the dragon wheezed for breath as its windpipe was cut open and it gasped for air, fire shooting out in all directions from its severed trachea as the band of adventurers closed around it, and it fell over onto the paving stones, as dead as anything else in the tomb. They had won. At great cost — Tristania would never be the same — but, they had won.

  Just then, there was a knock on the door. Tap, tap, tap. Dizzy and the others paused their celebration, and all looked up sharply from the table.

  “What the frell?” said Gadget.

  “Who could that be?” asked Buffy.

  “Does anyone even know we’re here?” said Misto.

  “Dunno,” said Dizzy. She thought for a moment, turning this over in her mind, searching through possibilities. “The only other person who knows I’m here is my dad, and a few company reps. Don’t know what they’d be doing here, though.”

  “And the only people who know other than that,” said Mystikite, “are the Vampires. I don’t think they would come knocking. Not unless they really needed or wanted something, that is.”

  “My mom knows I’m here,” said Gadget.

  “Well, those people . . . and the Alien Stratagem Council on Planet Shyphtor,” said Darmok. “They know of my mission, of course. They sent me here.”

  The knock came again, more forceful this time. Three loud knocks; bang, bang, bang.

  “Jeez, alright, hold your horses,” muttered Dizzy. “Would one of you get that? I’m afraid I’m . . . indisposed. No legs, and all that.”

  “Sure,” said Misto. “I’ll get it.” He got up from his chair, and crossed the room to the door, and spied through the peephole. “Huh,” he said, and opened the door. Dizzy watched expectantly from her wheelchair.

  On the other side was a man dressed in an Air Force Lieutenant General’s uniform, replete with shirt and tie, brass buttons, and command stars on his shoulders. He was an older man, with white hair on the sides of his head and balding on top. He had age-lines around his eyes; a weary, practiced smile on his face; and he wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He carried a black briefcase in one hand. With him were two other men, both of them nondescript, and both wearing black suits and Rayban sunglasses. They stood behind him on either side, their postures rigid, their faces stern and expressionless. One of them carried a laptop bag over his shoulder, and the other carried a large utility case by the handle.

  Oh, thought Dizzy with a warm smile, recognizing the General instantly. So that’s who it is!

  “Hello,” said the General. He extended a hand meant for shaking. Apparently, Misto’s appearance didn’t phase him one bit.

  “Uh, hi,” said Misto.

  “Don’t worry,” said the General. “I’ve seen werewolves before. Fought them, actually. Vampires, too.” He nodded toward Mystikite and Buffy. “And as for whatever she is — ” He glanced at Darmok, “well, that’s neither here nor there. You must be Dr. Michaelson. I’m General Anderson Reinhardt. I’ve . . . heard a lot about you and your work.”

  “Er, pleased to meet you,” said Misto. Dizzy saw the lightbulb go on over his head. “Walter told me about you. You’re his military liaison, right?”

  “That I am,” said Reinhardt. He turned toward Dizzy, and smiled, but his brow furrowed with a worried look. “Hello, Dizzy.”

  “Hi General.” Dizzy wanted to smile back, but when she saw the concern in his brow, the worry in his expression, she grew troubled. “What’s . . . what’s going on?” A sudden bolt of fear and intuition struck her. “Is everything okay? Back at the base?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, and sighed. “Dizzy, it’s your father. He’s — ”

  She wheeled herself closer. “What about him? Is he alright? What’s going on? What’s wrong? Tell me, General.”

  “Maybe I had better come in,” he said. He turned to Misto. “May I?”

  “By all means,” said Misto, and he stepped aside. The General — and the two Men in Black — stepped inside the room. The General came in and sat down on the bed next to Dizzy’s wheelchair. He nodded to Dizzy’s friends, who all kept their distance, and merely watched.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” he said to them. “Any friend of Dizzy’s is a friend of mine. Please forgive me if I’m not more sociable. I’ve come here with a heavy burden of responsibility, and a message to deliver. For all of you, actually. I anticipated that Dizzy would be here with friends. So I brought enough . . . party favors . . . for everyone. At least, I hope I did. Let’s see . . . there are six of you. One of me. That’s seven. So yes. I have enough. Agents J and K, if you would, please.”

  The two Men in Black nodded to one another. Without a word, the one on the left unzipped the laptop bag and took out a laptop computer, and set it up on the nightstand beside the bed. He plugged it in, and turned it on. The other Man in Black set down the utility case and opened it. Inside, packed in molded plastic foam, were seven NeuroBand Headset units.

  “Here,” said General Reinhardt, rising from where he sat. “Each of you, please take one and put it on. I promise, there is no shadowy government mind-control experiment afoot here.” When no one laughed, he added, “That was a joke.” He handed one of the Headsets to Dizzy, who affixed it to her head. He handed another one to Gadget.

  “Uh,” said Gadget, looking askance at the device, turning it over in his hands. He exchanged a look with Mystikite. “How do we know we can trust you?”

  “I trust him,” said Dizzy. “I’ve known General Reinhardt my entire adult life. He’s never lied to me, not ever. He’s a good man, guys. He’s on the up-and-up. Plus he’s one hell of a crack shot with a Interphase Pistol.” She winked at the General, who grinned like a schoolboy and shook his head.

  “If you trust him, Diz,” said Misto, “then that’s good enough for me.”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Mystikite. “I suppose if Dizzy trusts him, then we can too. What say you, babe?”

  “I suppose so,” she replied, and took one of the Headsets, and passed it to Mystikite, then took one herself. Misto took one as well, as did Darmok.

  “I just want you to know, Dizzy,” said Darmok, “that I’m taking a lot on faith here. I don’t even know if this thing will work with my neurochemistry or not. It might scramble my alien brain.”

  “No, I don’t think it will,” said Gadget. “Your brain appears to have the same basic neurological structure as ours, given the way you walk, talk, and act, and given the fact of your basic, humanoid physiology. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Well, alright,” said Darmok. “I’ll give it a shot. But if this kills me, I’m coming back to haunt all of you. Just so you know.”

  The gang all affixed their NeuroBand Headsets to their heads, and General Reinhardt walked over to the laptop after affixing one to his head as well. He tapped out a command sequence on the keyboard. Dizzy closed her eyes and in a flash of light, she found herself elsewhere . . .

  Dizzy opened her eyes, and smiled as a feeling of intense nostalgia instantly washed over her. She found herself standing in the airplane hangar where her father had first introduced her to the truth of alien life, the reality of extraterrestrial existence. The others — Gadget, Misto, Mystikite, Buffy, and Darmok — stood off to one side, looking around in confusion and curiosity. This was the hangar where she had stood beneath her first flying saucer, and had levitated upwards beneath it and had first touched its outer hull, had first felt the feel of alien metal beneath her fingers. She could smell all the familiar smells, too — motor oil, ozone, and even her father’s aftershave. There was no flying saucer here now, though; just the empty hangar, with a few scattered airplane parts here and there; a large, open, cavernous space, filled with possibility. It was nighttime, and the hangar doors stood open. Planes were taking off and landing outside; she could hear the whine and roar of their engines. From the look of it, it was stealth-fighters; they were doing tests on the v-wing engine design again. To what end, she didn’t know. Or care. Because standing right in front of her was someone she hadn’t seen in five years’ time, someone she loved greatly and missed terribly — her father, Walter Weatherspark. He grinned at her warmly and put out his arms for a hug. He wore a drab, rumpled suit and tie and scuffed sneakers, and his brown hair looked a tousled mess, as per usual. He wore a pair of silver, wire-rimmed spectacles, and the crinkled crows’ feet around the edges of his eyes made them look twinkly when he smiled. General Reinhardt stood off to one side, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Desirée, my love! Come here!” Walter cried as she ran to him and embraced him, hugging him tightly. He ran a hand through her hair, and she inhaled the smell of him, closing her eyes. Gods, it felt so good to hold him close again!

  “Father!” she said. “Oh father, it is you. What — why are we talking via the NeuroScape? And why did you invite my friends? Is this some special occasion, or something?” She drew back from him and smiled. “I mean, what’s up? How’ve you been?”

  “I’m . . . well . . .” he began, and sighed. “Diz, we’re talking via NeuroScape because . . . something has happened. Something . . . well, something both terrible and wonderful, depending on your perspective, I think.”

  “Um, what?” she said, and her smile faltered. “What’s — what’s happened, dad?”

  “Well,” he said, and he began pacing. “As you know, the NeuroScape was designed around consciousness. Originally, I began the project — that, and the Positronic Metacognitive Processor project — to try and replicate the process of consciousness-origination within the human brain. I’m glad to say, we were successful. Three days ago, I found out just how successful we had been. Thankfully.” He sighed. “Dizzy, this isn’t going to be easy for you to hear, my love, so I’ll just go ahead and say it.” He turned around to face her. “Dizzy, my dearest, sweetest love . . . I am — or at least my physical body is — dead.”

  Dizzy recoiled as though struck, her eyes wide. “No . . .” she breathed, and laughed nervously. “No, you can’t be dead. You’re here. I’m talking to you, after all.”

  “Dizzy my dear,” he said, and sighed again, “it’s true. I’m here because I uploaded. I had a massive heart attack, but I managed to transfer my consciousness into the NeuroScape before brain-death set in. The most vital part of me is still alive, digitally speaking. You’re talking to most of me . . . or what’s left of me . . . My ghost, as it were.”

  “No,” said Dizzy, more forcefully, and backed away from him. “No it’s not true! You’re not dead.”

  “I’m afraid I am my love,” he said, his voice but a whisper. Dizzy turned to the others, and saw a disgustingly pitying look on Gadget’s face, and on Misto’s. Mystikite’s look was inscrutable, damn him. Buffy’s face also held concern, damn her to hell. And Darmok’s too. Well, frak them — she didn’t need their concern, because there was nothing to be concerned about. Her father was just pulling her leg, kidding with her. One of his numerous practical jokes, the kind he was always playing on his lab assistants or office workers at the company. That had to be the explanation. It was a cruel one — an especially cruel one — and an especially cruel one to play on her, his daughter of all people — but that was really the only explanation. It had to be. Just had to be.

  Walter reached out to touch her face, a cloying, sad look in his eyes, and she drew back from him. “Don’t touch me,” she said. “How can you do this. This isn’t funny, dad.”

  “It’s not meant to be,” he said. “Dizzy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had so much I wanted to teach you, so much I wanted us to do together. So much I wanted to show you about the world, about people, about science, and about the wonder of it all. So much to share with you. And, I still can, sort of . . . Only from in here, in the NeuroScape. Virtually. In this world, this virtual universe, I can do anything. Anything at all. We can be together here, after a fashion. We — ”

  “STOP IT!” she screamed, and stomped her foot. Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Just stop it! Gods damn it, this isn’t funny anymore!”

  Silence reined for a moment or two.

  “Dizzy,” began Gadget, taking a few steps forward. “Dizzy, listen, I — ”

  “No,” she said, sternly, holding up a hand in a warding gesture, tears still streaming down her face. “No, don’t you dare offer me any sympathy.”

  “Dizzy,” said Buffy, quietly, “you don’t have to do this alone.”

  “Desirée,” began her father, stepping closer to her and putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, “I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I wanted to be with you for longer. But don’t you see? I said terrible, or wonderful. This way, I’ll never grow another day older. You never have to actually lose me this way. This way, I’ll always be around. Right here, in the NeuroScape. And I’ll have your friend Pris to keep me company. Old Viktor really broke the mold when he made her. In fact, him making her is what made it possible for me to upload in the first place. We found his consciousness-upload protocols lurking around in the NeuroScape by accident a year ago, and were tinkering around with them on our own, and I used them to save myself. So in a way, we have him to thank for my now-immortal state. Again, my love, I’m so sorry. I always thought that we’d . . . we’d have more time.”

  Dizzy buried her head in her hands and began to cry. Gadget stepped forward and gently put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. She didn’t resist. What was the purpose of resisting? Why fight their sympathies, why fight their sentiments? If what her father said was true — if he really was dead, gone, and she would never work with him in the garage again . . . would never go for a drive in the Fangirl with him again . . . would never cook something up in the lab with him again . . . then what was the point of trying to remain Daddy’s Tough Cookie any longer? He was now only a ghost, a NeuroScape phantom. True, that was more than most people would ever have of a lost loved one . . . Much more. It was more than Gadget would ever have of his father, that was for sure. So she felt spoiled and bratty and petulant for grieving him, which only made her feel worse, which only added to her grief, and so she cried even harder into Gadget’s shoulder.

  Misto joined them, and also put his arm around her, and hugged her tightly. “It’s okay, Diz,” he said softly. “It’s gonna be okay.” And soon, she felt another hand placed on her back, as well — Darmok. And a fourth, Mystikite. Then Buffy began quietly stroking her hair, as well; soft, gentle strokes, soothing in their own way. Dizzy continued to cry and blubber out of control, unable to help herself, unable to stop or exert any self-restraint. What was wrong with her? It was as if every internal wound or damaged nerve, or hurt feeling, or confused emotion . . . every internalized conflict, every suppressed bit of turmoil, was all pouring out of her at once, all at the same time, all of it rushing forward and threatening to drown her as it leaked out of her eyes and throat and nostrils. Wave after wave of grief and sadness washed over her, striking her like crashing turbulence striking a sailing ship during a storm, or high winds buffeting a plane about in the clouds. She felt as though her heart were being crushed in vice grips, and all the pain in the world was sieving through it, the blood infused with death and suffering. She felt weak, and dizzy, and like she couldn’t stand for all the weight pressing down on her.

  After a few more minutes of this — they felt like hours, and this was after she felt her eyes might explode from crying so hard, and after her face ached from so many tears seemingly wearing tracts in it — she stopped sobbing, and her hoarse blubbering ceased. She sniffled, and her father produced a handkerchief for her to blow her nose on. She did so, and simply stood there for a moment. Her friends gave her some breathing room — thankfully — and she walked away from them for a moment, to gather her thoughts.

  “You’ll uh . . .” she began, her voice sounding hollow even to her own ears, “you’ll need someone. To, uh, to run the company. Won’t you.”

  “Yes,” her father said. “I will. And that person can only be you.”

  “I know,” she said. “I know that. Hey, Gadget.”

  “Hmm?” said Gadget. “What?”

  “How’d you like a job that you can actually write home about?” she said. “With better pay and lots of perks and benefits.”

  “Um . . . okay,” he said. “Like what?”

  “Like Chief Operations Officer at Mjolnir Propulsion Systems.” A single tear leaked down her cheek. “My second-in-command, basically.”

  “But I don’t know anything about business management,” he said.

  “That’s what training seminars are for,” she replied.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “But should you really be making these big decisions right now? You’ve just experienced — ”

  “Yes,” she said. “I should and I am. Do you want the job, or not?”

  “Uh, well, yeah,” he said, and blinked. “I guess I do.”

  “The paperwork for the transfer of company ownership — and all the stock options and everything — is already underway, my pet,” said Walter. “The lawyers are drawing everything up as we speak. They should have the papers to you by the time this convention of yours is over next week.”

  “This settles it,” said Misto. “I’m not leaving.”

  “What?” said Dizzy, turning to him.

  “You heard me,” said Misto. He turned to Darmok. “I’m sorry, but I can’t leave her now. She needs me.”

  “No,” said Dizzy. “No, you listen to me, Dr. Joseph Michaelson. You will leave. With Darmok. You will go to Planet Shyphtor and you will be happy there.”

  “But Diz — ” he began.

  “No ‘buts,’” she said sternly. “It’s time for me to stand on my own, Misto. It’s time for me to embrace my own destiny, to do my own thing for a change. For the longest time, I’ve lived in someone else’s shadow, followed someone else’s blueprints for my life’s design. I can’t do that anymore. I won’t. I need to be my own woman.”

  “Dizzy,” said Darmok, “are you sure about that? I suppose I can let go — ”

  “Yes,” said Dizzy, appearing to steel herself. She sighed. “I’m sure of it. I want you two to be happy together. It’s time I stopped being selfish and started to think about worlds beyond just my own.”

  “There are times when I’m so proud of you, Dizzy,” said her father. “And that’s most of the time.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That . . . means a lot to me. You have no idea how much.”

  “And I’ll always be here for you,” he said. “Right here, any time you want to talk. If you need advice. Or if you just want to see me. Whatever you need or want from me, I am here. Always.”

  “I know,” she said, and smiled a tight smile at him. “I know that you are. Or will be. God, it’s so confusing. This positronic immortality business. It’s going to change the world, if I can figure out how to market it without people going batshit frakkin’ insane over it.”

  “I know you’ll figure it out,” he said, and smiled. “You’re a microchip off the old engine block.”

  “Hey, I try, y’know?” she replied. “Speaking of which. Mystikite. I know you’re going to be busy, y’know, dealing with that whole ‘Vampire Nation in chaos’ thing, but — ”

  “Do I want a job working for your company? Something in the NeuroScape division?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Something like that.”

  He shrugged. “Vampires gotta survive, right? So sure, yeah. It’ll make for good cover. So long as you don’t mind me working only at nights, and so long as you put Buffy to work too, in the Biotech division, working on her Physion Bio-Printer.”

  “Hey, thanks for volunteering me,” said Buffy, and poked him.

  “You’re very welcome,” he said.

  “Done,” said Dizzy. “Fine by me. If, that is, you’re up for that, Buffy.”

  “Actually,” she said. “It’ll have to wait a while. I still have to work at the hospital, to finish out my internship, so that I can finish school at Morchatromik U, which I’ll now have to finish with night-classes. But when I graduate . . . Sure.”

  “Fair enough,” said Dizzy, nodding. “You’ll have a job waiting for you, I promise.”

  “Man,” said Mystikite, “who would have thought, three days ago, that our lives would end up like this?”

  “I know what you mean,” said Gadget. “I mean, look at us now. Dizzy’s in charge of her dad’s company. I’m going to have a real job — and a damn good one, too — and you and Buffy are real fucking Vampires now. And we met Misto and Dizzy, and we met Darmok, who’s a real-life alien. And Misto’s going off to live on another planet. It’s so funny how life just . . . changes, in like the snap of a finger. And none of it would’ve ever happened if I . . .” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “If I hadn’t come to con this year.”

  “Yeah,” said Mystikite. “It’s almost enough to make you believe there’s some inherent meaning to life.”

  “Oh, there isn’t, “ said Misto. “But that’s okay.”

  “What?” said Buffy. “How can you say that?”

  “Say what?” said Misto.

  “That that’s okay,” she said. “That life has no meaning, and that it’s okay that it doesn’t?”

  Misto smiled. “It’s like this. Stanley Kubrick once said something very important, so I’m going to paraphrase him here and elaborate, even though I’m not as eloquent as him: The fact that life doesn’t have any intrinsic, inherent meaning forces us, as humans, to create our own sense of meaning. When we’re just little kids, we start out with a sense of wonder and curiosity about the world. We have this amazing ability, as kids, to experience unparalleled joy at something as simple as Baby Groot dancing, or the adventures of Luke Skywalker, or Batman being a badass. But as we get older, we become more aware of death and decay, of entropy, and of our own mortality. And it totally stresses us out. And that stress pushes out all the wonder, replacing it with fear and terror. And that fear breaks down our idealism. It tarnishes our expectations of immortality. And as we get older, we see death and torture, suffering, everywhere. We start to lose faith in the goodness of humanity. But if we’re strong, and if we’re lucky, we emerge from what Kubrick called ‘the twilight of the soul,’ into a sort of grand rebirth . . . a kind of baptism of the imagination, as I like to call it, where our awareness of the meaninglessness of life causes us to forge a fresh sense of purpose for ourselves. We never get back the wonder we came into this world with, but, we can shape the world — even if it’s just our own little corner of it — into something a lot more enduring and satisfying than the world we wandered into. And that’s what it is to be like us, to be a geek. To be one of the ‘weird’ people, the ‘special’ people. To have the potential to shape the world. See, the scariest thing about the universe isn’t that it’s hostile to life, but that it’s cold and indifferent to it. But if we can come to terms with that, if we can accept the challenge of living in an indifferent universe, within the boundaries of life and death, then we, as humans, can find genuine meaning out there in the vast darkness of the cosmos. I say we can make our own light in the darkness, because we can become that light, we can be the shining beacon. Does any of that make any sense, or am I just babbling nonsense, here?”

  “Huh,” said Buffy. “Y’know, that does make a lot of sense. I guess, at least.”

  “Yeah,” said Gadget. He appeared deep in thought. “I guess it does make sense, at that.”

  “Well,” said Dizzy, with a heavy sigh, “I guess we’re done here. So I can come back to this simulation, any time I want?”

  “Any time, yes,” said her father. “I’ve instructed the lab boys to keep it running ad infinitum, forever. It will never cease. For as long as the ‘net remains in existence, I will always be here for you, Dizzy. Always.”

  She sighed again. “Okay, then. I guess we can . . . get back to the con.” She felt wistful, unsettled, and disagreeable. She didn’t feel like having fun just now. And she didn’t want to say goodbye to him. She felt like the moment she took off the NeuroBand Headset, she would be saying goodbye to him forever, like she would be letting go of the last vestiges of whatever remained of him. Of course, she knew that wasn’t true; she knew his consciousness would remain here, as software, running in the NeuroScape for as long as electricity was a thing and existed. But still. A part of her wanted to never go back to the real world, to tell Gadget and the others to go on without her, to leave her here, and to see to the care and feeding of her physical body for the rest of its days on Earth, so that she could stay here, with her father, forevermore at his side. But that was an impossibility, of course. She had to let go sometime. It might as well be now.

  Dizzy reached up to her face and made the “log-out” gesture. There was a flash of light, she blinked, and after a moment’s disorientation, she found herself once more back in the real world, sitting in her wheelchair, beside the bed with General Reinhardt and the others looking on. Tears wetted her face.

  “Well?” she said, wiping them off. “What’re you all staring at?”

  Gadget watched as General Reinhardt’s two associates in black packed up the laptop and the NeuroBand Headset units, and prepared to leave.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring better news, Dizzy,” he said as he rose from the bed.

  “It’s . . . not your fault,” she said to him. “I’m sure it wasn’t your idea of a fun time, either.”

  “No,” he said. “It wasn’t. And now that my job is done, I’m afraid I have to go.”

  “Back to the base?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Back to the base. I was going to ask if you would consider coming with me. To continue your father’s work.”

  She shook her head. “My place is here, at the company headquarters. Someone has to help with . . . with the transition of authority. Y’know. Paperwork. Red tape. Business. All that crap. Plus I have to get Gadget here settled into his new position. And I have to learn the ropes of what dad did, how he functioned in the role. And I have to get a handle on all the company’s various projects. No, I’m needed here for now. I’ll send someone to take over dad’s research at the base, don’t worry.”

  “It won’t be the same without him there,” said the General. “We’ll miss him, all of us.”

  “I’ll miss him too,” she said, the sadness in her voice unmistakable.

  “Well,” said the General, “I should be going. Again, I’m so sorry, Dizzy. I wish I could’ve brought happier tidings.”

  “Again . . . not your fault,” she said. The two Men in Black headed for the door, cases in hand. “I’ll see you when I see you, I guess.” She seemed almost numb, affectless.

  “Indeed,” said the General. He got up, and crossed to the door. “You have my sincerest condolences, Dizzy. Goodbye, then.”

  “Goodbye,” she said. And with that, the General departed, closing the door behind him.

  Nobody said anything for a long moment.

  “Well that sure as fuck sucked ass,” said Mystikite, breaking the silence. “Dizzy — I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “Would everybody please quit saying that?” said Dizzy, wheeling herself back over to the gaming table. “I get the point, already. Jeez.”

  “We just want to help, Dizzy,” said Buffy. She put a gentle hand on Dizzy’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, Diz,” said Misto. “Come on. We’re here for you. And even if I’m on the other side of the galaxy, I’ll always be here for you.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Dizzy. “But right now . . . I don’t know what I want or need. Well, that’s a lie. I want my dad to be alive. I need my dad to be alive. But I can’t have that, I guess.”

  “But Dizzy,” said Mystikite, “don’t you get it? He is alive. In the most crucial way. He’s in the NeuroScape. His mind, his consciousness, is there. He is alive. He’s immortal now. You can still talk to him, interact with him. The only thing you’re missing is his physical body. And even that’s only halfway gone because in the NeuroScape, you can interact with him as though he were physical, because it’s a complete reality simulation. Your nerves even think it’s real. So you haven’t lost anything, really. He’s there. And that’s a fuckton more than any of us will ever have left of any of our parents when they’re gone, unless Zoe and Gadget can convince their moms — and stepdads, I guess — to upload when their time comes. So come on. Realize the gift your science has given you, and appreciate that for what it is. It’s more than most people will ever get. I’m not saying you can’t be sad — I mean, yeah, death sucks; death really sucks — but c’mon . . . he’s still right there, waiting for you to log in and talk to him. Be glad for that. Be happy about that, okay?”

  Dizzy sighed, her brow furrowed. “You’re right, of course. You’re so right. I know that. Intellectually, I know that. But . . . a big part of what made my relationship with my father special was all the things we did together. Like going for rides in the Fangirl. Or working on projects together in the lab. Or building things together. Or playing games together. Now, we have to simulate those things, and it just . . .” She screwed up her face, and once again, tears began to fall from her eyes. “It just won’t be the same. It won’t. I’m sorry, but it won’t.” She sucked in a breath, wiped the tears away, and appeared to gather herself up. “But you are right. We do at least still have each other in a very vital way, a way that most people who lose loved ones don’t. So I should be frakkin’ thankful for that. And with this technology, if I can perfect it, and maybe even release it someday, nobody — nobody — ever has to lose a loved one again . . .”

  “Now there’s a scary thought,” said Buffy. “A real, bona fide afterlife, brought to you by Mjolnir Propulsion Systems.”

  “Well, it’s a thought,” said Dizzy. “Maybe you can help me bring it to life, Gadget.”

  “Maybe,” said Gadget. “I’ve never helped run a multi-billion-dollar company before. This should be . . . interesting. Speaking of which. I have got to call my mom and let her know about this!”

  “Call away,” said Dizzy, and she smiled at him. It felt good to see her smile, despite all that had just happened to her. It showed she had strength. She would need it, he thought.

  He got up from where he sat, and walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hallway full of costumed con-goers milling about and wandering here and there. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell-phone. Amazingly, it had not gotten smashed or broken despite all that he had been through, and, also amazingly, it still had a little bit of battery life left. He scrolled through the numbers until he found his mom’s number, touched it, and put the phone to his ear while it rang.

  “Hello?” His mom’s voice had never sounded so good.

  “Hi mom,” he said.

  “Hi honey!” she exclaimed. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Just here at the con for the week with Mystikite and Zoe.”

  “Oh, and are you having the time of your life?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and grinned to himself. “Definitely. You could say that.”

  “I’m glad. I miss you, you know that? You never come by for dinner anymore.”

  He could hear in her voice that she meant it. He would have to fix that, and made a mental note to stop by and see her as soon as the con was over. He had a feeling that with Mystikite and Buffy moving out soon — to go and join the Vampires — he would badly be in need of pleasurable company.

  “I know,” he said. “I gotta do somethin’ about that. Anyway. I’m calling with good news.”

  “Oh? What’s up, sweetie?”

  “Well, you’ll never guess what’s happened.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I got offered a job.”

  “A job? That’s great! You deserve to do more than tech support in a computer lab anyway. Where is this job?”

  “Well, you remember that company dad wanted to work for all those years? Mjolnir Propulsion Systems?”

  “Oh of course,” she said. “That place. The big military contractor. He always wanted to work there, get his hands on all that technology. But that damn Walter Weatherspark—”

  “I met his daughter, mom. Walter Weatherspark’s daughter.”

  “Oh! You did? What’s she like?”

  “Yep,” he said. “I met her at con this year. Her name is Desirée. And she’s awesome.”

  “Oh . . . do I sense a crush?”

  He smiled. “Well, sort of, I guess.”

  “I know my son well, it seems.”

  “Well, see, she kinda offered me a job at the company. I’m . . . well, are you sitting down?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “Oh, okay . . .”

  “I’m going to be their Chief Operations Officer. Like, the second-in-command of the entire company, starting next Monday.”

  “Oh my god, son! That’s . . . that’s incredible!” He heard her gasp. “Will you — will you be finishing school? Will you be moving? Will you — ”

  “Calm down, mom. Yeah, I’ll finish school. Of course I will. But I’ll be staying in the apartment. I think Mystikite and Zoe will be moving out, though. They’ve . . . they’ve decided to get married. Mystikite wants me to be the best man.”

  “Oh, how wonderful for them.”

  “I guess.”

  “You sound sad.”

  “Well, I don’t . . . I don’t have anyone special. This just reminds me of that.”

  “Oh come on. Buck up, Buttercup. Be happy for your friends. They love each other, and they deserve to be happy together. You know that. Besides, you’ll still have me. And you have your new friend, Desirée. And you’ll be helping run a billion-dollar corporate entity! You’ll be so busy you won’t even miss them, I’ll bet. You won’t have time to miss them. Plus you’ll be in school. You need to join — or start — a club or something. Get you out of the house more. Socialize more. It would be good for you.”

  He smiled. That actually wasn’t a bad idea. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He had considered, once upon a time, of founding a “science fiction and fantasy” club at Morchatromik U. The school didn’t currently have anything like that, and it needed one. He knew that there was a demand for it; he couldn’t be the only one on campus who loved stuff like that. And he knew that Dizzy and Buffy would join, even if no one else did. Up until now, his social anxiety would have stopped him from even considering the move. But now? Well, now he found that his social anxiety wasn’t quite so bad. Ever since the Dragon in the Dreamworld, he had found his anxieties somewhat . . . lessened. More manageable. More under control. As though his head were finally screwed on straight, and as though he had finally been able to poke his head above the raging waters. So maybe now, it was time to go for it and give it a try.

  “Besides,” she said, “you need to see me more often. Come by and give your mom a hug once in a while. How’s . . . how are things going with managing your illness? You know I wouldn’t ask because I know you don’t like to talk about it, but — ”

  “Oh, much better now,” he said, and was relieved to realize that that was the truth. “I’m doing okay with it. The new medicine is working out pretty well. And my therapist is great. And . . .” He paused, unsure of how to explain what had just recently happened to him. “And I’ve been through something, recently, mom. Something that . . . changed things. For the better. I feel . . . different now. Like I can handle things better. Like I know which way is ‘up’ now. Like the blinders have been pulled off of me, and like a . . . like a veil has been lifted off the world and I can finally see it in all the right colors. Does that make any sense?”

  “It makes perfect sense,” said his mother. “You know, it probably isn’t worth mentioning, but . . . I had a dream about you, last night. A very vivid dream.”

  That piqued his interest. “Oh?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I had this dream — and it was like one of your dreams, really — you’re going to think I’ve been sneaking a read at those comic books of yours — and in the dream, you were fighting a dragon. A huge, massive dragon. You were flying around like Superman. And there was this spaceship, and there were all these monsters, and men on horseback, and these giant robots . . . it was certainly a symphony of destruction! And you were there, right in the middle of it, my little hero, fighting this dragon. And in the end, you won. You stabbed it in the head with a sword, and lightning struck it. I think.”

  “Wow, that was some dream, mom,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “I wonder where that came from. You have been reading my comic books, haven’t you.”

  “Not I,” she said. “I wouldn’t even begin to comprehend the plot-lines of those things.”

  “Well, listen mom,” he said. “I gotta go. My friends . . . they’re waiting on me. I gotta get back to them. It was good talking to you. I’ll try to stop by after con is over, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Drop in and give your mother someone to watch her Spanish soap operas with. Or maybe we can rewatch that really old TV show you like so much, that Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. That’s a cute show, even if it is ancient. Or maybe that other one, that Deep Space Nine.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’d be great. See you later. I love you.”

  “Love you too, sweetie. Now listen. Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, and realized that for the first time in a long time, he actually meant it. “Yeah. I’m gonna be fine.”

  “Okay. Love you too. Bye-bye then.”

  “Bye.” He hung up the phone, put it back in his pocket, and sighed. Yeah. I’m gonna be fine. The words echoed in his head. He had meant them. For the first time in a long while, he had truly meant those words, had truly felt them in his heart. He did not know what the future held, and for the first time in a long time, he was okay with not knowing. He did not know what awaited him, and for the first time in a long time, he was okay with that, too. He wasn’t worried, which was a total change of pace for him. In fact, he felt strangely euphoric, and excited about the possibilities. He felt as though he were looking at the world around him — everything, from the costumed con-goers to the doors of the hotel rooms, to the carpet on the floor, to the fluorescent lighting above — with brand new eyes, eyes that had not spent a lifetime worrying about what they beheld. It wasn’t all rainbows and kittens everywhere he looked; but it wasn’t all imminent doom and existential threats, either. It was just life, ebbing and flowing around him, and he was part of it, for once. It was — like the Vulcans said — “infinite diversity, in infinite combinations.” And it was beautiful. And here he was, living it, taking part in it. Finally. He sucked in a breath — it felt so good to just be alive — and smiled. Yes, it was good to be here, to be among the living. Life was not perfect; but hopefully, with a little imagination, intellect and romance could triumph over brute force and cynicism, and could make it worth living.

  Absent a keycard, Gadget knocked on the hotel suite door. Misto answered, and smiled at him. He entered, and walked over to the game table, where the others were still gathered.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m back. But first things first. Dizzy.” He sucked in a breath, then let it out. “Will you go out with me?” He straightened his proud smile glowing from within and tried to stay focused on those eyes, those galaxies of wonder just above her cute Roma nose.

  Dizzy stared at him for a moment . . . a long moment . . . as though scrutinizing and studying him with a cold calculus busy working in her head. Then, she smiled at him, rose from the table and walked around it to where he stood, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Only then did she give voice to her answer.

  ~ THE END ~