Massively Multiplayer Read Online Free
Author: P. Aaron Potter
yawned and stretched. “No, thanks. I’m going to sleep. I’ve been in since after dinner, and my eyes are steaming.” She raised an eyebrow. “You want to tell me what’s actually bothering you?”
“No,” he lied.
“Mom and Dad been bothering you about a summer job again?”
“No,” he lied again.
Sara shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She tossed the VR rig onto the virlo and made for her bed. “I wouldn’t worry too much about them, though,” she added over her shoulder. “I think they just like to feel useful, and that makes them panicky.” She lay down on the bed, not bothering with the covers. She waved a hand and the lights dimmed.
“Useful?” Andrew prompted. He could have come up with plenty of other terms to describe his parents’ manner.
Sara’s voice was already fuzzy with sleep. “You know: not too afraid of doing the wrong thing, but always afraid you’re not doing enough of the right thing.”
Andrew took a second to work that out, and failed. He thought about asking for clarification, but realized she was already asleep. He shut the door quietly. It was not until he got back to his room that he wondered whether her final comment had been directed more at him than his parents.
Thinking of the incidents in the sea-trolls’ caves brought a new wave of chagrin as he pulled off his clothing and settled into his bed. Was Wisefellow -- Gregor -- right? Was it ambition that had driven him to attempt to free the slaves earlier? Was it ambition that had caused him, too often, to veer from the plans so carefully concocted before every undertaking? If so then ambition was not what it was cracked up to be, certainly not the panacea so universally urged by his parents.
His "ambition" certainly hadn't led to the successes enjoyed by some of his peers, people like Gil and Mim, and the others who lacked whatever character flaw seemed to grab him at those crucial instants, to drive him from the prescribed path to victory and into some new, and disastrous, trajectory.
No, he decided as the lights dimmed automatically, Gregor was wrong. It could not be ambition which lay at the heart of his impulsiveness. Or else he did have the ambition his parents craved for him, but only in the world of the game, where it did no good. A stupid irony, if true, because after all, the game was just that. Success or failure there mattered very little. It was a world of complicated plans with unimportant outcomes -- of actions without consequences. Nothing mattered there. That was what made it so easy. And maybe that perception was the root of "ambition" after all.
Two deep thoughts in one evening. “A new record,” he thought wryly. One more moment of introspection would be enough to turn him to poetry, like his father. Or perhaps just enough to drive him to sleep. Andrew fell into a deep slumber, and dreamed of a slave with his sister's eyes. But when he awoke, he did not remember his dreams, or think much of them. So much for poetry.
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The words floated above the desk, their greenish glow the only light in the room. They illuminated a pair of hands, long-fingered and spidery, which hovered over an ancient-looking keyboard. The fingers tapped, tapped, bounced into the air to snatch a square of light from the holographic display, and tapped again at the keys. New windows of light flared briefly into existence, were closely scrutinized, and shuffled into glowing piles. Occasionally there were grunts of satisfaction or discovery, but mostly there was the rapid-fire clacking of the keys, the sound of someone working very intently.
The fingers paused briefly. In the air over the desktop, a small window played out a video clip.
“Expand window five,” whispered the owner of the tapping hands.
Obligingly, the clip blew itself up to several inches across, enough to make out a dimly lit cavern where a tiny figure raised a
“No,” he lied.
“Mom and Dad been bothering you about a summer job again?”
“No,” he lied again.
Sara shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She tossed the VR rig onto the virlo and made for her bed. “I wouldn’t worry too much about them, though,” she added over her shoulder. “I think they just like to feel useful, and that makes them panicky.” She lay down on the bed, not bothering with the covers. She waved a hand and the lights dimmed.
“Useful?” Andrew prompted. He could have come up with plenty of other terms to describe his parents’ manner.
Sara’s voice was already fuzzy with sleep. “You know: not too afraid of doing the wrong thing, but always afraid you’re not doing enough of the right thing.”
Andrew took a second to work that out, and failed. He thought about asking for clarification, but realized she was already asleep. He shut the door quietly. It was not until he got back to his room that he wondered whether her final comment had been directed more at him than his parents.
Thinking of the incidents in the sea-trolls’ caves brought a new wave of chagrin as he pulled off his clothing and settled into his bed. Was Wisefellow -- Gregor -- right? Was it ambition that had driven him to attempt to free the slaves earlier? Was it ambition that had caused him, too often, to veer from the plans so carefully concocted before every undertaking? If so then ambition was not what it was cracked up to be, certainly not the panacea so universally urged by his parents.
His "ambition" certainly hadn't led to the successes enjoyed by some of his peers, people like Gil and Mim, and the others who lacked whatever character flaw seemed to grab him at those crucial instants, to drive him from the prescribed path to victory and into some new, and disastrous, trajectory.
No, he decided as the lights dimmed automatically, Gregor was wrong. It could not be ambition which lay at the heart of his impulsiveness. Or else he did have the ambition his parents craved for him, but only in the world of the game, where it did no good. A stupid irony, if true, because after all, the game was just that. Success or failure there mattered very little. It was a world of complicated plans with unimportant outcomes -- of actions without consequences. Nothing mattered there. That was what made it so easy. And maybe that perception was the root of "ambition" after all.
Two deep thoughts in one evening. “A new record,” he thought wryly. One more moment of introspection would be enough to turn him to poetry, like his father. Or perhaps just enough to drive him to sleep. Andrew fell into a deep slumber, and dreamed of a slave with his sister's eyes. But when he awoke, he did not remember his dreams, or think much of them. So much for poetry.
File Capture Complete
Organizing data...100%
Filtering...100%
KeyFiles ready for review
The words floated above the desk, their greenish glow the only light in the room. They illuminated a pair of hands, long-fingered and spidery, which hovered over an ancient-looking keyboard. The fingers tapped, tapped, bounced into the air to snatch a square of light from the holographic display, and tapped again at the keys. New windows of light flared briefly into existence, were closely scrutinized, and shuffled into glowing piles. Occasionally there were grunts of satisfaction or discovery, but mostly there was the rapid-fire clacking of the keys, the sound of someone working very intently.
The fingers paused briefly. In the air over the desktop, a small window played out a video clip.
“Expand window five,” whispered the owner of the tapping hands.
Obligingly, the clip blew itself up to several inches across, enough to make out a dimly lit cavern where a tiny figure raised a
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