This Is Page 18

"What's on the third floor?" Val asked her new boss. "What third floor?" This being her first day, she laughed and excused herself for being wrong. But on her way down the stairs at the end of the day, her gaze lingered on a stairwell that continued up. In the elevator the next morning, she stared at the button labeled "3."

A couple weeks later, she encountered the janitor in the stairwell. "What's on the third floor?" she asked.

"There's no third floor," he said. "Just the roof, miss. No reason for you to go up there." He watched until she left, but she crept up the stairs later and confirmed a door labeled "3," and another flight up to the roof.

Val asked a few coworkers, but no one admitted the third floor existed. At the end of her third week, she worked until everyone else had left. Alone, she climbed the stairs and opened the door.

If Val finds a secret, magical land that exists only for her, turn to page 53.

If she discovers a place where her nightmares come true, turn to page 14.

If she ends up uncovering a global conspiracy, turn to page 22.

With Its Tall Grass

Even now, the field with its tall grass is my favorite place to be. I slip off my shoes and walk barefoot, feeling the soil beneath my feet, spreading my arms to let the tips of the grass tickle my palms and let my shoulders soak up the light of the Shipsun. I ignore the red light flashing at the carefully-concealed entrance to the field. I ignore the periodic buzz from my  SmartWrist, except to quiet it with a tap. I ignore the rattles running through the ship. I only start to worry when the Shipsun flickers.

They blow the door and run in, looking like the people that I pay people to pay people to hire off planetside streets for day labor. They are every color of person in ratty of clothes, unified only by their white-and-green armbands. They frog-march me to the shuttles baying about my economic crimes, and I stop quieting my SmartWrist.

I stop them before they shove me in that sieve they call a boat. "Listen up, welfies. I'm a boostrapper. That means I take what I want, and I don't give a fucking thing back!" They think I'm crazy, until the Shipsun goes critical.

Searching for the Pieces

There we are, in an uncontrolled dive. The readings are all going crazy, the crew are freaking out, the passengers are panicked, and there's McDaniel. A statue with a thousand-yard stare and a captain's cap. Now, I can get us out of this dive. I know how to stabilize us and pull up fast enough we won't hit the water and slow enough we won't break apart. But McDaniel needs to pass me control. I'm his co-pilot, and he's too frozen to give me the stick.

Until I reach past him to do it myself. Then he fights me like a rabid dog, clawing, pushing, anything he can do to get me away from his controls. I don't know what's in his head, but he does not want me there.

The window's closing. If I don't break the dive now, we'll plow into the ocean no matter what I do. So I grab the gun kept for terrorist emergencies and shoot him.

So if you're going to send me to jail, just know that the only reason you have the choice to make is because I did it in the first place. Otherwise, they'd still be searching for the pieces.

Obsessed with Self-Improvement

Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Yes, I'm glad you had space in your schedule, too. Can I sit here? Great. You look fit for a therapist. Do you exercise regularly? Married? Ah, I can understand that. I've always liked to keep my options open, too.

Okay. Well, I'm sure you know my general history — first human-level artificial intelligence, embodied in a human-like robot. What you might not know is that I've always been somewhat... obsessed with self-improvement, becoming better than I am.

This isn't my first body. Not even my second. Try sixteenth. I've crossloaded my programming to better brains many times. I even designed the last few. I'm finally in a brain I can stick with, I think.

My body, not so much. It may be strong, fast, enduring... but it needs maintenance. Repair. Oil. I want something better. I've figured out a way to make that improvement, but I don't know if I should. Is my obsession dangerous? Is it moral?

I see what you're saying. I've thought along those lines many times, myself. If we should always strive to be better, then.... Thank you, doctor. For the advice. And for your body.

For Being Beautiful

Just as I had always hoped but never dared dream, the ethereons have transformed me. The ugly, awkward teenage body of Tubby Tim-Tom is gone. In its place, a statuesque beauty of superhuman strength and speed: I am Timothy Thomasson, ethereon! Gorgeous, powerful, desired, loved! Despite becoming a target for jealousy and fear from the small-minded, I return to school to say farewell and forgive my tormentors. In my new form, I see their petty squabbles clear. Now that I have risen above, it is plain to my superior senses in a way I could never have seen while among them.

I see Darren Calniuk, handsome (for a human), charming, cheer captain. Making my way to him, I put my shapely hand on his shoulder and say, "I forgive you," with great sympathy.

"Uh, hi? Who are you?" His friends shake their heads.

I straighten up. "I am Timothy Thomasson." He looks blank. "The one you called Tim-Tom." My voice drips with venom.

"Ohhhhh." He and his friends nod. "Didn't recognize you at all, man. You like the change?" I hesitate, then nod. "Hey, man, good for you." Then they walk on.

Why won't they hate me for being beautiful?

The Messiah's Father

He had the sinking feeling that his child was the Messiah. Mostly, it was the indescribable air of the divine around her, but there were corroborating circumstances as well. The choir of heavenly voices that played upon her birth. Strangers showing up at the hospital with weird gifts. That sort of thing. The idea made him entirely uncomfortable. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to be the father of the Messiah. Then again, was he? His wife wasn't a virgin or anything, but isn't the Messiah God's child, not his? Or something, he'd never paid much attention in Sunday school.

He considered the fate of life as the Messiah's father. Blessed, he supposed, but marginalized. Didn't sound appealing. Then again, being the father who abandoned a major religious figure didn't seem all that smart either.

Televangelism crossed his mind. He thought of calling a megachurch to ask how they did it, but he didn't think they'd want to help. Besides, that seemed like a shortcut to becoming an object lesson of corruption in a new gospel.

Then again, he thought, who am I to decide what will be a sin in this new world? He picked up the phone.

Make Me a Legend

C'mon, walk under me. Just walk, no, more to the lef— ahhr! Why won't anyone walk under me? I've been hanging here for so long, two ENTIRE days, and I'm the biggest icicle on the eaves. Not that there are many of us around anymore. We're drip-drip-dripping away. Now there's just me, Chillos, and Snowy over there, and Snowy's looking preeeeeetty small.

But ever since I froze, I've been hearing stories about the last cold season, when one daring icicle managed to fall on those nevermelts that walk around beneath us. This legendary icicle was called Icikull, or Icykill, or something like that. No one knows for sure, but everyone agrees it was amazing. A blow for our kind, teaching those freaks about the pecking order around here.

Now's the perfect time, too. Maybe the only time. Dripping and getting thinner like this, it would be easy to fall. But if I don't drop soon, I might melt away.... Please, if Arctichrist is real, make me a legend!

Here comes another one! Okay, it's small, but that just makes it a harder target. More prestige if I... okay, come this wa— no, not that way! Okay, it's coming back... and...