The Emperor's Legacy: Game World: Book Two

By GianLorenzo Cortese

GianLorenzo Cortese, a gamer who traveled from a distant future to our present, is writing his memoirs. In The Emperors Legacy, he dives deeper into the future of gaming with all its glamour and danger.
GianLorenzos future games are as intense and involving as real life. The game engine is a machine capable of creating a virtual world indistinguishable from reality, populated by intelligent, unpredictable, and self-directed characters.
In The Emperors Legacy, GianLorenzo begins his adventures among the professional gamers. In a grandiose setting, he meets the emperor, an enlightened leader of a civilization at the height of its power. As the game evolves, GianLorenzo grows oblivious to the thin lines dividing game and reality. Many menacing shadows surround the throne, and GianLorenzo will fight with all he has to keep his promise of loyalty to his emperor.
GianLorenzo Cortese is also the author of Memoirs of a Gamer from the Future, the first in the Game World series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493102488

GianLorenzo Cortese

GianLorenzo Cortese, a gamer who traveled from a distant future to our present, is writing his memoirs. In The Emperor’s Legacy: Book Two of the Game World series, he dives deeper into the future of gaming with all its glamour and danger. GianLorenzo’s future games are as intense and involving as real life. The game engine is a machine capable of creating a virtual world indistinguishable from reality, populated by intelligent, unpredictable, and self-directed characters. GianLorenzo Cortese is also the author of Memoirs of a Gamer from the Future, the fi rst in the Game World series.

Book preview

The Emperor’s Legacy

Game World: Book Two

GianLorenzo Cortese

Copyright © 2013 by GianLorenzo Cortese.

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4931-0247-1

Ebook 978-1-4931-0248-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 10/11/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Game World

The Emperor’s Legacy

The video game industry changed drastically after human-memory manipulation was achieved at the end of the 2070s. Some technologies and hardware dropped out of the picture; others emerged. Images and even behaviors and odors and other sensations were used in games just as what they actually were, frozen data stored in the brain.

A game was, in fact, an induced dream created by the game engines using the content of the player’s memory bank.¹ Memories still needed calculation to be recognized and replicated as desired, but there were no graphic cards or any types of viewers involved.

A regular user would play a game wearing a special kind of cap directly connected to the game engine. At a different level were the professional games, which needed extremely powerful and dedicated game engines. Only professional players, called gamers, could play those kinds of games, in which they interacted with intelligent autonomous entities and with real-life situations.

I was one of those gamers.

PROLOGUE

I took care of everything, Sardo said. He was standing next to the window, looking down at the street through a little gap left open between the heavy curtains.

The light in the room was very low. Robert Sardo didn’t like the brightness of the day. He preferred the darkness. It was his natural element. It was soothing to him, maybe because he didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t even want to see his own image in a mirror—it would upset him—and this explained why no mirrors could be found at his place.

Mother Nature hadn’t been good to Sardo. He was short, extremely short. He had to look up to see the faces of people, and this was the most humiliating of situations to him. His spirit soared so much higher than everyone else’s; why did he have to be shorter in body? And as if that ignominious shortness were not enough, he was also ugly, with his protruding eyes, his big aquiline nose, and his large ears.

He is perfect, Sardo stated with a sneer on his face. I don’t have any doubt about it, he is the right person.

Sardo was using an earcom so that he was the only one who could hear the voice on the other side of the line.² He was silent for a while, listening attentively to the voice.

My men are working on that, Sardo replied. Everything is under control. You will get what you want.

Again he listened to the voice, and again he replied with authority.

Yes, I am aware of that, and I am taking full responsibility.

The person on the other side ended the communication. Sardo pressed his ear gently to disconnect. He stood there in silence, staring into space. He felt like he had had to move mountains, but finally, he was reaping the benefits of his hard work. He silently congratulated himself. He had been clever, very clever. Sardo could see the approach of his final revenge, the ultimate celebration of his power, and this was filling him with excitement and expectation.

The truth was that he deeply hated that young man and all he represented. Sardo couldn’t forget his past humiliation. He didn’t simply want a victory. He needed to annihilate that man, to destroy him, to erase him from the earth’s face forever.

He felt the pressure of his hatred building inside his chest and growing more and more, and just when it seemed that it was going to explode in all its devastating fury, it came out of his mouth in a little spurt of laughter, and then another, and another, until he was laughing loud and hard, and the laughter brought tears to his eyes, and his legs couldn’t hold him, and he kneeled on the floor, laughing and crying at the same time in the stark emptiness of his room.

CHAPTER 1

It was the end of June. The sky was overcast, and the sun was barely visible behind the clouds, and yet the contrast between the building’s cool internal temperature and the hot and humid air in the street was shocking. I opened the lobby door and stepped outside. I was hit by a gust of humidity, and my forehead was rapidly covered with sweat drops.

New York, hot, steamy, beautiful New York.

I jumped over the three steps like a feline. My long blond hair waved and then fell again on my shoulders when my soft fabnet moccasins landed gently on the curb.³ I adjusted the strap of the canvas bag across my chest, and I sat on the first step, ready to wait for a while.

Here it is, I said, catching sight of an approaching yellow vehicle. The car glided silently over the broken glass and the garbage of the street, and it stopped in front of the building.

York Avenue, I said to the robot-driver as I entered the vehicle.

Which number? the robot replied.

Just take me to the closest intersection with York Avenue.

I sat back while the vehicle merged with the traffic. The avenues looked like yellow rivers of floating cabs.

A few days before, at the ceremony where I received my diploma in advanced game playing, one of my teachers had secretly slipped a note into my hand. An address, a date, and a time were neatly written by hand on that note. I didn’t know what to make of it, and after a few days of debating with myself, I had finally decided to go to that address, which was in the east end of the city, on York Avenue, on the date and at the time specified in the note. And that was the reason I was in that cab.

When the vehicle reached York Avenue, I paid the fare and continued on foot the rest of the way. I enjoyed walking through the city’s streets. Manhattan, with all its issues and rotten, decaying parts, had always presented a magic sight to my eyes. After a while, I arrived at the address on the note.

And what the hell is this?

The building was abandoned. The glass of the door to the lobby was shattered; only an empty dangling frame was left. The intercom box on the left was torn open, and broken phone wires were hanging from it. I could see from the sidewalk where I stood that the lobby was filled with all kinds of garbage—papers, cartons, plastic bags, and broken bottles. I felt like immediately going back to my apartment, but I hated the idea that I had come that far for nothing.

Why in the world did Professor Akerman give me this address? I thought. I didn’t know what to do, but after a while, I said to myself, Oh well, I came up here . . . I’ll go to the first floor, no more than that. If I don’t see something meaningful, I’ll leave.

I stepped into the lobby. It was partially illuminated by the external light, but as soon as I walked to the left and entered a small hallway, where I supposed the entrance to the stairs was, I could barely make out the contours of things. Immediately after an elevator, which obviously was not functioning, I found a small door. I opened it.

There the obscurity was complete. I felt like an astronaut stepping into a starless void. I proceeded to my left with extreme caution. I knew that I was walking on broken glass and pieces of plaster—I could hear the crunching under my feet—but besides that noise, there was the most absolute and creepy silence. After a few moments, I found the first step with my foot. I began to go up, one step at a time, lightly brushing the humid wall on my left with my hand. Since I couldn’t count on my eyes, my hand on the wall helped me to get a spatial idea of where I was. It also gave me some sense of security, just knowing that at least something was there. I felt a strange cool breeze coming from the floor on my right, and as far as I knew, two feet from where I was, in that direction, there could have been an abyss. There was an unpleasant smell, a mix of mold and decomposing organic material.

I arrived at the first floor. The darkness was still absolute, and I knew I had reached a floor, because my foot didn’t encounter a new step but a flat surface covered with carpet. Loyal to what I had decided and since I had not found anything of importance, I quickly turned around to go back downstairs and out of that building as fast as I could. I heard a noise behind me. Someone was breathing on my neck. The last thing I remembered was the mild pain of a needle entering my shoulder.

When I came back to my senses, I was lying on the seat of a cab. The lights in the streets were flashing rapidly through the window. It was night. I could hardly move. What was I doing in that cab? A while later it stopped. I was dazed. We were in front of the building where I lived.

How much do I owe you? I asked the robot-driver, assuming that I was supposed to pay something.

The fare has already been paid, thank you, it answered.

Who put me in this cab?

Two men, the robot replied. I asked for more details, but that was all I could get. After all, it was a machine. I got out, and the cab left.

I checked my pockets, my documents, my wallet; nothing had been taken from me. Who were those two men? It was thirty minutes after ten. I had arrived at the abandoned building on York Avenue five hours before, and I could account for no more than fifteen minutes spent there. Even considering one hour coming back in the cab—and at night with no traffic, it was a generous calculation—what had happened during the rest of the time?

*     *     *

For a few days, I tried to figure out the meaning of that disturbing adventure. I couldn’t believe Professor Akerman had led me into such an ambush. And why would she do it? I was practically ready to go to her office at the college to demand an explanation when I was called by an employee of the public administration.

He informed me that I had an appointment with Mr. Boon, officer of the Foreign Affairs department, which was located in uptown Manhattan. Confusion added to confusion—what could Foreign Affairs want from me? Was the appointment somehow connected to the incidents of York Avenue? I decided to postpone my visit to Professor Akerman, and I went instead to the Foreign Affairs department for the meeting with Mr. Boon.

We were comfortably seated in two leather armchairs, one in front of the other, separated by a small coffee table. Mr. Boon was a heavyset man in his late forties and, like all the other administration officers, wore a blue-and-gray uniform. He had just finished going through the initial courtesies.

Mr. Cortese, he said cordially, let’s cut to the chase. I’m sure you are wondering why you’ve been asked to come here and see me.

He couldn’t have been more correct. It had been four days since I received that call, and I was asking myself exactly that question.

I’m sure you know about the Six Lands, Boon said, leaning slightly forward.

You mean the competition?

Exactly! As you know, it takes place every five years, and every time, it’s hosted by a different block.⁴

Yes, every five years, I confirmed, still wondering why I was there. I had noticed that his eyes were twinkling, as though he was anticipating the result of a prank he was about to pull.

And we are participating in that competition, he continued, still smiling mischievously.

Yes, it’s common knowledge. This year, if I’m not mistaken, it’s hosted in Europa, I said, trying to show interest in the conversation but thinking that he was stalling, and I was wondering why.

And that is why you are here, Mr. Cortese. This year, you are the gamer who will represent us at the Six Lands.

What? I exclaimed, jumping up from my seat. That didn’t make any sense. By normal standards, it wasn’t even remotely possible. They were sending me, an amateur who had never played in a game except in the didactic games in school or for fun with friends, to represent America in a tournament of such importance? Even Topo’s head came out of the bag on the coffee table, and he looked at Boon with puzzlement in its eyes.

And who is this nice fellow? Boon asked, laughing.

This is Topo, I replied, still shaking from what he had said. Trying to regain my composure, I placed the little creature on my lap. It’s a semi-sentient proto-cyborg. I’ve had it for a very long time, and I usually carry it with me. I hope it’s not a problem. I assure you that it is very well educated.

When standing on its thin metallic legs, Topo was about ten inches tall. It had two long arms that reached its knees, and the walnut-shaped head had been provided with a small mouth. It had also two luminous, oval-shaped eyes made of glass. It was a sweet little kind of toy.

Buo-o-ongio-o-orno, Topo said to Boon.

Not a problem… what did it say?

It said good morning. Topo speaks in its own way. It was programmed like that. Don’t ask me why.

That’s funny, Boon commented, amused.

Mr. Boon, I said, returning Topo to my bag and sincerely wanting to clarify a situation that struck me as absurd, to say the least, "as much as I would love to play in that competition, I’m afraid there is a serious mistake here. For my sake and yours, I believe you have to know… I mean, I am a gamer, but… I don’t think you are aware that I just came out of college. I actually got my diploma last week, and I don’t have any professional game on my record—nothing at all, nada de nada, zip, it’s an absolute zero.

So I am pretty sure that there’s been some mistake. Maybe the person you are looking for has a name similar to mine, or someone gave you the wrong name altogether, or there is a bug somewhere in the software that selected my name. You surely want a proven professional, not an absolute beginner, to represent the block in an event of such importance.

"Your name has been given to us by a trusted source, not just by software, Mr. Cortese. There is no mistake. GianLorenzo Cortese is—I mean, you are—the gamer we want." Boon was smiling, amused by my surprise.

May I know who this source is? I asked, astonished.

I am sorry, but I cannot give out that kind of information.

And you don’t care that I don’t have any experience?

Experience has nothing to do with our choice. You did exceptionally well in your final exam, scoring off the charts. No one had ever gotten close to that result. But most of all, we trust our source, who assured us that you are the man for the job. In any case, Mr. Cortese, Boon added with a sigh, I would hate to see you waste such an opportunity, but you can refuse if you want. It is entirely up to you. My only issue is that I need an answer right now. I am sorry, but you see… he said in a whisper, as he bent forward to get closer to me, as if he wanted to tell me something that he wasn’t supposed to reveal, in that case, I would have to replace you, and there is not much time before the competition.

No way! I exclaimed in a hurry. I didn’t say that I refuse, Mr. Boon. If it is good for Foreign Affairs, I am fine with it—I totally accept. And then I concluded with enthusiasm, It will be an honor!

Excellent! Boon exclaimed, relaxing in his armchair.

*     *     *

It goes without saying that the excitement that followed and the frenetic preparation for my flight, which was the first in my life, obscured all that had happened on York Avenue. The few days leading up to the departure went by in the blink of an eye, and I soon found myself sitting with Topo on an intercontinental airplane.

*     *     *

At this time, all passengers are invited to wear the flight cap located on the right side of their seat.

I found that voice annoying. I was nervous and jumpy.

Tu-u-utto a-a-andra’ be-e-ene, Topo said from his seat right next to me.

Yes, I know, I replied as I positioned the cap on my head, following the blue words of the instructions floating in the air right in front of me. "For you, it’s easy—everything will be fine—but this is my first time on a plane. Am I allowed to be a little nervous?"

Topo looked at me in silence with its big green eyes. I smiled and caressed the little head. Topo leaned against my hand like