NOVEL NEXT Chapter 1: Ghostlands
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Jillian: I guess you gotta follow your heart. But if he breaks that, I'll break his legs.
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Sol 488 FY 26, 15:46 Mars Time, Bonestell Crater Colony, Hab Layer, 9.32.002.B
The mail icon remained stubbornly blank. Gordon had probably fallen asleep early again.
The rubberized material of her suit braces made an elastic, flapping sound—almost like a rubber chicken—when it hit the metal rail. Marie flexed her toes inside their thick woolen socks, grateful to finally be out of her work boots. Despite the long hours, her feet weren't sweating, but her toes felt cramped after hours of standing on tiptoes to reach pipe arrays designed by taller people. To make matters worse, she did this using overlarge tools designed, perhaps, for her engineer friend Lars and his towering six-foot-four frame, many of which he'd fabricated himself. As always, she considered dedicating a work day to making her own, more light-weight, versions, and as always, it wasn't worth the hassle of getting the expense approved.
Yet.
Her oil-stained coveralls went straight into the bin. Later, she'd run them through the laundry. The orange fabric, usually at least a flattering color for her dusky skin, was streaked with the unpleasantly greenish algae residue from the bioreactor. The undersleeve of her pressure suit made an unpleasant squishing noise as she peeled it off. The gel pads had done their job, pressing into every crease and fold so decompression wouldn't rearrange any soft tissues, but now, freed from their intrusive grip, her body felt damp and overstimulated. The sudden release from discomfort, the cool breeze against her bare skin—it felt amazing.
She scrubbed herself with a damp sponge, ridding herself of the worst of the sensation. One of the downsides of her job, with her favorite hobby—she was about to have to get right back into a suit, this time the much more comfortable and breathable haptic suit for Ghostlands. Still, the transition from one to another immediately was a bit more than she was comfortable putting herself through. She lay on her mesh bed, just enjoying the fan, for long moments more. She caught her reflection in the polished aluminum panel on the opposite wall; The low gravity had given her a lankier frame than her genetics might have intended, but the face looking back was as nature intended—heart-shaped, with the warm, caramel-toned skin that was a legacy of her parents' mixed heritage.
She'd been waiting for this all day. Yesterday, after texting Gordon, she had found a new questline. She was the first in the entire world to discover it—not the greatest achievement ever, given that the quests were AI-generated, to find something unique—but it was exciting nonetheless. She was about to go and found a fortress. An outpost. She'd make it herself. It reminded her of what her parents had done—leaving Earth, traveling to Mars, establishing a bigger foothold for humanity.
Except here, it was her. Establishing a foothold for players and NPCs on the other side of the channel, in ghoul-infested farmland. She'd be leaving the safety of her character's homeland, Cerza City, where she'd settled in with her family back when they played coop, then traveling across the channel via boat—she liked the idea of venturing out. It was a trench run—and, of course, the NPCs wouldn't go without her now. Not since she'd taken the position of healer.
She was ready. So ready.
It had been a stressful day. One of the bioreactor tanks had been contaminated, the algae darkening from its healthy, bright green to an odious, swampy brown. She had scrubbed, scoured, and scooped until her arms ached. She'd given Gordon his chance to talk to her, though he hadn't taken it. She hoped he would finally catch up on some sleep. Now it was finally time for her reward.
Plus, she was being productive.
He'd be here soon. Ish. In six months, maybe a little more, Gordon would be here. If he could get the money together. What a heavy word. Her day job earned her contribution credits—status, privileges, etc.—but not the liquid capital needed for an off-worlder's transit fees and immigration. For that, she had monetized her stream. Every credit she earned in Ghostlands would go toward the ticket fund, not that she'd told him that yet. And he had his own secret project in the works.
What mattered was that they were both trying, in their own way, to make the relationship work. That by itself helped her feel less lonely.
Yesterday, she'd found the perfect project for the stream. Not just another grind, but founding a fortress. It was the kind of epic, pioneering story her audience loved. Not that she cared that much. Her stream was primarily both a fundraiser and her performance for the only audience she cared about—him. He'd watch the stream when he woke up, a time-delayed memento with a message: Look who's waiting for you. This is worth it. We are worth it.
It wasn't that she hated the chat. Her viewers helped with the loneliness, sometimes. And it wasn't much of a performance, really. She preferred to be genuine.
She logged in to Ghostlands.
As always, her Martian VR pod resembled a coffin, though it was carefully designed to avoid feeling claustrophobic. It was smaller than Gordon's live-action rig would be, perfect for small Martian quarters, and the walls were segmented to ensure fresh air flowed in so it would feel less restrictive. She let her head fall back onto velvet cushions as the interior faded from her vision, replaced by the loading screen.
Music played, and the splashscreen began to fade to white, the last step before gameplay.
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[World's End: Cerza City Docks]
Of the three siloed servers, World's End, the Martian server, was the most lonely. Designed for an audience full of colonists settling somewhere new, it was an ancient world full of ancient forgotten magic, with ruins buried under sand or sunken under water, vestiges of ages of wonder long lost in the past. The complete opposite of what Mars represented—a fresh, unspoiled frontier.
But it was emptier. This was also on purpose—Martians lived in close quarters, cramped hallways, elbows rubbing day in and day out. Even when the area was big enough, there were always just too many people. No privacy.
Out here? Whistling winds, wide open spaces, and nobody watching, unless you went where the people were. Even the ever-present ghoul infestations were rare on World's End, where travel between locations and losing yourself in the environment was part of the point of the experience. Long, complicated questlines, intricate ancient dungeons, and the sheer beauty of the view more than made up for it, to Marie's way of thinking. World's End was set on the ancient planet Araetha, tidally locked with one side facing the sun forever, the other side permanently in shadow. Twilight above, sun to the north, shadow to the south. Perpetual sunset, boiling clouds racing across the sky, a constant soothing wind, when the weather wasn't sweeping across the landscape in torrential rain or big fluffy flakes of snow.
Today was even better, since she got to ride in a boat.
Cerza City was a maritime settlement—most were in this game, what with all the ghouls in the dungeons, spawning and coming down off the mountains. She'd be going across the channel to the cliff face of Shar, where she'd be assisting in the founding of an offshore fortress, made using geomancy. She'd never had the opportunity to see earth magic so far in the game, either, not on a wide scale.
Her haptics suit's nose insert had come loose. She popped it back in, cursing how short her nose was once more, and breathed in the salt spray of the sea as she leaned off the edge of the rope-railed barge, looking down at the green-blue waves below. Her own incisive gaze, round doe eyes narrowed to shapes of focus, danced in the water below, faithfully copied as had been every other detail from her real-world form. The option not to do so had existed, but she liked who she was. Most days.
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The barge shifted beneath her feet. Her soles skidded in the quarter-inch deep puddle in which she stood. There was no avoiding them, and she didn't mind.
The vessel was tethered to another by two lengths of arm-thick manila rope, their coarse fibers darkened by seawater. The ropes snaked through brass pulleys, dull with tarnish, that strained and groaned as the lead barge cut through the froth-crested waves.
Overhead, a seagull cried, its call sharp and bright against the low rumble of distant thunder, and a thin drizzle began to fall from the steely sky. She turned her face up to the clouds and gloried in it.
Marie enjoyed the moment, the cool air caressing her skin and allowing her short bob of curly hair to play around her neck, and didn't rush it. The pressures of a long work day fell off her like weights, the tense muscles slowly relaxing, and when the moment was gone, she didn't miss it. That was the best thing about all this—Ghostlands, the VR headset, all of it—it would be here when she needed it next time.
She opened her eyes, blinking the sensation of water droplets from her eyelashes, and turned to the crewman who'd taken up position next to her on the rough-fibered rope railing. Mars, he'd been called. Stout would be the adjective she'd use to describe him if she were limited to only one. Neither tall nor short, but definitely not thin, the man's forearms, corded with muscle and surrounded by the bleached fluff of sun-bathed body hair, were each as big around as one of her thighs. He smoked a cob pipe and grinned at her from behind low-set shaggy eyebrows. "I like the rain too," he told her as if sharing a secret. "That comforting patter on the hull's like a lullaby. Give me that and a hammock and I'll go off asleep a happy man."
Mars was a soldier, it looked like. Worn but upkept weapons hung on belts looped over his shoulders and waist in various directions, kept company by waterskin and flask, all mostly hidden beneath a large grey oilcloth's voluminous folds. His boots all but screamed 'infantryman', though.
She gave him a quick smile, as always finding herself falling into the habit of treating NPCs as though they were real people. Given how fluid his dialog had been thus far, she suspected she was speaking directly to one of the world's attendant AI's, rather than just a 'standard' NPC with starkly limited response options. She liked the AI characters—each, though they were certainly smarter than she was, would roleplay their characters faithfully to the bitter end. It lent a charming verisimilitude to the whole experience. The grizzled veteran offered her an arm, moving easily across the shifting deck as though anchored by something more sturdy than his hobnailed boots. Her own gait was far less certain—having grown up on Mars, she'd never had the opportunity to sail in real life, and hadn't until this moment realized how much she'd like to try it on Ghostlands.
"We're happy to have you," continued the older man. "Healers aren't hardly as thick on the ground as you'd hope, what with one thing and another, being called this way and that for ghoul bites or similar. Couldn't have hoped to do without you."
"I'm happy to help! This sounds exciting," she said, and it was absolutely true.
"You want to leave your mark on something, right?" he asked, a knowing sound in his voice, though she couldn't see his eyes through his brows. "It's human, is that. Deeply natural."
It wasn't that the sentiment didn't resonate. This just wasn't where her mark would be.
She thought about the colony children she'd helped raise, and about her friends who'd be waiting for her at Shar. She'd already made a difference. The thought was a cheerful one.
The ship bucked, slamming into the swell with more force than Marie had yet noticed, and she heard a snapping sound. "Down, lass!" shouted Mars, not waiting for her to comply, and he shoved her brutally to the deck, where her elbow hit hard and her body careened off a stout barrel and its lashings. A stone totem, meant for some sort of geomancy, slid deceptively quickly toward the right—starboard?—side of the barge, the lashings holding down smaller objects snapping like threads before it, stone gouging brutal strips from the lacquered deck.
She shoved herself to her knees with more effort than expected—the barge was tilting—and drew her wand. Moments like this were why she'd chosen to play a witch.
Her replica wand clenched in her real hand, her Ghostlands wand raised high, she beckoned to her power source with a flick of her wrist. A silvery glow pulsed from the bangle at her wrist, threads of mana streaming toward her, pooling in her grip. She chanted the activation phrase, and the structure bloomed—glowing rings expanding outward from her, geometric lines locking into place as the spell's parameters solidified.
Time Shield. Greatest of shields, or least, depending on who you asked. A perfect, unbreakable, hollow sphere, its translucent shell humming as it devoured mana at a greedy pace. She could feel the drain—a cold ache radiating up her arm—but the spell was absolute. Nothing could pass through it, though time proceeded apace both inside and out.
The stone icon struck the barrier with a deafening crack of thunder and stopped dead. The barge continued forward beneath it, leaving the relic hanging in frozen air before it began to slide, glacially, back up the trenches it had gouged into the deck. The forward barge shuddered to a violent halt, its towline snapping taut with a resounding crack that sent crates and barrels skidding into the railing. Crew members shouted in alarm, struggling to keep their footing as the chaotic ripple of movement spread. From the other barge came distant screams—unintended collateral from her hurried spellwork—but nothing else seemed broken. Yet.
"Quick thinking, lass," Mars said apologetically as he grabbed her offhand and pulled her up. "Sorry for shoving you, but there were boxes in the air from it tumping over. Didn't want you going overboard."
The towline groaned under the strain, yanking the rear barge forward with a jolt that sent Marie stumbling again. Mars swore, bracing against the deck as the two vessels fought to realign. "I think you'd best release the spell, love," he suggested.
Marie exhaled sharply and let the structure collapse. The rings flickered, then vanished, and time surged forward once more.
The wreckage left in the wake of the accident was significant—but worse was Marie's shocked realization that Mars and she were the only ones left on their feet on the vessel. The captain, who'd been steering, lay several feet from his own legs, staring blankly at them with a white, bloodless face. She quickly hurried a health potion to him, but of course, the elixir wouldn't affect his legs—he'd be helpless for the rest of the journey. She found herself hoping they could make do with one barge on the return trip.
"You'll have to steer," Mars told her, grimly. "I'll see to the captain."
Marie stumbled toward the helm, her hands trembling as she gripped the wheel. She'd never used a rudder in her life.
Mars's voice rang out, steady and commanding: "Keep her straight, could you? You'll feel her pulling—counter it gently—gently now!"
The lead barge was moving again. Lightning played across the sea surface, rough with waves, and a crack split the air. Its light showed her the two ropes—the right one was slack, the left one stood taut out of the water nearly the whole way to the lead ship. It'd snap if she let this go on.
The rudder dug into the waves like a knife, the water rolling and piling to get out of its way. The wooden haft thumped against the deck with great hollow knocking sounds, the vibration running up her fingers to her shoulders, and the salt spray she'd been enjoying so much earlier began to make it hard to breathe.
And yet—it was so much fun.
The rudder fought her at every turn, the waves crashing against it as if determined to hold it in place. Her arms ached as she threw her weight into it, barely managing to inch the great wooden shaft into position.
She threw her whole weight into it, less than half of what Mars could have done in her place, and was scarcely able to manage it—but the great shape of the rudder moved, and the barge was turning back into alignment, and as hail began to fall onto the deck she realized she was laughing and it felt perfect.
Her view count doubled, then doubled again, and in the moment she paid the ticker no mind at all.
Hail pelted her shoulders and arms, sharp and biting against her exposed skin. The deck grew slick beneath her boots, but she didn't dare let go of the rudder to steady herself.
"Easy does it, lass," came the growling voice, and then Mars took place next to her, supporting her efforts with tree-trunk arms. "He's safe below, now. I think he'll make it out just fine. Secured the statue, too. Just smooth sailing, now."
Mars grinned at her, his timing impeccable as he steadied the rudder. If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought he was playing to the audience more than she was.
Marie took a deep breath, her grip on the rudder finally easing. The storm still raged around them, the hail stinging her skin and the waves lashing the hull, but the barge felt steady under their hands, and her cheeks ached from smiling. "Smooth sailing?" she demanded.
But, despite the choppy seas and flashing sky—it was.