Top Level Player, page 1
Top Level Player
Lawyer Friendlier Edition
Joseph R. Lallo
Copyright © 2021 by Joseph R. Lallo
Cover by Ashley Wixted
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
From the Author
Chapter 1
Terminal. It was a word that had been spoken with weight and concern in so many medical dramas and soap operas, she’d come to think it was more of a plot contrivance than something a doctor really said. But sure enough, when the results came back, her oncologist didn’t mince words.
“Your tumor has grown by 5% since our last MRI. It is not reacting to the chemo. As you know, the position of the tumor makes surgery extremely risky. Whether we operate or not, the prognosis is bad. In 97% of cases like yours, the disease is terminal.”
It’s curious how busy your life gets once you’re informed there’s not much of it left. So many decisions to make. So much business to get in order. There’s no more room for procrastination. No more putting things off to do another day. There won’t be another day. They gave her three months. It was time enough to get the next-of-kin stuff sorted out, flesh out her last will and testament, and make a decision about if, and how, she would try to beat this disease in the time she had left. Never one to go out without a fight, she’d made plans for not one but two experimental procedures. One was an aggressive drug and radiation routine which would begin the following morning. The other was just about to begin.
She took a breath. The air in the room had a strangely astringent quality. Though she’d worked in this building for years, she’d avoided this set of labs specifically because they perpetually smelled like they’d been doused in Lysol.
“You sure about this, Jazz?” remarked the tech as the banks of LED lighting flicked on to properly illuminate the room.
“How long have we been developing this project, Bill?” she asked, easing down into the spindly chair in the center of the otherwise empty room.
“Six years.”
“And how long has it been in human trials?”
“Two years.”
“And how many human test subjects have we actually had?”
“Two.”
“And how many survived?”
“One.”
“And I read the case report. The flaw that led to the synapse collapse has been fixed. Even if it wasn’t, that’s a fifty percent survival rate. This beats the tumor by 47%. What’s not to be sure about?”
“Hey, you don’t know. Maybe you’ll be in the lucky 3%. I’ve heard good things about that radiology center. Good people there.”
“I’ve made up my mind, Bill,” Jazz said, kicking her feet up onto the flimsy stirrups. “My brain may not be ideal for this, what with the big malignant lump right in the center, but so long as the projected shelf-life of my gray matter is shorter than the case of iced tea I just bought, I might as well see if I can get it to do some good.”
“I just don’t want you to do something hasty.”
“I don’t have enough time left to be anything but hasty. In the best case, this will push the horizons of scientific understanding. In the worst case, I get to skip getting my brain microwaved for a couple weeks. Win-win.”
“You’re awfully matter-of-fact about some pretty morbid stuff, Jazz.”
“I’ve been through the first four stages of grief, Bill. This is called acceptance. Now what do I need to do? I’ve only ever been on the software side before.”
“Just relax. I’ll handle everything.”
She leaned back. Bill caught the back of her head and held it in place long enough to position the adjustable headrest to hold her in the proper position. He smeared a cold gel on her temples. It was clearly the source of the chemical scent in the room. A cart rattled across the uneven raised flooring. It was behind her, but she didn’t need to look. She knew what she would see. A repurposed airline food service cart with two articulated mounting arms. Lots of exposed wires, liberally applied zip ties, and two large paddles that looked like shower heads. She wrote the drivers that made the thing run, and the transmission routines that loaded up the data it would gather.
“I’ve got this whole spiel I wrote to set people’s minds at ease, but I suppose I don’t need to waste my breath on that stuff for you, huh?”
“Not unless you want the practice.”
She felt the two paddles pressed to the smeared gel, then shuddered as a padded vice came down on her forehead to immobilize it. Bill leaned over her.
“See you on the other side,” he said.
“I better. You still owe me lunch.”
“Tell you what. Once we’re through and you wipe off the goop, we’ll hit up that Venezuelan joint,” Bill said in a failed attempt to match her levity in the face of the gamble she’d chosen to take.
“Open,” he said.
She opened her mouth. He placed a tooth guard in place.
“Hands.”
She placed her hands on the arms. Velcro straps immobilized them. Her legs got a similar treatment.
Like an x-ray operator, he left the room and locked the door.
“Paddles energize in fifteen seconds,” he said, now over the room’s PA system.
She tried to nod. The vice prevented it.
“Fourteen… 13… 12…”
Jazz tried to look at things clinically, procedurally. The paddles would energize. Proprietary emitters would sculpt electrical and magnetic fields into beams that would pass through her cortex.
“Eight...seven...six…”
The electromagnetism would excite each and every neuron, imaging its electrochemical state in a three-dimensional data matrix. Functionally, it would create a one-to-one data backup of her brain. Medically, there was a different name for that.
“Three...two...one…”
A massive seizure.
“Activate.”
She shut her eyes. Relays engaged. It was impossible to know precisely what happened after that. There was simply too much going on in her head for something as petty as consciousness to grapple with it all. She felt everything. Pain, pleasure. Joy, fear. Despite being shut tight, her eyes delivered a rainbow clown-barf of swirling sparks and blobs. Everything that a mind could experience vied for space in a besieged intellect.
The hiss in her ears faded first, momentarily screeching like a 56k modem. The confetti filling her eyes broke down into blocky artifacts. Then, silence and darkness. It took close to fifteen seconds for her to realize that the darkness was due to her eyes still being shut. She opened them and gazed around.
“Hello? Bill?”
Her words were thick and slurred. There was no answer. She tried to move, and nearly smacked herself in the face when her arms were revealed to be unrestrained. Likewise for her legs and her head.
“How long have I been loose?” she said.
She rubbed her head, mostly out of the assumption that her head should be aching, but she found that it was completely painless.
“I gotta say, Bill. Could’ve been worse.”
A three-note chord rang out, startling her. It was too clear to be over the tinny PA system Bill had been speaking over. What followed it was an equally clear voice, a man with a gameshow host delivery.
“Please stand by. Your thrilling new adventure is about to begin.”
“What?” She wiggled a pinky in her ear. “Quit fooling around, Bill. What’s going on?”
Blazing bright light traced out the shape of a doorway in front of her, in the center of a wall that until now had been nothing but gray drywall. The inexplicable doorway swung open and a form precisely suited to the dazzling announcer voice marched through. He was a square-chinned, impeccably dressed man. His hair was glossy and black, sculpted into a ruthlessly precise swirl. He smiled with straight white teeth and tweaked a crisp bowtie.
“Congratulations, your time has come. My name is Mr. Exposition, and I have just a few questions before I send you off to enjoy your well-earned and limitless future.”
“Who the hell are you and what the hell is going on?” Jazz barked.
The stranger’s expression remained rigidly unchanged.
“Some minor confusion is common. Permit me to explain. Exposition is the name and exposition is the game.”
He reached into his suit and withdrew a small black booklet. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the book open and perused the contents.
“Ah! In
“The After-Image?”
“Founded in 2017, a company called BNC Medical Imaging was making considerable progress in a novel brain-imaging technique. Funding was severed in 2022. Neurological experts of the day determined that consistent accuracy was unachievable. The project was resurrected by venture capitalists in 2025 with the revised aim of not simply imaging the brain, but recreating its functionality. The resurrection of the company gave birth to an infinitude of other resurrections through… The After-Image,” he proclaimed with a far more suitable flourish. “The grandest achievement in mankind’s endless pursuit for immortality, a comprehensive simulated reality wherein your consciousness is able to live on according to your desires and whims. The After-Image, nothing less than a digital afterlife.”
“So... I didn’t make it.”
“No one does. Not forever. But that is no longer your concern, because while the first death is permanent, all subsequent deaths are temporary.”
“Subsequent deaths?”
“All in due time. You are no doubt eager to explore this hand-crafted eternity, courtesy of After-Image International. In order to prepare you, I need to ask just a few questions. First, by what name would you prefer to be known?”
“Wait, wait. I didn’t sign up for anything like this. I was supposed to be testing the imaging gear.”
“That’s fascinating. It should at this point be established that I am not a human being, but an onboarding routine with limited responses available. If you have questions, please address them to the nearest After-Image International Customer support office or Field Office.”
“I see.”
“Excellent, I’m glad you understand. Now, in order to prepare you, I need to ask just a few questions. First, by what name would you prefer to be known?”
“My name is Jasmine Welker.”
“That was your name in life. The After-Image is a chance to start off fresh. Newcomers are encouraged to utilize a handle or pseudonym, both to create a separation from the pre-death existence and to express yourself as the individual you became rather than the infant your parents assigned a name to.”
“I mean… I guess everyone I know just called me Jazz.”
“Checking Availability!” he said brightly. “There are presently 734,365 individuals with the username Jazz. Selecting starting region based on the lowest density of similar names.”
“I mean, I can pick a different—”
“Region selected. Please select your personal digital assistant.”
“PDA? Since when do we still use PDAs?”
“It should at this point be established that—”
“Fine, fine. Can you tell me what a personal digital assistant does?”
“A personal digital assistant is an artificially intelligent companion that will serve as tutor for the finer aspects of The After-Image, as well as an aide in performing data-based operations and, depending on purchased or earned upgrades, perform any number of other helpful tasks.”
“You get a lot more computery when you’re talking about this stuff.”
“Usually people have been prepared for this by the living techs. After-Image International takes its customer experience very seriously. Please include any shortcomings in your interactions with living techs in your communications at The After-Image Field Office. Now, do you understand what a Personal Digital Assistant is?”
“It’s sort of like Navi from Ocarina of Time?”
“Ah, the Navi template. Distinctive choice!”
“No, no, I didn’t.”
A blue green ball of light with fluttering wings appeared before her.
“Hey!” it said in an androgynous voice. “Thanks for the opportunity!”
“Do you have a gender preference for your assistant? Male, female, non-binary…”
“Look, cute as it would be to have a fairy girl interrupting me with helpful tips...”
“Ah, female. A lovely choice.”
“Wait! You can’t just keep taking my idle musings as menu options. If I say I want her to be periwinkle with bells on her shoes…”
The ball of light resolved into a more Tinkerbell-like fairy form, with periwinkle skin, jingling shoes, and a delighted expression.
“Okay, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,” she said.
“Thank you for selecting me. Only one in four-hundred thousand new players select the humanoid, Navi-like archetype. I’ve been ready and raring to go since my template was created! I’ll be of ever so much help to you.”
“Uh-huh…”
Mr. Exposition marked some things down rather theatrically in his black book.
“Next, appearance. You don’t need to be too concerned about the specifics. This in particular is quite easily adjustable once you begin your journey in earnest.”
Mr. Exposition walked to the back of the room. She turned to watch him, and found that instead of the austere white room with its doorway and cobbled-together piece of electronics, there was a full-length mirror and a set of icons floating in midair beside it. The physics-defying icons should have been the most remarkable thing, but Jazz was more taken aback by the image in the mirror.
It was her, at least insomuch as it wasn't anyone else. But it wasn't really how she'd ever actually looked. It was like something assembled out of her fondest memories of herself. Just a bit more fit. Just a bit stronger. A shade taller. A more vivid shade of chestnut in her hair. The only thing drab about her was her outfit, which was a plain gray set of scrubs.
"Wow…" she said, leaning closer to the mirror.
"This is the default base. It is called 'The self-image'. May I congratulate you on what seems to be a healthy view of yourself. You may, of course, adjust anything you like at this stage. Assorted physical attributes, gender, species…"
"Species?"
The PDA darted up to her.
"Selecting a non-human avatar is a great way to make a bold statement of expression and identity! Werewolf, for instance—"
"Right, yes. I'll stick with human, thanks," Jazz said, quick to skip the unwanted tutorial.
The PDA darted to the other side.
"This will let you select your starting outfit. New outfits can be purchased at in-world retailers, with—"
"Thank you! I think I can figure it out."
The PDA fidgeted for a moment.
"With plot tokens!" she blurted. "Sorry, it is my job."
Jazz poked at the icons and was presented with a dazzling array of choices in outfits, from the casual T-shirt and jeans look to things uncomfortably far into dominatrix territory for her tastes. She picked out something that looked comfortable but functional. The PDA buzzed around her.
"Kind of plain."
"I'm not interested in showing off," Jazz said.
The PDA bopped into one of the icons and then another, conjuring a long white coat.
"It suits you!" she said.
Jazz surveyed herself.
“Not quite,” Jazz said.
She adjusted some settings until the coat became something of a cross between a trench coat and a lab coat, trimmed and accented with gold. It gave a dash of mad scientist to the ensemble that she rather enjoyed. So much so that she decided to throw in some boots and a pair of rubber gloves to complete the ensemble.
“Glorious!” the PDA said.
“Now that you have selected all appearance options, it is time for you to name your PDA and finalize.”
Jazz glanced at the PDA.
“I am going to have ever so much fun teaching you about The After-Image,” she said gleefully.
Jazz winced slightly. She leaned closer to Mr. Exposition.
“Can I… is it possible to change out the PDA if I decide it’s a bit much?” she whispered.
“Of course!” Mr. Exposition bellowed without regard for tact. “The PDA and the broad basis of appearance can be altered at Re-Spec Shacks for a nominal fee, once you’ve completed the tutorial lobby.”
Jazz flinched and looked to her PDA. The little fairy narrowed her eyes and pouted.
“I see how it is. No one ever wants the humanoid Navi type… You didn’t even give me a chance!” she crossed her arms and turned her back on Jazz. “I probably wouldn’t want to work with a person who’s so judgmental and biased anyway.”
