In Beta

By Prescott Harvey

1) 90s NOSTALGIA: Set in 1993, the novel is replete with 90s references—a fun update to the 80s nostalgia that characterized Ready Player One and Stranger Things. The novel will be enjoyed by anyone—sci-fi fan or general fiction fan—who missed the 90s.

2) PERFECT FOR GAMERS: Because the characters find out that they are living in a SimCity-like simulation, much of the novel revolves around the rules and settings that gamers will fondly remember from the 1990s.

3) FOR FANS OF NEIL STEPHENSON, WILLIAM GIBSON, AND ERNIE CLINE. The novel brings together the techno-existential issues of Neil Stephenson and William Gibson with the humor of Ernie Cline.

4) J.J. ABRAMS. The novel has already received advance praise from J.J. Abrams, who pre-ordered the novel on Inkshares.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkshares
• Release date: Jul 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781947848320

Prescott Harvey

By day, Prescott Harvey is a senior copywriter at Cinco Design agency, contributing to gaming brands like Shadow of War, EA Motive studios, Osmo, and Crackdown 3. By night, you can find him plundering Sea of Thieves under his XBOX handle, Prescafatty. In 2010, he wrote a humor book, The World of Warcraft Guide to Winning at Life, with Chronicle Books. In Beta is his first novel. Prescott lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife, Meg. Their two children are too young to play video games . . . yet.

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2020 Prescott Harvey

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Inkshares, Inc., Oakland, California

www.inkshares.com

Edited by Adam Gomolin & Matt Harry

Cover Design by M.S. Corley

Interior Design by Kevin G. Summers

ISBN: 9781947848504

e-ISBN: 9781947848320

LCCN: 2017962691

First edition

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

DISK ONE

The Girl in the Falls

Secret of Bickleton

Main Drag

Turtles Pies

Guidance

Tutorial

Dark House

All Students

Around the Bend

Proposition

Debrief

The Last Birthday

Liz Wiped

DISK TWO

Dr. Shrek

The Trouble with Jeremy

Dark House

Desperate Measures

After Careful Consideration

DISK THREE

Dark House

Liz and Jeremy

Disaster

Dark House

Aftermath

The Hack

The Mark

The Lottery

Metaphysics

SubFolders

The Well-Heeled Hick

All 10s

The Scrimmage

Principal’s Office

DISK FOUR

Look Out

Staging Grounds

O Horizon

Simulated Intelligence

Hal

second Player

Backplotting

DISK FIVE

Small Miracles

The Build

The Johns Strike Back

Three’s Company

Liz’s Story

The Diner

Harold

Clouds Roll In

Gateway

Spring Fling

The Johns

Last Dance

John S

Crasher

Drag & Scroll

Remote

DISK SIX

Aftermath

Gloom Bears

Generator

Wriggle

Fortifications

Spot #7

Disasters

Along the Watchtower

Game Pros

DISK SEVEN

Boss Monster

Access Denied

Abandonware

DISK EIGHT

Maximum Underdrive

Dead Batts

Lab Results

How I Spent My Summer Vacation by Jay Banksman

Acknowledgments

Inkshares

The Girl in the Falls

Bickleton was a town frozen in time. Always had been, always would be.

Years passed. Skinny trailer park babies aged into hunchbacked millworkers. People suffered pulmonary heart disease. Green algae dripped long on the sides of trailers. But nothing really changed. Nothing new ever came to Bickleton.

Except, Todd thought, now something has.

He moved briskly down the sidewalk, despite his slight limp, the result of a car accident freshman year. He was consumed with his thoughts. He was a high school junior now, seventeen years old, with fiery red hair that wrapped back around his head in a ponytail. Party in front, party in back, he liked to joke, though truth be told there was never much of a party.

Todd was a jazz band kid, and he looked like a jazz band kid. He had that scraggly not-quite-through-puberty sort of vibe, and he wore sunglasses while he played his saxophone because he saw Bill Clinton do it on Arsenio Hall and he thought it looked cool. He was wearing those sunglasses now, and they blocked most of the light that flashed down through the overhead dogwoods. Today he wasn’t carrying his saxophone. He was carrying something else: a pickax, over his left shoulder. He wondered if a pickax was cooler than a saxophone.

Somewhere behind him, tires squealed. He turned to see a rusty Dodge Ram barreling toward him. As it grew closer, bass shook the spring air, and he heard the rap group Kris Kross.

The truck slowed, windows rolling down, and a head poked out. It was a face Todd knew and did not care for. The face sneered at his pickax.

Hey, Yosemite Sam! Mining for dick cheese?

The face exploded in laughter. Todd lifted his ax and inspected it.

Yes, mining for dick cheese, he said, trying to sound sarcastic. But not too sarcastic.

The engine roared, and the truck careened down the street. Todd watched its bumper sticker recede in the distance: You might be a redneck if you have more guns than teeth.

Todd shook his head. The Johns. One or two were rarely a problem. It was when they got together that you had to worry. Problem was, they almost always traveled as a pack. He looked over his shoulder at the parking lot. There was no sign of more trucks. Good. He didn’t need any more interruptions. Today he was a boy with Somewhere to Be.

Todd absentmindedly began humming "Heigh-Ho, and moved off the sidewalk. He passed under the Bickleton High School marquee. Congratulations, Class of ’93!" the sign read. Todd shook his head. What was a Bickleton diploma worth, anyway? Everyone ended up down at the mill eventually.

It will come out all right in the end, his great-grandmother used to say to console his worries. She was eighty-seven when she died, and she’d been prom queen senior year and married the Bickleton Vandals’ first baseman. Todd’s grandfather had been a manager at the mill, and they’d owned a house on the bluff.

Easy for you to say, Eema, Todd grumbled to himself.

The road curved south. The dogwoods disappeared, and the land opened into pastures. A few Highland cattle watched him from beyond a fence, their dull eyes jerking mechanically with his gait. Todd turned off Main Street and passed Hunsaker Oil, where a logging truck rusted under a small wooden watchtower.

He hoped Eema was right—he hoped it all did turn out for the best. He knew that for the Johns, it likely would. They at least had good jobs waiting for them. But for kids like him—the band kids, the geeks—well, he always thought the logging truck was a good metaphor for the slow decay into oblivion. That was his fate.

At least, it’d been his fate until yesterday. But things may have changed. He didn’t want to count any blessings just yet, but there was something interesting up Jewett Creek. And for the first time in his life, he felt a surge of hope that maybe Eema was right. Maybe his future held something bright.

A tan Honda Civic zipped by on the road, and he heard the shriek of girlish laughter through an open window. He waited for the car to disappear over a crest, then climbed the guardrail and down the bank of Jewett Creek.

He paused at the bottom, winded. It was shady down there by the stream. Quiet. In the sudden stillness, a moment of déjà vu washed over him. The sunlight seemed stuck in the same position as when he’d come the day before. He saw the same plastic grocery bag. Even the gurgle of the creek seemed repetitive, looping its wet notes again and again. He shook himself. It was a memory from yesterday, that’s all. He pushed on, leaping over rocks, listening for the low roar of the waterfall.

He scrambled under an arch of blackberry vines, and then he saw it: a flat horizon of water falling over a short cliff. Rock Ridge. It wasn’t tall, maybe twenty feet, but there was something majestic to it. The pool at its base shone clear and dark.

Todd stepped onto the dirt packed down by years of summer blankets. Sun-bleached Rainier cans and Otter Pops wrappers littered the ferns. He touched the slippery moss of the falls and inched toward the water. The cold mist sprayed his face. His heart beat faster.

Is she still here?

Hello! he shouted.

He heard rushing water and nothing else. He tightened his grip on the grain of his pickax and stepped back, regarding the rock face for a moment. It occurred to him, as it had the day before, that this could all be an elaborate prank. He looked around, waiting for a John to burst out laughing. His eyes darted around, looking for speakers, any evidence that could explain what he’d found.

He leaned on the rock, pressing his cheek against it. His thin red mustache bristled against the moss.

Hello? he repeated.

For a moment, nothing. Then: a girl’s voice. Faint within the rock.

You’re back.

Todd grinned. Good. She was still here.

He leaned into the rock. I’ve got one for you. Ready? Here it goes. So, they dug up Beethoven’s body last week?

He paused, letting the anticipation build. "They found him decomposing."

From deep behind the falls: That’s terrible.

I know! He felt giddy. What’s yours?

Her voice was so thin he had to strain to hear her. Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom?

I dunno, why?

Because the ‘p’ is silent.

Todd laughed genuinely. Why is it so much easier to talk to a rock?

All right, stand back. I’ll get you out.

He brought the pickax above his head and smashed it down into the cliff. There was a terrible clang as metal scraped rock, and small sparks glinted off the blade. Shivers ran down his arm, followed by pain, and he yelped and dropped his ax.

He stood there holding the pickax he’d borrowed from his dad, trying and failing to remember if he’d ever used it before. He’d assumed breaking through the rock would be easy, like it was in cartoons.

He swung again, but more slowly, driving the blade against the rock. It clanged, glancing off, and the smallest chip broke free. He swung six more times, until sweat beaded his brow. He’d guessed the rock was no more than a few inches thick, given how close the voice sounded. Now he worried he’d been wrong.

He put his cheek back to the rock.

How’s it going out there? asked the faint voice.

Fine. You okay?

Yeah. What are you doing?

G-getting you out. I’ve got an ax. Todd held up the ax as if she could see it.

An ax? Todd . . . I thought you’d bring a jackhammer. And some other people.

They’re coming, he lied.

I need you to go tell someone. No more jokes. I need to be out of here.

Uh—yeah, I know.

Truth was, Todd hadn’t told anyone. She was his secret. In a town like Bickleton, a secret was currency. It was something to be treasured. A secret made you special. I promise tomorrow I’ll—I’ll get a bulldozer.

I can’t wait another day. I need you to get the police, or—

Can I be of assistance?

Todd jumped and spun around. He had been so focused on the girl, he hadn’t heard anyone else approach. His heart pounded in his chest. Not more than a dozen feet away stood a man.

He was a sawed-off little fart, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a fanny pack tucked under a ballooning gut. He flexed stubby fingers and fixed Todd with beady black eyes. Todd noticed that the man was breathing easily, despite the fact that the only trail to Rock Ridge wound steeply down through a boulder field. The hair on the back of Todd’s neck prickled, and he had the vague sense he knew the man. Where had Todd seen him before? Bickleton was too small a town not to recognize him.

The man took a small step forward and cleared his throat.

Is there anything I can do to help?

Yes. Todd gulped, unsure whether he should feel trepidation or relief. There’s someone trapped.

He waited for the man to scoff or panic, but he just stood, staring at Todd.

Is that right?

His piggy eyes peered out from behind thick glasses. The forest suddenly felt still. As if everything had been paused. Todd shifted, uneasy.

Do I know you?

The man grinned and nodded, as if he found the question funny. To a degree, yes. You come here often?

To Rock Ridge? Todd scoffed. No.

The man glanced at Todd’s pickax. That won’t work, you know.

So, what should we do?

Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it.

The forest was too quiet, as if the birds had disappeared. The only sound was the rush of water. Todd, who’d been in exactly one fight before—freshman year, with two of the Johns—had the strange sense that he was about to fight the man, though he didn’t know why. The man took another step forward.

How many times have you been down here?

Saturday, then again today.

The man nodded eagerly. Did you tell anyone else about this? What you found?

Todd shook his head.

And how did you find it? Something . . . bring you here?

No. I was just out on a hike and heard a voice.

The man fixed him with his gaze for a few more seconds, then seemed to relax. Todd wanted more than anything to get away. He took a step back, making to follow the creek.

Well, I need to go get the sheriff. So, I’ll be back.

He circled around where the little pool drained into the creek, his relief growing with every step he put between himself and the strange man. He stepped over a log and glanced backwards.

The man was fumbling in his fanny pack. Todd watched him produce a long metal cylinder. He seemed completely absorbed in the action, no longer paying attention to Todd. The man’s brow furrowed as he punched small black buttons.

Todd turned and ran. He crashed through the underbrush, dropping any pretense of nonchalance, giving way to his terror. Branches stung his face, blinding him. He gasped for air. A poplar sprang up in the gloom of the undergrowth, and he tripped, sprawling. His palms flew out, and he fell into the creek. His head plunged through the freezing water, and he felt a shock of pain as his chin split on a rock.

He pulled himself up to sitting, and despite his throbbing chin, his first thought was of the man. He glanced back, blood flowing freely from his face, waiting for the man to step out of the forest. Seconds passed. The creek carved its way over his wrists, numbing his hands. His leg ached where he’d smacked it against the poplar tree. But at least the man was gone.

Todd’s breath slowed. Why was he so scared? What was it about that man? Todd was nearly a foot taller than him, so why had he been so spooked?

He thought sheepishly to his dad’s pickax. It was in the clearing, next to the pool. Well, he wasn’t going back to get it. The girl was right about needing more help. As soon as he got out of the forest, he would tell Sheriff Jenkins everything that had happened over the last two days. The girl, whoever she was, couldn’t be just his secret anymore. He would bring the adults, as she’d asked. He stood, touching his chin and pulling his hand away to examine the crimson blood that covered his finger.

There was a sudden white flash, so powerful that for a moment, it wiped out all sight and sound. Then it was gone, and Jewett Creek was empty. There was no trace of the man. No trace of Todd. Only the gurgling water, the cool spring breeze, and the flutter of grosbeaks hopping from branch to branch.

Secret of Bickleton

It’s not fair!

Jay Banksman hurled a Super Nintendo controller against the wall and fell back into his sleeping bag. He stared at the tiny TV screen from the corner of one eye. The Metal Mantis clacked its claws in a looping animation before the screen drifted to black, a small window fading up: Sadly, no trace of them was ever found . . .

Why do we suck so bad? Jay groaned.

We need experience. Colin Ramirez sighed.

Jay looked skeptically at his friend. Like in real life? Or experience points?

Uh, both.

Despite Colin’s massive stature, he had managed to sit in the lotus position, cross-legged on his sleeping bag. Jay was aware—as he always was—how strange the two of them looked together. Colin was giant, curly black hair hanging over his forehead, covering his dark eyes, almost reaching the wisp of mustache that smeared his upper lip. Compared to Colin, Jay was whitish and smallish. Between freshman and sophomore years, while the other kids had all hit their growth spurts, Jay had lingered and perhaps even dwindled. A few weeks ago, digging through old photos for their graduation slide show, he’d stumbled upon a home video from Christmas four years prior. He was horrified by how short and slight he’d been, darting under the Christmas tree to grab presents like a strange bird.

At that moment, though, they were wrapped in the darkness of Colin’s basement, and free from judgment. They’d built a little cave for themselves along the far wall, where the finish gave way to cold concrete and stained Persian rugs. Haphazardly strewn in front of them were a Sega Genesis, a Super Nintendo, and roughly two dozen games. The only furniture was a shelf full of Colin’s old toys: a tub of Pogs, He-Man action figures, a Lite-Brite board, and a Teddy Ruxpin. Jay rubbed his eyes and sighed.

We’ve got the sword and the boomerang forged to level five. Undine’s level six. We just need . . . But he trailed off, too tired to think of what it was they needed.

Above them, the basement ceiling creaked with footsteps as the rest of the Ramirez family woke up. With every step, Jay and Colin tensed, expecting to hear an exclamation and then feet trampling toward the basement stairs. The footsteps receded, and Jay relaxed. He lay on his back and watched dust motes float through the light that now filtered through the sliding glass doors leading to the outside porch. He shifted his legs to catch some of the warmth.

God, it’s just that stupid Mantis Boss.

Did you get the game guide?

Jay rolled his eyes. "No, GamePro keeps saying next issue, next issue, but—"

As he spoke, Colin fished out a small cupcake with pink frosting from his sleeping bag.

Happy birthday to youuu, happy birthday to youuuu . . .

Eww. Don’t sing so quietly. It’s creepy.

Jay took the cupcake and sniffed. How long’s that cupcake been in there?

Just a few hours.

Jay scarfed it down. The sweetness hurt Jay’s unbrushed teeth. His eyes were dry from a night of gaming; they’d been staring at that stupid screen for so long.

Colin produced another cupcake and mechanically chewed it.

Happy birthday, he said between mouthfuls.

Thanks, man. Jay yawned, stretching and grabbing his half-full can of Mountain Dew. One more go?

Someone upstairs stomped across the floor, heading toward them. Jay and Colin froze, eyes wide. The basement door swung open. Jay and Colin scrambled into action, switching off the Super Nintendo, turning off the TV, burrowing into their sleeping bags. Behind them, someone thundered down the stairs. Jay squeezed his eyes tight, but it was too late. There was a scream of indignation, and then Mrs. Ramirez—Colin’s mom—was rushing over, yelling in Spanish:

"¿Qué están haciendo aquí?!"

She pointed at the rat’s nest of sleeping bags and the food on the floor. Mrs. Ramirez was a small bullish woman who wore lots of makeup and terrified Jay. Jay noticed how the thick shoulder pads under her blouse turned her torso into a brick wall. She had one earring dangling in her left hand as she ripped their Super Nintendo from the wall. Jay and Colin bolted out of their sleeping bags in protest, but she rounded on them, now speaking in English.

What do I have to do? Chain you to your beds? No games on a school night!

But, jeez, Jay pleaded, it’s my birthday.

She stuck a finger in his chest. I’m calling your mom. No more sleepovers. No more games, period. Colin, I’m throwing your Nintendo away!

No! Mom! Please, anything but that.

"She’s not really gonna do it," Jay whispered.

Mrs. Ramirez spun back to Jay. "Cuidado con lo que dices. Don’t you try me, Banksman."

She pointed at the ceiling. Upstairs. Now. March!

Main Drag

Despite Mrs. Ramirez’s fury, there was, in fact, still plenty of time for Jay and Colin to get to school. After a leisurely stop at the Morning Market for coffee, they enjoyed the scenic route.

Jay never drove. He didn’t have $14 for a driver’s license, let alone money for a car. So, he sat in the passenger seat of Colin’s Volkswagen Bug, which had been salvaged together from at least five other Volkswagen Bugs. Its body was mostly black, but its two front wheel wells were yellow, and its bumper was orange. To start it, Colin would stick a screwdriver in the hole where the ignition should have been, turn it, then ring a doorbell that was nailed to the dashboard. The car had only three gears and refused to go in reverse. When it ran, which was about 75 percent of the time, its backfire sounded like a shotgun blast, and its exhaust routinely caught fire, shooting large jets of flames through the tailpipe. The kids at school jokingly called it the Batmobile. Someone had gone so far as to spray-paint crude Batman logos on its sides, with large penises hanging off the bats. Colin had blacked out the penises but left the Batman logos intact.

It was in the Batmobile they now rode. The rattle of its engine was so loud, Jay and Colin had to yell to be heard. Colin’s enormous frame was smashed up against the steering wheel, so that his coffee sloshed and spilled in one hand while he gripped the bucking steering wheel with his other.

Jay shivered in the cold that seemed to blow in from every direction through invisible seams. He fiddled with the radio dial, a crude installation that stuck out jarringly from the front panel. By adjusting the knob a micrometer at a time, he slowly fiddled his way through static, past the Cinnaburst and Juicy Fruit jingles, until suddenly a clear signal popped in. They listened for a moment as a rhythmic guitar looped over and over, and a drum machine kicked out a beat.

"Oh, that’s good," Colin noted.

It always is. Jay popped open the glove box and grabbed a notebook, waiting.

When the music cut out, Jay reflexively pounded on the dashboard until it came back. Finally, it faded, and a man with a slow, low voice spoke.

That was Beck, playing ‘Loser.’

Jay scribbled: Beck. ‘Loser.’

". . . the first single from a career . . . we’ll all be watching . . .

with great anticipation. And this, added the radio voice, is Marvelous Mark, the DJ with real underground hits . . . the world’s not ready for this stuff."

Jay and Colin shook their heads in silent agreement. Despite his name, Marvelous Mark didn’t sound that marvelous. His voice was softer than the DJs on the few FM stations that filtered into Bickleton. They had to crank the radio to hear him whenever he came on. And he accentuated his speech with pauses so long, Jay sometimes thought the radio had gone out. Despite all this, his music taste was esoteric and dangerous and nothing like the bland pop that blasted the halls of Bickleton High. One of Jay’s deepest thrills was that he’d discovered the hidden gem, 669 AM, all on his own.

Up next . . . we have . . . Jay leaned in as the radio died. Then he put the notepad back in the glove box and ruffled around. You still got the Columbia House Music Club catalog in here? I could see if they have Beck.

Colin shook his head. Nah, it fell out.

Jay stared down at his feet. There was a hole in the passenger floor, roughly the size of a backpack. The Columbia Music catalog wasn’t the first thing to fall through it, and Jay kept his feet braced against the frame whenever he rode. The Batmobile didn’t have seat belts, and it was one of Jay’s biggest fears that Colin would slam on the brakes and send him tumbling down to meet his doom.

Ah, well. Jay readjusted his feet. I’ve got mine at home.

Mmmm. Colin nodded, distracted. They were entering the drag. It began with the bluff, a small gravel turnout that served, in theory, as a vantage point. It did have a lovely view, overlooking the bony Skookullom River, and was perfectly poised to capture sunsets melting over the far bluff. But Bickleton residents had seen sunsets aplenty, and no one ever stopped there, aside from the Fourth of July and high school after-parties, when the next morning would find Rainier cans and condom wrappers littered amid the dusty gravel. Most of the time, though, the viewpoint was empty, as it was now.

There wasn’t much to Bickleton. Nestled in the Cascade Range, surrounded by national forest, it was possibly the most isolated town in the state of Washington. Jay was always reminded of this driving through Bickleton’s tiny commercial district. There was the Drug Mart, the Bowl-o-Rama, Petey’s Barbershop, C&C Distribution Services (whatever that was), followed by the Classy Chassis car repair shop, with its terrible sign that was always lit: We want your body.

There was the Bickleton Theater, the town’s single-screen movie theater where Colin worked as an usher. It only showed about seven movies a year and was