Zendegi

Javeed beamed at him. ‘That was fantastic! I want to do it again!’

Some of the children around them were already disappearing, literally fading into transparency as they departed. Martin said, ‘Not today.’

‘But we can come back tomorrow?’

‘Not tomorrow.’

‘We have to come back!’ Javeed was horrified, as if Martin had shown him this glimpse of paradise only to slam the gates shut.

‘Don’t get upset, I didn’t say never.’

‘When?’

‘Soon.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know exactly. Give me time to think about it.’

They headed back towards the dome. Martin knew they didn’t need to return the way they’d come in order to exit from the game, but he was reluctant to yank them out of the experience abruptly.

As they walked across the grass, he spotted a man and a boy walking a few metres away to their left; the man raised a hand and called out in English, ‘Hi! How’s it going?’

‘Hi.’ Martin stopped and waited for them to approach. ‘I was beginning to think I was the only adult here.’

‘Me too.’ The man’s icon had blue eyes and brown hair; he sounded like a native English speaker, but Martin couldn’t place his accent.

‘I’m Martin, this is my son Javeed. This is our first time in Zendegi.’

The man said, ‘I’m Luke. This is Hassan.’

Martin didn’t offer his hand; maybe when he’d had more experience with the gloves the subtleties of the process wouldn’t seem too daunting for a casual gesture. He turned to the boy. ‘Salaam, Hassan. Chetori?’

‘Salaam agha,’ Hassan replied shyly.

‘Zendegi is great,’ Luke said, ‘but we’re always famished afterwards.’

‘Yeah, you can’t fault it for a lack of exercise,’ Martin replied.

‘What you need is a snack that’s nutritious,’ Luke enthused, ‘and fun to eat!’

Martin stared at him. What were the odds that another man with a Western name and an Iranian son would be playing the same game at the same time? ‘You’re not actually a person, are you?’ he said.

Luke gazed back with a frozen smile, betraying no hint of offence. ‘I used to think that kebab-o-licious goodness could only come in a real kebab-’

Martin pointed his thumb to the ground, and found himself back in his castle. He flipped up the goggles’ screens and saw the sphere opening up around him. Within seconds he could see Javeed for real.

‘You okay?’

Javeed nodded, but said nothing. His posture had a hint of reserve that Martin knew was his punishment for failing to set a firm date for their return.

Martin left the gloves and goggles on the counter beside the desktop and they went downstairs. Omar was dealing with a customer, but Farshid was free and Javeed immediately began bombarding him with every detail of their experience. Martin stood and listened, feeling flat and a little disoriented; it was like coming out of a movie into daylight, or stepping off a plane from somewhere bright and exotic to face the same old mundane sights again.

Omar joined them. ‘What did you think?’

‘It was good.’ Martin gave him a shorter version than Javeed’s, which was still in progress. ‘I guess when you pay for it, you don’t have to put up with the walking advertisements?’

‘Yeah. You can get a discount if you let them bug you, but it’s your choice.’

Martin laughed. ‘That’s a relief. It will be good to go back and be certain that everyone around us is real.’

Omar’s smile became equivocal.

Martin said, ‘What? Why can’t I be sure of that?’

‘It’s not just ads,’ Omar explained. ‘They put in Proxies for fun as well. With some of the games there aren’t enough real people playing, so they need to make up the numbers to keep it from getting boring. Or sometimes there are characters nobody wants to be – roles that are needed, but aren’t very interesting.’

‘Okay.’ It made sense that some role-playing games would be padded out with grunts and cannon fodder, but Martin had never imagined that half the exuberant children splashing water onto stone in the labyrinth’s courtyard could have been the same: software extras inserted to bolster the mood. ‘Won’t that get confusing, though? What if Javeed thinks he’s making a new friend?’

Omar shook his head impatiently. ‘You can always get Zendegi to tag the Proxies if you want to. But why spoil the fun? Maybe Javeed will play football in a stadium with twenty thousand people watching. Maybe you and twenty others will be real. Does he need to know which ones? When you take him to a movie, do you sit there pointing out which characters are real human extras and which ones are CGI?’

‘Hmm.’ Martin could see the logic of it, but he still wasn’t entirely happy.

Javeed had reached his third iteration of refinements and corrections in his story to Farshid. Martin put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Bas, pesaram. Say thanks to Uncle Omar, then come and help me make lunch.’