Day 5

Sana's strength recovered steadily, though slowly. Day by day she ate more and slept less. On the fourth day she bathed herself and dressed in clothes provided by the physician, Master Hsu. They were strange clothes, light and colorful, fastened with an intricate array of loops and knots. On the fifth day Lee - Master Hsu's assistant - knocked on her door.

"Master Hsu says that you may come out side today, if you feel strong enough."

Sana's smile lit her face, and she followed him eagerly out of her windowless cell.

She found herself in a walled courtyard, paved with stone. A row of doors marched around the base of the walls leading, Sana guessed, to more cells like her own.

A group of men stood motionless in the center of the courtyard, neatly spaced like troops in review. The sun shone off their shaved heads, and the brightness of their orange robes nearly made her look away. They were crouched, backs straight, fists clenched, knees bent almost into corners.

"Who are they?" she asked Lee in a whisper. Somehow, she did not want to disturb the stillness of the birds and wind.

"They are the new disciples," Lee explained. "They are building discipline and a strong root. You are not strong enough yet for such work, although you may join them soon, if you wish. But today, we visit the garden."

Lee led her to a small gate in the far wall of the courtyard. A small path wound through stone and scrub, until they came to a round wood door suspended in a circle of stone. Lee bowed to her and retreated a few paces.

"Only women may pass the moon door," he said. "Go through and ask the warden to take you to Madam Fong.

With some trepidation, Sana pushed on the round door. It slid open silently, and Sana found herself on a pebbled path twisting through a mass of green. The sound of water rushing through bamboo pipes surrounded her. A young woman wearing red clothes similar to Sana's own appeared and bowed.

"How may I serve you?" she asked.

"M. . . Madam Fong?" Sana said uncertainly.

"Of course," replied the woman in red. "Follow the left fork," she said, waving an elegant hand at the path.

"Thank you," said Sana, her courage returning. She made her way down the path, gazing around with wonder. Birds twittered in the branches of twisting trees, thin grass thrived at the borders of the path. Once a golden creature like a moth, but larger, alighted on her shoulder. She froze, awed, watching it sun and stretch its wings, until it flittered away.

The path forked left, and she followed it until the path opened up into a wide clearing. Several girls clad in various colors of the rainbow were seated cross-legged on the earth, observing the swordswoman demonstrating in the center. She had a matronly appearance, as old as Sana's mother, maybe, but she moved with the gliding grace of a young dancer. Madam Fong - of course it must be she - guided her slender sword through intricate loops and cuts, finally drawing the sword down to her side in a ritualistic close.

The girls merely bowed to Madam Fong, but Sana clapped her hands delightedly. Madam Fong looked at her and smiled.

"Very good girls," she said to her class. "I will see you this afternoon for Silk Reeling exercises."

The girls dispersed chattering amongst themselves, and Sana walked timidly up to Madam Fong.

"Are you Madam Fong? Lee told me. . ."

"Ah yes. Our new guest from the north. I am Madam Fong. Master Hsu asked me to oversee your recovery from this point. If you are willing, I will show you some exercises that will strengthen your body and your spirit."

"Will I learn to use a sword like that?" Sana blushed. The words had just slipped out.

Madam Fong speared her with a piercing look. "If there is time. But be warned, the sword is an elegant and difficult weapon to master. For now, let us concentrate on breathing. Your feet, so."

Madam Fong stepped out with her left foot and planted herself in a shoulder-width stance. Casting sidelong glances at her, Sana copied.

"Your arms, so."

Madam Fong lifted her arms, making a circle before her chest.

"And now, we breathe. Tongue behind your teeth. In through the nose, so. Ahhhh. Relax your shoulders. Out through the mouth so. Aaaah."

Sana closed her eyes and breathed.

* * *

Alexander kept a watchful eye on Maria as she led him through twilight deeper and deeper into the underbelly of Qurat. She seemed to have no intention of betraying their bargain.

"Tell me something, Maria," he said thoughtfully. "How is that you are able to keep your secret from your. . . fellow workers?"

"My secret?"

"That you are a woman."

"I told you, they are all masked where we are going."

"Yes," said Alexander, reasonably, "But you can hardly walk around the city constantly wearing a mask. The people would be suspicious at the very least, and likely turn you over to the Watch."

"Oh, I see. When you first go in there are private rooms where you can leave any belongings and put on your mask. It is true that a watcher would see a woman enter, but once inside none would know who she was. Also, the meeting place masquerades as a tavern, so who's to say I should not go there?"

"Your parents, maybe," Alexander muttered into his beard, but she did not hear him. "But," he continued, "you and your - former colleagues - were all masked earlier today when we first met."

"Yes. We arrived at our meeting place already masked. Some of the Masked Brothers are peoples who's faces are known, you see. The butcher who ventures forth at night to snatch a bit of extra gold for his coffer, the mason who lost his pay playing at dice."

"How do you avoid detection as you move about the city?"

"We are careful, and quick. And sometimes we are seen."

Alexander thought on this and said no more.

* * *

Day 4 - Continued

Once in the safety of his room, Alexander bound his captive securely. He stood, surveying his handiwork, and nodded, satisfied.

"Well now, let's see who you are," he said, stripping away the black mask shrouding his captive's face. He drew back in surprise. His captive had the face of a young woman, sun-browned, her hair knotted tightly on the top of her head.

Alexander roused her with a dash of cold water left from his bath. She thrashed against her bonds, glaring.

"Well, the pretty little viper is caught in a snare, now," Alexander taunted. "What is your name, viper?"

"I am Maria, the assassin!"

Alexander laughed.

"You are no assassin. Assassins kill, or die in the attempt. You're a paper mask with the ink running. Who sent you to kill me?"

Maria ground her teeth and kept silent.

"Very well," said Alexander. "I can't turn you over to the town watch, with half the city looking for the villain that absconded with the future empress of the west. I suppose I'll just have to kill you. What a happy chance that I just acquired this new blade today" - he slid it out, three curving feet of gleaming steel - "and have not had a chance to test its mettle."

He rested the blade's edge on the girl's calf as though preparing a stroke.

"I don't think you'll be needing both of these any more. Let's start here and see how it goes. If it works all right we can move up to your hands, and then your head. Maybe I'll try a torso cut before that. Bisection is puts so much more strain on a blade than a simple decapitation."

Maria set her jaw, but Alexander could see her hands start to shake. He lofted the blade over his head with a stern two-handed grip and roared. The blade sang down, slicing through air, and ended with a thud. Maria shrieked and cringed back, shoving away from him as much as her bound limbs would allow. The severed heel of her right boot hit the floor and bounced once.

"So, you were bluffing," she snarled. "You son of a diseased camel's. . ."

The blade came down again, resting on her lips. Maria fell silent, eyes crossing as she stared at its point.

"It would be more healthy to think of it as a warning. Not a bluff." Alexander's eyes were ice. "Few people in this world are given a second chance. Especially not gutter scum that can't even make a decent cutthroat. Don't throw it away."

"All right. All right," she said, eyes filling with tears. "I don't want to die!"

Alexander put the sword away. "A good choice," he said. "A coward's choice, but better a live coward than a dead fool, eh?"

Maria sniffed and nodded.

"I don't know his name." She squeaked as Alexander's hand stroked his sword-hilt. "Truly, I don't! There's a place in the south of the city. They. . . cutthroats. . . we go there in masks to hire our services. Our. . . patrons often wear masks as well."

Her voice became tinged with panic as Alexander began sliding his sword free once more.

"It's true, I tell you! I can take you there! It was a man! I know that much from his voice! He had a likeness of you on a roll of parchment."

"Well, well. A particularly well-informed patron. The city is abuzz with fortune seekers hunting the man called Captain Alexander. Indeed I would be thrice a fool not to abandon that name. But here is someone who knows my _appearance_."

Alexander drew his sword fully, and Maria clenched her eyes, face screwed up with terror.

"But, that's all I know! Please. . . I won't tell anyone about you!"

Alexander's sword flicked twice, severing the ties fastening her wrists and ankles.

"You do not seem a particularly good cutthroat, Maria. Perhaps you would like to try your hand at an honest living. I have a few coins left in my purse, in spite of what the armsman took for this sword." He tossed a silver to Maria, who missed catching it in her confusion, and went chasing after it as it bounced and rolled to the floor.

"Another like it if you lead me true to this den of masked men." He put his sword away again, patting it fondly. "And then you may go free, if you promise to keep silent. Oh, I suppose I could always cut out your tongue and lop off your hands to prevent your spreading tales. But that seems a needless and messy business, when you can be paid for your trouble. So. Shall we be friends for a day?"

Maria climbed unsteadily to her feet.

"Y . . . Yes," she managed.

* * *

Day 4

Alexander spat sand from his mouth, scrubbed it from his eyes. The desert sun beat high above the empty shore, warming the wavelets licking at his boots. He was surprised he still had boots. The storm that had taken the Carida had been violent enough to tear the sword from his back. He stripped off his tunic, drenched it, tied it around his head. Where was Sylpha? There was no sign of life in either direction, no way to tell what path was shortest to people. East would lead towards Ise, he was sure; they had been a fair way towards Mora when the storm had broken. East or west? His pouch was still their, fastened securely to his belt. He reached in and drew out a coin, slim and gold, glinting on his palm. It spun high in the air, flashing until he snatched it back. The face of Pesh, the war god grinned up at him. To the west, then.

He lost count of the days, after the third. He stared at his feet, one in front of the other, the leather of his boots gradually wearing thin. When the heat became unbearable, he submerged himself in the sea that he kept ever in sight on his right hand. Never for long; the urge to drink from its saltiness was strong. Instead, he caught scuttling crabs in his hands, crushing their shells with his teeth. Few fish came near the hot sands, but those that ventured near he captured, tearing the pale flesh from their fine bones, sucking their eyes for moisture. A taste of the heavens, those fish eyes.

At night he dug pits in the sand and huddled in them, gritting his teeth against the scouring cold that sucked the warmth from the ground and from his flesh. Finally, after a week or more (the moon had changed, he knew that much at least) he topped a dune to see, at last, the walls of a city spread before him. It was a city he knew, but it was not Mora. It was Qurat, the shining jewel of the sea.

* * *

Alexander bounded down the street, cloak geturing wildly behind him. The wall of water was hard on his heels, sheet rain sweeping across the city. Few others were still out of the safe dryness of their homes; Alexander made haste to join them. He spied a tavern just ahead, the light of friendly light of burning fat glowing through its shutters. He ducked inside and slamed the door behind him, leaning heavily on it. So he could still run, he thought with surprise, even after . . .

"You there, innkeeper, what is the date?"

The barman bustled up, offering to take his cloak, offering rooms, talking of rates and food.

"Yes, yes," said Alexander impatiently. "The date, man!"

The barman told him.

"Nine days," he said softly. "Nine days. Well, the desert may have taken my water and had a good start on my sinews, but it has not taken my gold. I wager that that is not the case with you," he gave the barman a shrewd look and pulled a gold coin from his pouch. "The coin that sealed my fate in the desert. How fitting that it should buy food and shelter now."

The barman snatched it and secreted it away, clearly revising his estimation of the ragamuffin vagrant before him.

"This way, my Lord," he said, scuttling before Alexander like a sand beetle. "A private room for you, with wine, stew, a bath, a dancing girl perahps, if you fancy."

"Water and food first. A bath can come later. And then sleep! I mean to sleep myself out. Warn your servants not to disturb me, landlord!"

"As you command, my Lord," the barman assured him, bobbing up and down. "This way, this way!"

The room he left Alexander to was plain, but clean and dry and warm. The floor was neatly swept of sand, and the pallet was made with cloth sheets. Not a poor room by any means.

Alexander set to his meal - strong mutton stew and bread - pacing himself carefully and drinking much water. He would sleep for a few hours, wake and eat again, then sleep, until his strength had returned. Then he would set about searching for Sylpha. If she were alive - his hands clenched in his bread, crushing it. If she were alive, she might well have come to Qurat before him. More likely she had washed up in Mora.

He finished the stew and set the remainder of the loaf aside longingly. Sleep now. He would eat again soon.

He slept the night through, and the next day past noon. He arose, cleaned himself, then descended the stairs in search of the landlord. The man's name was Soran, a short, round fellow with a face full of stubble. Alexander slipped him a silver coin.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Landlord. Your inn is most comfortable."

Soran grinned toothly, tucking the coin away.

"Your Lordship is most welcome, most welcome!" he said, bowing. His meaning hung clear in the air. _As long as your coin is good, I am your humble servant_. Alexander gave him another silver.

"I am seeking Princess Sylpha of Tyrndon. Has there been any news of her in the city?"

"You and half the world, my Lord. Every inn in the city is full of seekers come to search for her. Evan a lord such as yourself might look twice and more at such a sum." Soran placed a long finger along side his nose. "If I were twenty years younger, I might be tempted myself. But alas. I must be content with the lot the gods have given me." He gave Alexander a cunning wink. "Content to take the coin of hopefull adventurers."

"What sum is this?" Alexander asked.

Soran was flabberghasted. "My Lord! Have you not heard? The Lords Council if Ise have offered weight in gold for the safe return of the princess Sylpha and Captain Alexander, her lover!"

"I see," said Alexander, slowly. "Thank you, landlord. This has been a most illuminating conversation."

* * *

The seekers came for him as he was returning from the outfitters. New sword on his back, wrapped in new clothes, his feet cushioned by new boots, a feeling of gladness and comfort mingled with his steadfast resolve to find the princess. She was not as well off as he, maybe. He must make haste. Whistling idly, he turned to admire a large camel tied to a hitching posts, when the ambushers fell upon him. There were three of them, dressed all in black, faces shrouded and hooded like Assassins. The first hurled himself against Alexander's sword arm, trapping it to his side, while the other two raised their daggers and closed in.

Alexander dropped to his side, scisoring the first attacker's legs from beneath him. The man fell with a surprised grunt, and Alexander bounced up, pulling out his sword. He spun it calmly to and fro in his hands. The remaining attackers regarded him for a moment, then backed away, disappearing into the darkness. He heard their running feet retreating.

Not Assassins. Assassins would embrace death rather than return in failure. The third man still lay on the ground, stunned from Alexander's buffet. Alexander dragged him up by his clothes. The inn was not many steps away. Alexander marched his prisoner like a drunkard, keeping his sword in hand to be safe.

"My Lord," Soran exclaimed as Alexander entered. He sounded surprised. "Are you well? I mean . . ."

Alexander looked at him sharply. "My friend has had too much to drink I fear," he said, giving his slumped prisoner a shake. "I will take him to my room to sleep himself out."

"Certainly my Lord, whatever you wish," Soran was rubbing his palms together nervously.

"Then perhaps I will have a word with you, friend Soran," Alexander said darkly.

* * *

Day 3 - Continued

Sana awoke with fire in her side and a clay bowl pressed against her lips.

"Drink this, my child," said a kindly voice. "It will dull the pain." She did as she was told, then lay back, cool hands guiding her head down into something soft.

"Now, bite this," the voice instructed. A splinter of wood, rough with bark, was thrust between her teeth. She bit down, screaming, as the fire in her side seemed to twist and tear. But at last it lessened and she fell back. Then sleep took her, and hot dreams. Here mistress was there, sometimes, sometimes not, but always the men of Ise were there with their slashing swords, killing her sisters. "Where is your mistress?" came the question, endless with pain, untill finally she cried the answer. "The sea! She fled to the sea!" Having no more use for her, they flung her into the river where she floated among the green slime, the severed heads of harpies biting at her wounds until she sat up screaming, in a brown room full of the sun.

A man appeared by her bedside. An old man, with a long beard.

"Hush child," he said. "You are safe and mending. I am a physician," he added, answering her questioning look. "You have many questions, I don't doubt. Let us see if I may save your strength by answering some of them ahead of time. These are the forests of Tyrndon. My servants found you floating in the great river some nine days ago by my count. You have been very ill, but your fever finally broke last night. The wound in your side is healing. You will carry a very pretty scar with you to the end of your days, but you will be otherwise unimpaired."

He placed a tray of food on the ornate wooden stool beside her.

"My mistress," she began, eyeing the bowl of broth, the sliced cheese, the olives, grapes, dates, and meat with interest.

"The Princess Sylpha has vanished from the face of the earth, at least as far as the eyes of men are able to tell. Yes, my child. You spoke much in your delerium," he said gently. "Many men would give much to know the answer to the riddle your mistress left in her wake. I will give much to see to it that you are well again." His fist clenched. "And to keep you free of those who think you know the answer."

Sana had crammed two dates and a block of cheese into her mouth, and was chewing rapidly.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked.

"Because I swore a holy oath before the gods when I became a physician," he explained. "And also . . ." he hesitated. "Also, I have seen your face many times in my seeing bowl. Eat now," he urged, resting a hand atop her head. "We will talk more later."

* * *

Tascela clawed her way through the battlefield towards the South Gate. A fallen man with a spear through his gut tried to grab her; she finished him with her one remaining blade and moved on. All around her the dead and dying lay scattered, crushed seed-pods in the wake of a monsoon.

The carnage intensified as she neared the gate, where knots of struggling men still moved to and fro on the sand. Three of Occanse' spearmen surrounded her just as she reached the gate, but she killed them one at a time. Even weakened, she was still more than a match for them.

She found him at last, surrounded by a mound of foes. His left leg was gone at the knee; he had clamped the leather straps from his shield around the stump to keep from bleeding to death. He smiled when he saw her.

"I knew . . ." he said hoarsely. "Had to stay awake . . ." he coughed, bubbling. "Stay awake to speak with you . . . one last time."

Tascela went to her knees beside him, tears streaming down her face.

"Gods curse you, Porus!" she whispered. "You speak as though you were already dead. It's not too late, I'll . . ."

Porus' rough laugh became a gurgling wheeze.

"You're living in dreams, girl. I've been a warrior . . . long enough to know my death wound." His hand twitched on his side. Tascela saw the gaping cut that he had been hiding from her and screamed a soft scream. Porus lifted his gore-streaked hand to touch her face.

"We make quite a pair, eh? My leg, your arm. Now, don't grieve girl. We will meet again in the Seventh Hall." He coughed again, pushing himself up. "If your life ever crosses with that pox-ridden cur Alexander, give him a poke from me for setting fire to the world." He gave a wry thrust with the spear still gripped in his other hand.

"I will hunt him," Tascela sobbed. "I will track him, and kill him, but not quickly, no, a slow creeping death for Alexander. I will . . ."

Porus gripped her wrist. "Peace, Tascela. Rest easy girl. The god of the underworld takes us all in the end." His voice rasped, dry. "I would . . . quench my thirst, before passing." he said. "Find . . . water . . ."

There was a camel-trough, blood-stained but still standing, a few paces inside the city gates. Tascela ran to it stumbling. A western warrior was crawling towards it, blood trickling from his mouth. She thrust him aside; he rolled on his back in the dust, whining. Tascela tore at the laces of her boot. With one hand, it was no easy task to remove it and fill it with water. She hurried back to Porus, the bloody sand hot and sticky under her bare foot.

"Porus," she called, putting the water to his lips, bathing his head. "Porus!"

But he was already dead.

* * *

Day 3

Occanse stood atop the ridge, surveying the land to the east. Below him lay Qurat, a shining jewel spread next to the silver sea.

"Make camp there," he ordered, pointing to the great plain stretching before the south gates of the walled city. "On the morrow we will take the city."

"Yes," said Golias, thoughtfully. The Emperor rested easily in his saddle, showing no sign that he had spent the day there. Age had not brought softness to Golias, no indeed. He motioned one of his captains closer.

"Issus, remain here with your chariots, behind the ridge line, out of sight of the city. When tomorrow you hear three blasts of my trumpet, charge over the hill as though a thousand demons were at your back."

Issus bowed low. "It shall be done, my Emperor," he snapped, then went to see to his men.

Occanse regarded Golias thoughtfully. "Subterfuge my Emperor? Surely we have no need of such against these eastern dogs. We outnumber them heavily."

"It is true. But Porus is a canny fighter. And the mad devil-woman Tascela is with him. They will resist to their last ounce of strength."

"As you say, my Emperor." Occanse bowed, and moved down the hill to find his tent.

* * *

The Map Chamber in the Royal Palace of Qurat was a small, well-polished room, lit by baskets of phosphor; torches posed too much danger to the archive's precious contents. The Map Chamber did contain maps, rolls of vellum painstakingly inked by scribes and surveyors, neatly stacked in their wooden compartments. But Trascus and his captains - Porus and Tascela - had gathered in the center of the room, around the sand table. Trascus had paid heavily for the sand table, but it had been worth it. Four surveyors and a sculptor had collaborated on it, crafting a minute model of Qurat and countryside to an exacting degree.

A cunningly shaped pane of blue glass shimmered darkly in the phosphor light - the sea. Nestled up against it were the walls and buildings of the walled city itself. To the south, the great plain; to the west, the foothills of the desert; to the east, well, to the east, nothing of import.

"He makes his camp here," said Porus, dropping a handful of tiny wooden tents onto the plain stretching from Qurat's South Gate. "It seems certain he means to attack the city."

"Do we have supplies enough to outlast a siege?" Trascus asked.

"Supplies, yes," Tascela said, binding her long hair behind her ears to keep it from sweeping across the sand table. "Supplies, but not enough men. That pig-son Golias has us outnumbered near two to one. We could never keep him off the walls."

"Yes," Porus nodded. "We must go out and give battle, and we must do it with cunning if we are to have any hope of survival."

"What is your plan, Porus?"

"We have, maybe, twelve-thousand spears in the city. Tomorrow I will lead them in a sortie from the south gate. We will seem to seek engagement with Golias' center, but will turn and flee at the last second."

Porus set several blocks of wood before the South Gates to represent his spearmen and their foes.

"In the meantime, Tascela will have led her chariots - five-hundred of them - out of the east-gate, hidden from the eyes of Golias by the walls of the Temple District. She will fall upon his flank just as my spearmen reach the city walls and turn to give battle. You, Trascus, must have archers hidden atop the walls waiting to pepper the spearmen of Golias as soon as they are within range. If we can crush his strong infantry center before he brings his horsemen to bear, we shall have victory."

Trascus studied the sand table intently. "It is a good plan. My scouts have informed me that Golias leaves his chariots in reserves here, behind the ridge to the west. If the battle goes well we may have a chance."

"Yes," said Tascela. "A gamblers chance; a toss of the dice."

"Even a gambler's chance is better than certain death, my love," said Porus gently.

* * *

The morning dawned bright and clear. Occanse stood on the plain with his men drawn up in battle array, spear-heads gleaming golden in the new sun. He had near to twenty-thousand spears standing ready in a long block, eighteen men deep, standing shoulder to shoulder more than half a mile wide. On his right flank, Golias had drawn up his fifteen-hundred horsemen, armed with short bows and wicked curved swords. Occanse had counseled against the Emperor personally joining the battle, but Golias was having none of it.

Before the South Gate of Qurat stood the defending phalanx, the banner of Porus waving defiantly in the ocean breeze. Surely that could not be all the men Porus had? The line of spears was near half as wide as Occanse own! Maybe Golias was right, again, to suspect deception.

Signaling his trumpeter to sound the advance, Occanse began to move his line forward at a stately marching pace, Golias and his cavalry keeping pace to the right. The men of Porus did likewise. Soon the forces would meet in the plain, a grunting, pushing maelstrom of blood and spears.

A few minutes more, and the horse archers opened fire, their wicked shafts more of an annoyance to Porus marching troops than a danger. Many bounced off bronze breast-plates and round hide shields. But a few found their mark, and every defender that fell was a blow to the already outnumbered Qurat army.

Occanse accelerated his men to a jog, then a run. Soon the crash would come, the headlong charge. He clenched his jaw. No matter how many times he had seen battle, he could never prepare himself for the earth-rocking meeting of . . .

What was this? Porus men were breaking! They turned and fled before the onrushing mass of Occanse spearmen. The gates were opening!

"Quick!" Occanse howled. "Take them in the rear before the gates can close! The city is ours!"

He shook his spear in the air in triumph, vaguely noticing Golias' trumpeter sounding three long blasts somewhere behind him. The gates loomed ever closer, the squirming mass of Porus' routing men lodged in the center. Porus' routing men . . .

Occanse frowned, searching the ground in front of him. There were no littered spears or helmets here, tossed away by fleeing men to aide the speed of their escape. Occanse had caused many routes, had joined even a few.

"A ruse!" he screamed. "A ruse! They turn to fight!" An arrow took him through the shoulder, and he fell to one knee with a cry."Fight!" he roared. "Fight!"

* * *

The ground shook as Porus' counter-charge met Occanse rushing line head-on. Atop the city walls Trascus gripped the stone railing for balance. All around him his bowmen pulled and loosed, filling the air with the snap and whine of their deadly business. They aimed to the rear of Occanse' line now, picking off stragglers, for fear of hitting their own men. The enemy horse archers, under the banner of Golias himself, hung back out of range of the walls.

"Now," Trascus, ordered. "Now!" His trumpeter sounded, clear and long, and Trascus led the cheer as Tascela's chariots rounded the city and bore down on Occanse' flank.

"My Lord, look to the west," a voice called softly in his ear. Indic, his lieutenant had been leading the bowmen, but now he pointed westwards, away from the battle. Trascus followed his outstretched arm and saw.

Golias' chariots were racing out of the foothills, their descent adding momentum to their charge. They would join the battle in less than ten minutes, he reckoned in his head, but Tascela would finish first. Was ten minutes enough to break Occanse' spearmen? Trascus looked back to the fighting at the gates of his city.

Occanse' spearmen had seen Tascela's charging chariots. Some of them tried to turn to face them, some of them were throwing down their spears and fleeing, shedding armor as they ran, only to be picked off by Trascus' archers. The strong core of the force still stood, pushing doggedly at Porus' sturdy defense. Trascus clenched his fist. It was working! Occanse' entire line was beginning to collapse.

Then he heard Indic gasp. "What is he doing? He's charging!"

Golias' horsemen had sprung alive, rushing at the flank of Tascela's chariots.

"He must be mad!" Trascus exclaimed. "Even three to one those horse archers are no match for chariots!"

"No, but look," Indic cried, suddenly his voice filled with despair. "They have lances! The bows were a disguise!"

Fifteen-hundred strong, the pretend horse archers raced at Tascela's unprotected flank. Some of the charioteers tried to turn, but the time was too short and the turn too sharp. Chariots flipped and tumbled, bringing their horses down in a tangle of harness, flinging their drivers into the dust. Tascela was screaming like a madwoman, her black hair flying loose in the wind of battle. Three of Golias' horsemen bore down on her, tipping her chariot. She jumped clear, drawing her swords and hamstringing one rider as he attempted to trample her. Then Trascus lost sight of her in the cloud of dust and blood.

"We are lost," he said, sadly. "Signal Porus to fall back and bar the gates.

"It is too late, my Lord!" Indic cried. The wall quaked as Golias' chariots thundered into the right of Porus' phalanx. The line bent, swept backward, the impetus of Issus' charge carrying the fighting through the gates and into the city itself.

"Out swords," Trascus ordered his men wearily. "We will stand here and make such an end of it as we may."

* * *

Day 2 - Continued

Alexander stood on the foredeck watching the cloudline with concern. Sylpha stood beside him, gripping the Carida's wooden rail.

"I do not like the look of that storm head," he said. "I hope that Nicolia will reach Ise in safety. His message is of utmost importance."

"I did not realize you had sent him away."

"That is because you were . . . elsewhere at the time."

Sylpha smiled faintly. He meant that she had been wrapped in a blanket and shaking uncontrolably while she threw up over the Carida's rear rail.

"I sent him with a message to the Lords Council of Ise," Alexander continued. "I told them that you were well and free, and that most importantly," he hesitated.

"What?"

"That you are still most eager to wed Prince Arcanus."

Sylpha stared at him.

"_Why?_"

"We are tangled in a web of deception," Alexander said slowly. "My own men turned upon you, or we are meant to believe that they did. Who would want you dead at my hands?" He looked away from her, out to sea. "Worse yet even, Arcanus may take this as a deadly insult, that I have spirited you away on the eve of his wedding. Golias will not miss this chance to move against us, and the southern cities will not move to stop him." He snorted. "It is Arcanus right to claim veangance. Some may even join him!"

Sylpha was white-faced, understanding.

"What shall we do?"

"First we must weather this storm. Then you must wed Arcanus as quickly as possible. I'm sorry Sylpha," he said, seeing her face. "There is no help for it. Sometimes rulers must put themselves aside for the sake of their people. If you follow your heart in this, the land may break."

Sylpha sighed, gripping the railing hard.

"I will do it," she said. "And I will not weep. But niether will I laugh."

* * *

"It has been eight days. _Eight days_ without word. What is Alexander playing at?" Lord Councilor Verana slammed his fist into his writing table.

"I have worse news yet, Lord Councilor," Pantif said, appologetically. "The Watch found Nicolia's body in a gutter this morning."

"What! Nicolia dead?"

"Yes, dead and stripped. If he had a message from Alexander, it was taken."

"How did it happen? Nicolia was a mighty man. He would not fall easily."

"No indeed. I fear that he was taken unawares, by one he marked as a friend, maybe. He was cut here," Pantif indicated on his own torso, "just below the fifth rib. A single killing stroke."

"Well, we are all for the fire now," Verana said, slumping. "We have already had two riders from the south denouncing Alexander's _dastard act_ as they put it. The tower just reported a third rider hastening to the bridges from the east. If Golias moves against us, they will not stop him." He snorted. "By the gods, they would likely aid him."

Verana toyed with his stylus.

"They put out to sea in the ship meant for the Princess Sylpha's dowry gift. A fast vessel, but it could not go far from land." He sighed. "Send out seekers. I want them found and brought to me, in bound if necessary, but _alive_ at all costs!"

Pantif saluted smartly. "As the Lord Councilor commands."

* * *

Day 2

Sylpha stood on the heights, gazing down at the temple of Bana. On the morrow she would stand there beneath its shaded arcades and glittering domes and say her vows before the gods and men. Ise, the great city, stretched before her, a tangle of stone baking in the sun. Dry wind swept off from the desert, capturing her tears, carrying them down, down, until they dashed into the salt spray of the sea.

The island city had never fallen to an invader, it was said, although many had met the implacable defense of the sea and failed. Once, in the days of legend beyond living memory, a great captain had set foot on the island, only to be thwarted by ancient walls of stone.

Across the blue gulf Sylpha could see Small Ise, a cluster of clay huts jammed around the bridges like mushrooms clustering at the roots of a Terebinth tree. She had hunted beneath such trees, plucking up pungent treasures, crowing her success over her brother and their cousins.

When Sylpha was a small girl, one of the bridges of Ise had burned. Her father had made an immense gift of lumber to the Lords Council of Ise, and they all went to see the new bridge built. She remembered the giant cables being strung across the water, each one anchored to three great pillars of stone. She remembered a carpenter falling to his death from the ropes as the great timbers were fitted. She could not hear his voice, but his waving arms were black shadows on remembered sunlight.

It had been a long time since the bridges of Ise were hewn through in war, but Sylpha looked at them and felt their weight. Tomorrow her own cables would be cut, the bridges of her heart tumbling into the black abyss. Tomorrow she would be a queen of the desert, eating in tents and tending a palace of carpets, and the only green she would see would be the emeralds at her throat and scrub palms in the sand.

A footstep sounded behind her, and she turned. Alexander stood there, booted and dusty, black hair windswept. He saw her tears, but gave no sign beyond a gentle smile.

"The sun sets on the water," he said softly. "Tomorrow it will dawn on a new age."

"Yes," said Sylpha thickly, wiping her face on her sleeve. It was not a noble gesture; best indulge herself while she could. "I hope that it will be an age of happiness for my people."

"But not for you," he said, with a sigh. "I know you. You will miss your trees and your water." He moved closer and rested an arm on her shoulders. Sylpha leaned her head against his, familiar and comforting.

"Perhaps it will not be so bad. You will enjoy being a desert queen, maybe," Alexander said quietly. "Look there." He pointed out over the city at North Harbor. "It was meant for a surprise; a dowry gift from my father."

Sylpha followed his arm and saw a ship, low and sleek, glowing gold in the sun's last rays.

"She's a fast little thing," Alexander continued. "Built after the eastern pattern. A sail to push her in the wind, and fifty slaves to driver her in the calm. She has a wide draft and a deep keel. You could even take her out of sight of land, I wager."

He smiled down at her. "She is named _Carida_. It means "freedom" in the tongue of the east. Let your heart rest easy, Sylpha. You will see your trees again, whenever you wish it. And even eat your revolting fungus."

Sylpha laughed aloud and hugged him. "You know me as well as I know myself. This is not your father's doing Alex, that is plain, and I have no words to thank you for it."

"Well, now, that is enough." Alexander said. "My secret is out, but let it remain between the two of us. Prince Arcanus - hm, well, I would not want him to take it amiss that his queen-to-be has got a wave-runner and fifty slaves from Captain Alexander - even though Captain Alexander is half again her age and betrothed to battle - while Arcanus himself gets only an eastern-made sword." He looked amused. "Although, it is a particularly fine sword. Worth at least ten slaves and a fisherman's row-boat."

"Well," he said, squeezing her arm as she laughed again. "I must leave you now. Prince Arcanus is giving a great banquet in honor of his forthcoming union. I must attend to represent my father, as he has no taste for drunkenness and naked slave girls."

"Ah, but you do?" she called after him, as he moved away. He turned and gave her a look, then spat on the ground before striding away, dust curling around his boots.

* * *

As darkness fell, Sylpha descended from the heights to pray. Not in the great Temple of Bana where she would tomorrow wed, but in a small shrine to Ai quietly hidden in the south wing of the Grand Palace. She bathed herself in the shrine's private pool, then left her prayer and offering on the altar.

The halls of the Grand Palace were empty as she made her way back towards her chambers. Desiring solitude, she had sent her handmaids away, but now she had solitude in truth. The Grand Palace seemed deserted; even the guards were away drinking the health of Prince Arcanus it seemed.

Twice Sylpha heard a stealthy footfall behind her and turned to find nothing there. Once a shadow flickered in the side of her eye, and she stared but saw nothing. She began to hurry, running the last few steps and catapulting herself at her door, heart fluttering. Strong hands gripped her arms, bringing her up short, one going to her mouth to cut off her scream of surprise.

"Hush Sylpha! You are safe!"

"Tam!" she cried, prying his hand away from her face. "What are you _doing?_"

"I have come for you! I could not live knowing you were at the mercy of that barbarian Arcanus!"

"Tam, you are a fool! You must leave here at once!"

"No! I will not go without you! I cannot live without you! Have you forgotten . . ."

He broke off, blood pouring from his mouth. Sylpha stumbled backwards, staring with shock at the arrow sprouting from Tam's throat.

"There! It is she!" A band of warriors was rushing towards her down the far hallway, the sword and ship standard of Ise gleaming on their armor. The archer was already fitting another shaft to his short bow.

Sylpha dove through her door, desperately baring it behind her. She leaned backwards against it, shuddering, then screamed again. Tarna lay slumped in a bloody heap, throat slashed. A few yards away, lay Sylpha's other handmaids, Sana and Thesa. Sana was still alive, breath gurgling as she tried to speak.

Suddenly Alexander was there, grabbing Sylpha's arm, tugging her away. He was drenched in gore.

"I have just killed three of my own men with a wine cup," he said roughly. She saw the polished stone vessel, still gripped in his right fist. "Quickly, this way, out the side passage." He tugged her hand, and she followed blankly. "We must get to the Carida. The Grand Palace is a hornet's nest of death. Arcanus' men are fighting in the streets. And my own men . . ." his face was dark. "What price did it take to turn them against you?"

The passage spiraled down through the rock and the dark. Alexander led the way, gripping her hand, running almost, with no torch to light the way. Sylpha hiccupped and sobbed, but did not draw away. This was his city; he would keep her safe.

Her own men were lined along the quay awaiting them. Conrad, her father's lieutenant, pushed forward as she and Alexander emerged.

"Princess Sylpha!" he cried. "Are you well? We aimed to cut our way to you, but Captain Alexander warned us . . ."

"We have no time," Alexander cut him off. "The princess is unharmed, and likely to remain so if we make for sea at once."

"At once," agreed Conrad, snapping his sword to salute. Sylpha hurried across the gangway, her father's men pressed near around her, Alexander coming close behind with watchful eyes. The driving drum began as Bulere, the Master of Slaves, beat out the rowing tattoo. Carida creaked and pulled away from the harbor, speeding into darkness.

* * *

"Twelve of my best men!" Arcanus ranted. "And I barely escaping with my life. What is he playing at, that whore-son Alexander? Does he think Tarwin will stand for this insult? Does he think _I_ will stand for it?"

Golias leaned back on his cushions and surveyed his son over his fingertips.

"The people of Toxa have long been friends with Ise, my son. Tarwin will not willingly march against Alexander."

"Even so?" demanded Arcanus.

"Even so. The fleets of Ise rule the sea. It is impossible to land an invasion through their blockade."

Captain Occanse shifted in his place to Golias' left.

"Further," Occanse said, "we cannot move against Ise or Toxa without risking that those fleets bring invasion to our own lands."

"Further? Risk?" roared Arcanus. "What manless chatter is this? Alexander has stolen my bride! Would you have me stomach this insult to my house, this grand . . ."

"Do you wish her returned to you?" Golias asked quietly, cutting through Arcanus' shouting.

"Yes!"

"Then you must do as I say. A campaign against the united might of Toxa and Ise is not to be undertaken lightly, or in the heat of anger."

Arcanus flung himself down. "Very well then. I will listen."

Golias spread a parchment map on the rug before them, tracing the coastline with his finger, marking cities as he went.

"The coastal cities must fall by land," he said. "Qurat and Mora first, then Ise. Without safe harbor, surely the fleets must starve. And what good are ships at sea against an army camped at your door?"

Occanse stared at him. "You intend to take Ise? The unconquered isle? The city of stone?"

"Yes, Ise, even Ise, the great city of many quaint names." Golias speared Occanse with a glance. "Do not doubt me, Occanse. I will take the field myself. Together we will crush this barknut."

"What of me?" demanded Arcanus. "This is my war!"

Golias smiled. "Yes. Your war. When Qurat falls, I will need a garrison there. When Mora falls, I will need a garrison there. When I reach Ise, my forces will have suffered losses. You must bring me a new force. We will convene at the island, and . . ." Golias held out his hand, palm up, then clenched it into a fist. "You have eight months to raise and train your men. By then I will have taken Qurat and Mora, and Ise will be ripe for plucking."

Arcanus rose and saluted his father. "As you command, so shall it be!" He turned on his heel and strode from the tent.

Occanse regarded Golias with consideration.

"If the coastal cities fall, what lies between us and Toxa?"

Golias smiled thinly.

"Nothing. I mean to take the whole of the south. I will rule the Empire of the West in truth, then. Go see to the captains, Occanse. When the fleets of Ise surrender, not all of them will heed the call of our coin. We will need to train men to drive our new ships."

* * *

Sappunk

Thomas surveyed the bar with distaste. It was a punk bar, a refuge for rebelious kids to celebrate their utter rejection of conformity by conforming to the nonconformist expectations of their peers. Still, he was thirsty. He went inside.

The interior of the bar was, if possible, even more revolting than the exterior. Kids with glowsticks slow-dancing to elevator music under the glittering rainbow shards of a disco-ball. A haze of burnt coffee and spearmint chewing-gum. Thomas ran a hand along the polished styrofoam counter.

"Wacanigecha?" asked the (waitress? barmaid? - her hair was pink) around a wad of bubblegum. She had pushed herself through a shiny turquoise tube-top. A name-tag shaped like a sea-otter devouring the name "Chique" was tatooed somewhere in the vicinity of her left colarbone.

Thomas looked her straight in the eye.

"Water."

"Oooh." Chique stared at him. "Let me check our stock." She ripped up a long section of the bar and dove down inside, her torso disappearing into dry-ice vapor as she rumaged. A second later she emerged.

"Ah! Hereyago!"

It was a big bottle, clean and clear, with a blinking red "PLASTIPURE" label. Thomas ran his tongue around his dry mouth at the sight of its condensing sides. He slapped down a seventeen-dollar bill and a few coins, then twisted the cap off and drank.

Chique watched him, eyes getting bigger and bigger.

"Wow!" she said. "What's your name?"

"Thomas," said Thomas, dribbling around the bottle's plastic lip.

"Hey!" said a forcefull new voice. "What do you think you're doing, con?"

"Having a drink, friend. What's it to you?"

"Hey, now, be nice, Josh! This is Josh," she explained. "He's my boyfriend. Josh, this is Thomas." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "He drinks *water!*"

Josh's face suffused with yellow. "You . . . you . . . I'm gonna . . ."

He swung at Thomas, a straight punch right at the gut. Thomas snatched up a handy pool cue and brushed Josh's punch away just in the Nick of time. Chique's eyes got wider and wider as Thomas used the two-ounce shaft of wood to beat the crap out of her boyfriend for no reason at all.

"That's amazing," she goggled! "It's like some kind of Asian thing!"

"It's Tae Kune Chi!" Thomas announced proudly. "It's a Filippino style! I invented it myself!"

"Yay!" Chique enthused. "I'm Selene! Will you go out wiht me?"

* * *

28 Days

It has been observed under laboratory conditions that complete sleep deprivation in rats leads to death in twenty-eight days.

* * *

Not dark; utter blackness. Gitana looks and the lights behind her eyelids disappear into the void.

_The power must have gone out._

Cold tile, ceramic, smooth under fingertips.

_The bathroom. Why am I sleeping the bathroom?_

Gitana shifts, lifting her hands to rub the sleep from her face - but they will not move. Something restrains them behind her back.

Then the fear comes.

_My hands are fastened together. What has happened?_

Gitana struggles wildly to her feet, banging her knees on the hard floor, pain signals racing into her brain.

_OK. Think this through. The power is out. You're in the bathroom. Your hands are bound. Maybe you were drugged. There must be someone in your apartment._

The light springs on, blinding, white. Gitana cringes away, clenching her eyes against its harshness. She blinks them open again and reels.

Shock.

Confusion.

Terror.

She is suspended in a column of crystal and light; Slabs of glass, maybe three times her height, sketch the boundaries of an empty universe - a square universe paved with square-inch bits of bone-white ceramic.

Gitana presses her face against the glass, staring, searching for information from outside, but there is nothing - only a glistening black floor fading away into grey emptiness. It could be concrete, but it is hard for Gitana to focus. There are no lights beyond the boundaries of the universe, and the suns above her are distractingly, achingly bright. She looks up at them. There are four lights, evenly spaced around the corners of her ceiling, shining down on her like spotlights through clear round portholes. Gitana looks down at herself. She is still she, wearing her usual baggy sweat-pants and T-shirt.

Then the voice speaks.

"Good morning. What is your name?"

It seems to come from the greyness beyond, a friendly masculine voice.

"Hello?" she says, shaking.

"Hello," says the voice. "What is your name?"

"Where am I?" Gitana demands in a stronger tone.

"You have asked that twice," the voice says. "Is the answer to that question important to you?"

Gitana stops dead in confusion. "What? Of course it's important to me! Answer me! Where am I?"

"But you haven't answered my question yet," the voice says reasonably. "What is your name?"

"If I tell you my name, will you tell me where I am?" Gitana asks cautiously.

"Yes."

"OK. My name is Gitana."

"Thank you. I am pleased to meet you, Gitana."

"Now will you tell me where I am?"

"You are in a room approximately five meters square enclosed by double-layered glass walls, the interstices of which are slowly filling with water. As the outer enclosure is exactly five centimeters taller than the inner enclosure, an inwards overflow will occur when the interstitial capacity is exceeded. Naturally, this will take some time; But, eventually, you will drown."

Dead silence follows this announcement. The voice seems to have nothing else to say, and Gitana is unable to speak. She stares around the glass walls of her cage. There is indeed a layer of water on all four sides, about six inches deep. A rainbow-colored fish is swimming there, trapped just as she is, suspended in an invisible, life-sustaining prison. Gitana stares at it, fighting down the hysterical laughter clawing its way up her throat.

* * *

Gitana spends a lot of time watching the water. She has no exact meter with which to measure its progress, but she tries counting - silently, after the voice asked her what she was doing the first time - and measuring by stacking her feet. It seems to be climbing the sides of her cage at a rate of about six inches a day. At least, it has risen slightly higher than the length of one of her feet when the voice says "Good Morning, Gitana" for the third time. It is really moving too slowly to follow without counting for a long time, and Gitana keeps losing track. But, it is filling quickly enough that she is aware of its progress.

She does not sleep. Dull exhaustion bites the back of her eyes, but sleep does not come, even when she throws herself to the floor in a limp heap. Her mind continues to race, brain endlessly looping golden threads of thought. The back of her head begins to ache. She does not try again.

* * *

On the eighth day, Gitana tries to kill the fish. It swims by, eyeing her complacently, its rainbow scales shimmering.

"You're not free!" Gitana screams. "You're not happy! Stop looking happy! Stop looking at me!"

She throws herself at the glass, kicking it. The glass is strong; Gitana falls to the floor. She jumps up again, hurls herself head-first at the fish. There is a flash, black pain.

When Gitana awakens again, things are different. By craning her neck and twisting hard she sees that a long cable runs from her bound wrists and disappears into the center of her four lights. She can no longer reach the walls. Then she notices that her clothing has disappeared. For the first time Gitana cries. She stares down at her fallen tears, random patterns of water molecules dancing on white ceramic. She knows that they will be joined by many more like them. Not soon, but inevitably.

"That was a bad thing, Gitana," says the voice. "You must not try to kill yourself."

"The fish . . . " Gitana, mumbles.

"Yourself _or_ the fish," the voice amends. "Now you must be punished."

The tether joining her hands to the ceiling begins to shorten, drawing her wrists up tight, bending her double until her head is near the level of her knees. The pain begins in her shoulders and spreads, a red haze consuming her neck, her head, her back. Soon there is nothing else.

* * *

Gitana walks in circles, aimlessly testing the reach of her tether.

"Good morning, Amy," says the voice.

She stops. "What?"

"Good morning, Amy," the voice repeats.

This is unexpected. She feels something huge and black welling up in her chest until it bursts.

"I am Gitana! You can put me here! You can tie me up without food or sleep or water," - her laugh is high, almost a shriek - "too much water! But not my name! _I know who I am!_"

The voice is silent. Then:

"Rebellion must be punished, Amy."

She grits her teeth as the tether shortens itself. But this time the pain is sharp, instant, the hot slicing pain of a whip. She jerks, twisting around, trying to see behind her, but there is nothing. The whip hits her again. She bites off a sob halfway through.

Again. Gitana!

Again. Gitana!

Again.

Screaming . . .

* * *

"Good morning, Bianca."

"Why?" she screams into the void, sobbing. "Why do you hate me?"

The voice answers, affable as ever. "Hate you, Bianca? I don't hate you. Hate requires a certain regard, a high degree of antisocial esteem. I don't hate you. You are a project. A mere toy, one of many. Your success or failure may mean a great deal to you, but it makes no difference to me."

She no longer looks at the water - instead she tries to count the number of tiles on the floor. Her leash makes it difficult to count the tiles under her feet without losing track as she moves. Several times she forgets which identical wall she began with and must start over. Once she managed to complete the entire floor, but she thinks that there should be around thirty thousand tiles there, and she only made it to just over seventeen thousand. Despairing, she begins again.

* * *

"Good morning, Oriana."

Oriana stops pacing and looks up. "Good morning, voice," she says.

The voice is silent for a few seconds. Maybe it's surprised.

"How are you today, Oriana?"

"I . . . um . . . I'm enjoying the beautiful weather," Oriana replies.

The voice is silent again. Then:

"Tell me your name."

"My name is . . . My name is whatever you want it to be."

"Say it for me, Oriana. Tell me your name."

"My name is Oriana!" Oriana screams.

"Very good," says the voice.

Oriana's leash begins to tighten, bending her face towards the floor.

"No," she sobs. "No, no. I said my name, why are you punishing me? Please, no!"

But there is no pain, only a soft caress moving up, up . . .

Oriana's eyes open wide.

* * *

"Good mor . . ."

"Good morning, voice," she screams, interrupting. The words stumble in her haste to speak them. "Please, can I be Oriana again today? I . . . I liked being Oriana."

"Good morning, Pia," says the voice.

Pia's stomach twists, a grimy dishcloth wringing itself out. She can't curl into a ball, but she gets as close as she can, her face constricted. Her feet are submerged to the ankles in water, but she does not notice.

* * *

Zigana - she knows that is her name, although it has been a long time since she has heard the voice - drinks the water. She hopes that if she drinks fast enough she can keep it from rising. She remembers trying to catch the fish in her teeth and eat it. She does not see it any more, so maybe she succeeded. The water rises. She swallows, tilts her head up to breathe, drinks more.

Finally she tilts her head up to breathe and finds no air, only more water. It is filling her nose, her eyes, rushing into her body. Zigana knows that she is not worth the effort anyway. She relaxes, lets the water have its way with her. The greyness that surrounds her universe shrinks, closing in around her like a cocoon, or perhaps a womb. The walls of her prison dissolve as she takes another breath of water. Water! She can breathe water! Maybe it was a magic fish!

An amazing glowing pain gathers at the base of her skull and bursts.

Stuff that I know

1 . Arena is a massively-multiplayer combat game that takes place in a fully-realized virtual environment.

2. Hardcore (professional) Arena Warriors jack directly into the game by means of a brain-stem socket. This intercepts normal sensory perception, blocking it out with input from the game. In other words, if you jack into the game, you feel just like you're there - all 5 senses receive direct input into the brain.

3. Casual players wear a headset that "ghosts" the sensations of the game over their existing sensations. In other words, when playing with a headset you need to close your eyes, or you'll see double, and you'll still be aware of your surroundings (feel your chair, hear local ambient noise) underneath the ethereal suggestion of the experience that hardcore players actually feel.

4. Professional Arena Warriors are like sports stars. Arena matches show on flat screens all over, and there are lots of spectators in game, and so on. Most Pro Arena Warriors keep their real-world identities secret, even if their Arena Analogues are hugely popular, to avoid groupies and so on. Some of them welcome the attention, though.

5. Professional Arena Warriors are not the only Hardcore Arena Warriors. The brain-stem socket technology is expensive, but not exclusive. Anyone with enough money can participate in the fully realized-virtual game experience, although only the Pro Arena Matches get the big media attention - with the exception of a few underground / indie organizations.

6. Some Hardcore Arena Warriors make it a point of personal pride to stay jacked-in to the maximum amount possible. As such - since they are entirely disconnected from the real world while jacked-in - a whole sub-industry of Caretakers has arisen... people who empty excrement tanks, make sure that IVs are always full, etc.

7. Lexy Coleman is a Pro Arena Warrior corresponding to the analogue identity Caimili (Chigh-MEE-lee). She chews gum, has green-streaked hair, is a hacker, and a raver. She is one of the celeb Warriors that hide their identities. Unlike a lot of celeb gamers, she maintains her real-world health, and her caretaker's job is mainly to hit the panic-button in case Lexy needs to emergency disconnect. Lexy's dad was a rent-a-cop. Lexy has money now, due to her success as an Arena Warrior. To finance her initial Arena Warrior run, she had to do some illegal hacking of some sort, becuase her dad was obviously not rich. Anyway, now Lexy lives in an old nuclear submarine (the reactor has been removed) that is buried underground in some eccentric location, like southern CA.

8. An EVIL CORPORATION is messing around with using realized VR for R&D (weapons R&D, obviously). They will hook up a bunch of predictive AIs and a crapload of nifty technobabble memory to represent a real world R&D environment to an nth-degree of precision, then plug a bunch of scientists into it to research there. The advantage is that the VR R&D environment can be OVERCLOCKED to like 10x or 100x. A team of reserachers plugged in could do 10 or 100 years worth of research in 1 year!

9. This scheme has all kinds of potential pitfalls. First of all, there's the problem of getting a human brain to keep up with a 10x or 100x clocked VR network. This would undoubtedly involve all sorts of drugs, medical maintainance schemes, and so on. Then there's the psychological problem of your mind aging at 10 or 100 times the rate of your body. Also, on a slightly tangential note, once people can make *realistic* VR environments and run them at super-fast speeds, pretty much everyone is going to want to plug in and achieve, effectively, immortality. This sets up a potential sequal (or at least the opportunity for characters to ruminate about future consequences of their actions) in which the entire population of the Earth has become a society in which one is jacked in 24 / 7, where jacking out has the effect of decreasing your *experiential lifetime* by huge factors. It also brings up interesting questions of reproduction, life support, and military action.

10. EVIL CORPORATION wants to use hardcore arena gamers as test subjects for working out the kinks in their prototype. This is because: Hardcore gamers already have lots of experience being jacked in for extended periods; Harcore gamers have minds that are already highly developed for quick responses to virtual inputs - in other words, they're more likely to be able to cope with an accelerated VR network than an R&D flak who was just fitted with a stem-socket yesterday.

11. Lexy's friend (someone) with the analogue identity (something) is EVIL CORPORATION'S first "victim." He tells her he can't make their next match, then disappears off the Arena. Lexy obviously goes looking for him in the real world - no mean feat since she doesn't know who he actually is. But she has some clues, and her 1337 H@XX0R sk111z. She goes after him becuase she likes him, of course, but also because he has her (set of armor / BFG / misc super-duper in-game item) that he borrowed that she needs for an important match. (W00T! Thanks Andy!)

12. I think that is all for now.