The Fief of Joy

Heading northeast. Cass begins at a light jog to warm up, then shifts to long, tireless strides. The endurance run becomes a sprint. She controls her breathing. She has the metabolism of a jaguar. Each stride is so powerful it leaves an imprint in the digital path, which then gently fills itself in. Every step turns into an animal-like leap.

In the distance, she sees other hamlets, whose flagpoles bear banners. She notices troops of soldiers posted at road junctions: proud Spartans, weary English archers, knights with lances pointed at the ground. They watch impassively as Cass speeds past: they are AIs. Signs indicate the Fief of Joy; she must pass through a city made up of square adobe houses in ochre, vastly larger than her own hamlet. There is a zoo here, home to great two-headed giraffes and a large red nirgal with a predatory grin, a forge whose furnaces blaze like suns crushed to earth, a temple where priests and insect-headed oracles wander, a broad dark onyx avenue where, in shadowy houses, the eyes of merchant AIs gleam—AIs capable of finding anything—and also a great Guild of Explorers, a towering university crowned with a promontory bristling with pennants and telescopes.

She stops in front of the guild and intercepts a young apprentice, who falls backward in surprise, scattering scrolls across the steps. The girl blushes and hastily tries to gather them, one of them rolling to Cass's feet. Cass asks where the Fief of Joy is, and the apprentice stammers. Cass squints: it's an AI. What a strange interaction.

— "What do you want from me, AI?"

— "Uh, my name's Camille. I'm always nervous meeting players…"

— "The Fief of Joy. Answer."

— "Uh, that way…" she hesitates again, tangled in the wide sleeves of her tunic. She points north. "Tell me," she continues, "are you free this evening? I don't have much money, but I could cook for you and…"

Mmm… right. So it's possible to have little adventures with AI entities. Everything is made to serve the player…

And then, straddling a gigantic hippopotamus topped with a golden carpet, here comes a man with long braids, his face hidden behind the golden mask of a pharaoh. The master of the city. A player. He bellows:

— "I am…"

Cass never learns his name. She's already running. She doesn't have time.

Two hours later, the sun dips toward the horizon. Here, days last 24 hours, just like on mythical Earth. She finds an unoccupied hamlet nestled in the crook of a meander—a pure coincidence, dictated by the mathematical straightness of an itinerary that follows no road, because it was visible from nowhere. The peasants celebrate her arrival, and she names it H2. They beg her to start a farm or a crop, but she flees.

At the next road, she builds a path linking it to H2. Three Arches rise in the night, from which emerge two male players and one female, riding respectively: a giant magpie with wings edged in gold, gliding through the Arch; a wooden chariot pulled by six AI slaves; and a simple donkey with gentle eyes. While they introduce themselves—far too slowly for Cass's liking—a baron, a lord, and a lady, she catches her breath, though it's hardly necessary.

She asks for the black-and-gold magpie in exchange for a low-bandwidth connection, and the other two are stunned by the deal. But the trade goes through.

Once they disappear, she climbs onto the bird and points north. The takeoff is sudden, and Cass topples backward, catching herself by the legs. She remains there, hanging by sheer arm strength from the giant bird. Her muscles strain, but she can hold on. As long as it takes.

With altitude, she gains perspective on the infinite world of Trust: in the night, the hamlets light up, and on this world that is not spherical but flat, the lights stretch far and wide, a multitude. Some, born from megacities, blaze: floating cities on water and in the air, citadels perched on mountaintops, ethereal Atlantises at the bottom of placid lakes, cities clustered around pyramids or monumental towers, faces of narcissistic players carved into cliffs, and sometimes even insults toward players and toward the gods, erected from the earth by thousands of AIs.

This city ahead, of dark paving stones and golden streetlamps, lit by hot-air balloons trailing fire, equipped with ports for air-floating ships—is this the Celephaïs of the Spectres? Cass considers descending, and the giant magpie obeys, diving under the onyx arches of the ghost city. Her feet nearly touch, at terrifying speed, the streets where each cobblestone bears the carving of a procedural tragedy. The magpie weaves through AIs and cat-men clad in Venetian masks encrusted with alexandrites and tiger's eyes. Scents of incense, opium, iodine, and petrichor rise to meet her. With a jolt, the magpie climbs again, soaring above the midnight carnival: half-melted ghosts of religious and pop culture icons dancing, slaughtering, and fornicating with each other or with visitors, before exploding in fireworks of color and scent.

Her bird climbs higher, flying over the rest of the night. As morning breaks, it shows signs of fatigue and finally lands. Cass, meanwhile, seems more vigorous than a digital creature. The magpie shakes its head like a real bird—so convincingly that it touches Cass a little. Birds don't feel empathy, even if some have developed it over the course of this last millennium. So, real bird or AI reconstruction? She strokes the magpie's head, then runs north once more.

Another full day, dotted with a few halts to correct her route, and she finally enters the Fief of Joy.

If Lucky's territory stretched over many hamlets, villages, and cities, the capital of the fief was a great city that had all the feel of a dreamlike Baghdad: from the desert burst forth a vein of crystal resembling water in motion under the sun, and splinters of that same crystal, round and large as pearls, sprayed across all the constructions. These were white and ochre buildings, their facades tiled in vivid colors. The capital of the fief, named Madinat as-Salam—the City of Peace—was a place of trade and festivity, and, incognito, Cass moved among the AIs calling out to each other and many players who had found in the fief a neutral ground. Clearly, Lucky had abandoned any hope of winning the game, but intended to be the pickaxe vendor to all these gold diggers.

Titanic dragon's blood trees housed dwellings built into their trunks, white and silver tigers played in the leaves, serpent-dragons curled inside immense glass vials cut like jewels, ifrits and djinns chased one another like cats and dogs through the sumptuous drapes of the shops, and a bazaar plunged into the depths of the earth promising a thousand treasures sold by ram-headed merchants with red eyes. A road paved with lapis lazuli, lined with blind musicians and beggars, led at last to the palace of Lord Lucky: golden domes above opulent waterfalls irrigating the city, sculpted and wild gardens where beggars petitioned the court, and finally the double bronze gate engraved with a giant turtle, symbol of the lord's banners.

Before these gates, two AI guards unsheathed their scimitars, muttering suspiciously:

— "You cannot be her…"

— "I am!" Cass replied imperiously.

And they bowed and opened the gate for her.

Marble corridors, purple and scarlet drapes, monumental columns. Barely dressed AI servant girls offer to guide Cass, and they lead her to a wing on the upper floor, behind a door of gilded wood.

A large bedroom: canopy bed, balcony overlooking the city, mirrors and a well-stocked library. Cass turns to the AI, a curly-haired servant with eyes lowered to the floor.

— "I want to speak with Lucky. He's expecting me."

— "We've been informed, Lady Stella. Lord Lucky will receive you during a banquet in your honor, but he requests that you wear proper attire. It's on your bed."

— "Absolutely not."

— "I am sorry, Lady Stella. Nothing can begin if you are not dressed accordingly."

Cass felt a fury rise in her, always mingled with the comforting realization that she could still feel. Beyond the precious time wasted, she refused to give in to that idiot's fetishism. As if out of gratitude for the emotion itself, she leaned over the outfit, then picked it up, studying it with deep unease. It was the regulation uniform for aspiring Psi officers: a tunic with an asymmetrical blue jacket trimmed in gold, a golden Psi brooch on the collar.

A long time ago—forty, sixty years—Cassandre had worn this uniform for three days aboard a ship called the Alecto, under the command of an impulsive captain named Tohil. Selected for her exceptional abilities, she had received a genetic enhancement injection to develop Psi functions in her metabolism. She was twenty years old. She looks at her hands. She still seems to be twenty. The Wau injection. Maybe she'll never age—or only very slowly. She removes the toga from the Sanctuary Island, naked before the servant, ignoring her, and puts on the uniform. She looks at herself, as if contemplating a past both recent and distant.

The Psi brooch is on the right side. In her time, she had worn it on the left: it was a sign of originality, the first and last she had ever allowed herself. On the third day, before Tohil—whose role was purely ceremonial—she had to present before a jury of applied philosophy. The theme was: impartiality in conflict mediation. She remembers her opening: Impartiality in conflict management is an inner battle that confronts us with the essence of humanity: our emotions. How ironic that she had become this emotionless monster, chasing after faint feelings, even negative ones. A monster of impartiality. The next day, with the jury's commendation, she had boarded a Tyger for Earth, where she would be evaluated Omega at UniPsi.

This outfit wasn't a coincidence. A subject bound to come up during the banquet—and probably as part of a negotiation. Trust.