Ready Player One - Ernest Cline [85]
Finally, after it felt like we’d been crawling along the highway for months, the Columbus skyline appeared on the horizon, glittering like Oz at the end of the yellow brick road. We arrived around sunset, and already there were more electric lights burning in the city than I’d ever seen at one time. I’d read that giant solar arrays were positioned throughout the city, along with two heliostat power plants on its outskirts. They drank in the sun’s power all day, stored it, and fed it back out each night.
As we pulled into the Columbus bus terminal, my OASIS connection cut out. As I pulled off my visor and filed off the bus with the other passengers, the reality of my situation finally began to hit home. I was now a fugitive, living under an assumed name. Powerful people were out looking for me. People who wanted me dead.
As I stepped off the bus, I suddenly felt as though a heavy weight were resting on my chest. I was having a hard time breathing. Maybe I was having a panic attack. I forced myself to take deep breaths and tried to calm down. All I had to do was to get to my new apartment, set up my rig, and log back into the OASIS. Then everything would be all right. I would be back in familiar surroundings. I would be safe.
I hailed an autocab and entered my new address on the touchscreen. The synthesized voice of the cab’s computer told me the drive would take an estimated thirty-two minutes with the current traffic conditions. During the ride, I stared out the window at the dark city streets. I still felt light-headed and anxious. I kept glancing at the meter to see how much farther we had to go. Finally, the cab pulled up in front of my new apartment building, a slate-gray monolith on the banks of the Scioto, just at the edge of the Twin Rivers ghetto. I noticed a discolored outline on the building’s façade where the Hilton logo used to be, back when the place had been a hotel.
I thumbed my fare and climbed out of the cab. Then I took one last look around, inhaled one final breath of fresh air, and carried my bag through the front door and into the lobby. When I stepped inside the security checkpoint cage, my fingerprints and retinal patterns were scanned, and my new name flashed on the monitor. A green light lit up and the cage door slid open, allowing me to continue on to the elevators.
My apartment was on the forty-second floor, number 4211. The security lock mounted outside required another retinal scan. Then the door slid open and the interior lights switched on. There was no furniture in the cube-shaped room, and only one window. I stepped inside, closed the door, and locked it behind me. Then I made a silent vow not to go outside again until I had completed my quest. I would abandon the real world altogether until I found the egg.
I’m not crazy about reality, but it’s still the only place to get a decent meal.
—Groucho Marx
Art3mis: You there?
Parzival: Yes! Hey! I can’t believe you finally responded to one of my chat requests.
Art3mis: Only to ask you to cut it out. It’s a bad idea for us to start chatting.
Parzival: Why? I thought we were friends.
Art3mis: You seem like a great guy. But we’re competitors. Rival gunters. Sworn enemies. You know the drill.
Parzival: We don’t have to talk about anything related to the Hunt.…
Art3mis: Everything is related to the Hunt.
Parzival: Come on. At least give it at shot. Let’s start over. Hi, Art3mis! How have you been?
Art3mis: Fine. Thanks for asking. You?
Parzival: Outstanding. Listen, why are we using this ancient text-only chat interface? I can host a virtual chat room for us.
Art3mis: I prefer this.
Parzival: Why?
Art3mis: As you may recall, I tend to ramble in real time. When I have to type out everything I want to say, I come off as less of a flibbertigibbet.
Parzival: I don’t think you’re a flibbertigibbet. You’re enchanting.
Art3mis: Did