This is Page 14

Val stood on a beam on the 30th floor of an unfinished building. The breeze whistled in her ears and she had some gun-looking thing in her hand. It had a hose connected to a tank. Welding gas? Pressurized air for driving rivets? She had no idea. "Hey, Beckstein! Yer falling behind!" Val looked at the foreman, unsure what to do with equipment she didn't recognize. Wind tugged at her reflective safety vest.

A high-pitched blast signaled lunch. Unfamiliar workers put down their gear and headed for the elevator. "Not you, Beckstein! You work through lunch!"

Flushing, Val lifted her gun-thing and set it against a beam. A rivet appeared in the beam with a deafening ker-chunk, recoil throwing her back just as a gust of wind yanked her off balance. Clinging to the beam, she watched her hard hat tumble down thirty stories. A moment later, she followed it, plummeting to the ground... and through.

If Val plunges into an underground cavern of alien technology, turn to page 61.

If she starts awake sitting at her desk on the on the second floor, turn to page 22.

If she dies and reincarnates into another body, go to page 54.

The Impossible Ream

"Why won't my thing print? Can anyone figure out this damn printer?" "It's out of paper," came the yell from downstairs.

He looked closer. "Nevermind, hon, it's out of paper."

"Where's that printer paper?" he muttered, rooting through the dusty cupboard on his knees. "Here we go." He opened the printer tray, ripped open the ream of paper, and froze.

Single-spaced print covered the top sheet of paper. It looked like a story. He looked closer. A biography, starting when the subject was an infant. Skimming the first few paragraphs, he saw the baby was born in the same town he'd grown up in, and an itch ran down his spine.

He looked at the next page. Also covered in print, this one related some story he vaguely recalled his mother telling of his childhood. He cut deep into the stack and flipped through pages up and down, each covered with the same print. Digging deeper, looking for an end, for the present, he looked faster and faster until he came to the last page, where he saw text still appearing, one character at a time.

On the last line, he read, "And his final act was to realize that"

That Creepy Stuff

"Damn, how does he look so fucking good? I mean, have you been in his place? He doesn't even have a mirror." "Magic, probably. You know, that creepy stuff where he sacrifices a kid under the full moon or something."

"Nah, that shit doesn't work."

"Of course it doesn't—"

"Tried it once, didn't do a thing. Complete bullshit."

All he could do was stare as his friend continued.

"Yeah, all I got was a hell of a cleaning bill, you know?"

"No, I don't fucking know. Are you serious about this?"

"Well, sure. I tried it. Just once. I mean, since it didn't work, and all."

"Oh, and if it'd worked, you'd have done it again?"

"Man, I don't know, probably. Depends on how the magic works, right? If it wears off or something."

"You're serious."

"Well, it was a weird time. College, right?" He shrugged, as if that excused it.

"You don't just kill. A. Kid. I can't believe — whose kid was it?"

"What? Mine, I bought it."

"Bought it? From who, a homeless person?"

"From a farm, idiot."

He paused. "You're talking about a goat."

"Duh. A kid goat."

"That's still fucking gross."

"No argument there, dude."

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.