Chapter Three: Animal Communication

  In all the time I’d spent in the simulation with Jack and Emma, I’d never thought to get their cell phone numbers. I guess maybe we’d all assumed that cell service was a thing of the past now that the System integration had begun.

  But I desperately wished I could call them now. Or at least text them.

  There was a cat in my kitchen. Talking to me.

  And the System had just confirmed that I understood it, by giving me a point in a skill.

  A skill for talking to cats.

  The odd numbness that had been plaguing me ever since I found the rift in my backyard was starting to completely crack, splintering on the surreal normality of a cat. In my kitchen. Talking.

  Okay, not talking, exactly.

  It was, in fact, drinking water at the moment, lapping at the surface with a delicate precision that was completely unlike the way dogs slopped it down.

  I waited until it lifted its head from the bowl, and then asked, “How did you get in here?”

  The cat did not deign to reply. Instead, it turned its head away from me, and licked its shoulder. My animal communication skill was just good enough to know that it was a comment, but not good enough to know what the comment meant. It felt a little like, “Don’t ask stupid questions,” but it could have been, “I don’t want to talk about it,” or “Do I know you?” just as easily.

  “Fine, be that way,” I muttered. I pulled open the door to the sunroom—not like closing it had kept the cat out anyway—and crossed to the French doors to call the dogs in for breakfast.

  There were only two dogs in the yard.

  Riley was doing his thing, roaming the yard, nose down, checking out the newest smells. Zelda was sitting before the… spot… that I knew was a rift entrance, even though it looked like a weird, iridescent patch of mist. But Bear was nowhere to be seen.

  That was… odd. Not a problem, though. Of course not.

  The back yard and the front yard were effectively one contiguous space. Sure, they had different names, but they weren’t separated by a physical barrier. Bear must just be in the front, out of my sight.

  You know how sometimes you tell yourself something that you know isn’t true? Like walking out of a test that you bombed and pretending it wasn’t that bad? Or wanting to believe the guy you’re seeing is the one, even though the red flags are popping up like a game of Whack-a-mole?

  I was telling myself that Bear’s non-appearance was meaningless but deep down I knew better.

  Bear was never late to breakfast.

  Here’s a funny thing about dogs: a dog that has never gone hungry can be nonchalant regarding human ideas around mealtimes. Dogs are predators and scavengers, and in a natural environment, eating every few days is typical for them.

  A dog that’s gone hungry, though? A dog that’s had to rely on itself for every one of those scavenged or hunted meals? That dog eats when the food appears, stocking up on those calories for the times when it doesn’t appear. That dog has no off switch for its appetite.

  Before Bear showed up in our lives, I kept kibble on the floor at all times. Zelda and Riley ate what they pleased, when they pleased.

  Bear couldn’t live that way. If there was food, Bear ate. No off switch.

  And Bear never missed breakfast.

  “Puppies.” I clapped my hands, three times, as loudly as I could. “Breakfast.”

  Riley, my darling goofy boy, lifted his head, then galumphed over to me like any middle-aged dog with an enthusiastic soul.

  Food, I felt him saying, as he wedged past me and into the sunroom. Yes, time for food.

  Zelda flicked an ear in my direction, then glanced over her shoulder. Then she looked back at the breach.

  I reached behind me and grabbed Warden’s Edge, still sitting by the side of the door where I’d left it five minutes ago, and started to run.

  I did not put on my shoes.

  If you live in some normal place, like maybe Pennsylvania, that probably doesn’t mean anything to you. I’ve been told people go barefoot there. Literally, they walk around outside without covering their feet. I scoffed, but my informant swore it was true.

  We don’t do that in Florida. On beaches, okay, but away from the water? Nope. We have fire ants. You only have to get bitten by a fire ant once to develop an eternal enmity, the kind that makes genocide seem reasonable, and to learn to always, always, always wear shoes outside.

  But my animal communication skill was hard at work, and I knew, as clearly as I knew my name, that Zelda was sitting outside the breach wondering if Bear was coming back, because Bear had gone into the rift.

  Barefoot, in my pajamas, carrying my shovel, I ran headlong into that iridescent shimmer in space.

  Was it stupid? God, yes. It was stupid like dancing outside in a thunderstorm, like not paying your taxes, like ignoring your own instincts.

  Like running barefoot in fire ant territory stupid.

  But I did it anyway, because Bear was part of my pack. Not like Zelda. Not my girl, not my heart dog, but still much more than a pet.

  Family.

  Bear was my family and I was not leaving her to face the unknown alone.

  The transition was almost familiar. That same black nothingness that lasted no time and yet felt like it might be forever. I stumbled out of it into a space that felt equally familiar, that nowhere place the System had taken me after the scenario ended.

  Closing my eyes was instinctive, a rejection of the location, but of course made me nauseated so fast that I opened them again a split second later.

  “Bear?” I called. I meant to yell, but my voice wobbled a little. I didn’t want to be here and there was no sign of my dog.

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  The red dot in the corner of my eye was blinking again, and since I couldn’t think of anything better to do, I opened my notifications.

  Congratulations, Rift Keeper, and welcome to the Rift Management Sub-System. As an authorized Class One user, this entry-level tutorial will introduce you to the essential functions of your personalized Rift Management Interface (RMI). Would you like to begin?

  “What?” I stared at the message, trying to make sense of it. Essential functions? What the hell?

  Obviously, I needed to take this tutorial. I’d learned my lesson from the scenario: skipping the instructions was not a good idea. But did I have to do it now? I needed to find Bear before she got into trouble.

  The System took my response as a yes, and my notifications window disappeared. In its place: another PowerPoint slide. The perky mascot from the class selection tool bounced into view, waving at me with faked enthusiasm.

  “Welcome to Introduction to Rift Management,” the avatar chirped. “By the end of this tutorial, you’ll be able to—”

  It waved an arm toward the empty air beside it, like some corporate HR trainer trying to pretend the annual mandatory workplace safety training was going to be fun, fun, fun. A bulleted list appeared.

  ? Create and navigate your personalized Rift Management Interface

  ? Purchase and equip your introductory rift management skills or abilities

  ? Monitor and interpret basic rift activity metrics

  The bullets kept going, but… bullet points. Is it even possible for a human being to read a bullet list? They’re like visual chloroform. The moment those dots appear, my eyes glaze over.

  I wanted to pay attention, really I did, but I wanted a cup of coffee a lot more. And I wanted to find my dog even more than that.

  “How long will this take?” I asked the empty space around me. “I need coffee. And I need to find Bear.”

  The Powerpoint stuttered, flickered, and disappeared.

  The words Personalized Rift Management Interface selected appeared before me, and the nothingness—that dizzying nowhere space around me— transformed.

  Suddenly, I was standing in a cafe, with hardwood floors, leafy green plants, a scattering of tables and chairs, even a big front window spilling golden light across a window seat. Shelves lined one wall, holding a jumble of books, boxes, and glass jars. A chalkboard menu hung above the counter, and behind it stood Chelsea.

  Well, System Chelsea, I assumed.

  “Interesting choice,” she said brightly.

  “What is this place?” I moved closer to the counter. The espresso machine was huge, shiny, and oh-so-tempting.

  “Your RMI. Latte?” System Chelsea stepped over to the espresso machine, pulling out the portafilter like a pro.

  My Rift Management Interface was a coffee shop. A fancy coffee shop.

  “I need to find Bear,” I told her. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Ah.” Chelsea glanced at the chalkboard above her head.

  I followed her gaze. I’d assumed the board was a menu, because coffee shop, chalkboard, menu. What else would it be?

  Answer: some kind of rift listing. Or maybe a status display? I couldn’t really tell because most of it was completely incomprehensible. I didn’t know whether it was written in another language, or whether it was stylized specifically to be unreadable, like those captchas that are meant to stop bots and half the time stop me, too.

  The first entry on the list, though, was in English. It read:

  Thorn’s Edge—A Tier One rift with two breaches, one on freshly integrated planet Earth, the other on mana-rich but undeveloped planet Rhesca. Setting heavily influenced by Earth. Rift denizens primarily, but not exclusively, native to Rhesca.

  Tier One Progress: 18%

  Current instances: 1.

  Occupants: Bear, Zelda.

  I did not start hyperventilating, although I wanted to. Zelda must have followed me into the rift, but instead of being transported to this place, she’d wound up somewhere else with Bear.

  “How do I get there?” I asked.

  System Chelsea slid a paper cup under the espresso spout. “Are you sure you want to do that? Wouldn’t you like to finish the tutorial first?”

  “I—” I hesitated, torn, then glanced down at my bare feet. I’d been worried enough about Bear that I ran across my grass barefoot. Did I really trust that she would be okay on her own?

  But she wasn’t alone. Zelda would be with her, and Zelda ought to be able to keep her safe. On the other hand, who was going to keep Zelda safe? What if the rift was more dangerous than the challenge scenario?

  System Chelsea opened the spout and let the espresso pour into the cup. I could smell it from my side of the counter and it smelled amazing, that fresh coffee aroma, rich and dark.

  “How long will it take?” I asked.

  “Up to you,” System Chelsea answered. “A few hours? Longer is definitely possible, if you wish to take your time.”

  “I don’t have that kind of time,” I replied immediately. “I need to find my dogs.”

  “Might I suggest at least using your ticket to pick up your introductory abilities and skill?” Chelsea started steaming a pitcher of milk.

  “My…” For a minute I didn’t remember what she was talking about. Then I fumbled in Zelda’s treat bag still slung across my shoulder for the prescription that Chelsea had given me. I’d stuffed it in there yesterday after finding the breach.

  I pulled it out and glanced at it again.

  Rift Management Authorization - Class One

  Available credits:

  One common ability

  One uncommon ability

  One +10 skill adjustment

  “What’s the difference between a skill and an ability?” I asked.

  Chelsea gave me a look. If she’d still been my therapist, the look would have meant, I’ll wait patiently until you realize the implications of what you just said.

  Out loud, she said, “Are you sure you wouldn’t just like to take the tutorial?”

  “Of course I’d like to take the tutorial. But my dogs are in the rift without me, and I’m guessing the rift is dangerous.”

  Chelsea waggled her hand in a so-so gesture. “Tier One means denizens of Levels 1 through 10, traps and puzzles of basic difficulty, limited environmental risks, common rift rewards, that kind of thing. Given your current level and abilities, it shouldn’t pose much of a challenge for you or Zelda.”

  Some of the tension in my chest loosened. Dangerous, yes, but not challenge-scenario dangerous.

  Then Chelsea added, “The bigger dog is still only Level 1, so yes, it’s hazardous for her. Solo delving rifts is not recommended at Level 1.”

  “She’s not alone, though, right? Zelda’s with her?”

  Zelda would take care of Bear. She’d probably enjoy it. She’d be so smug about being able to defeat anything that threatened her younger, bigger, tougher pack-mate.

  “They’re both in the instance, yes. Together?” Chelsea shrugged.

  “You can’t tell?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “As your personalized interface construct, I’m not omniscient, and observing rift instances in progress isn’t possible for a Class One Rift Keeper.”

  “All right, then I need to get into the rift and make sure Bear’s okay. I don’t have time for PowerPoint.”

  Chelsea made a noncommittal hum. “Fine. In that case, to answer your question, an ability is always System-granted. Sometimes they evolve, but they don’t level up. Skills, on the other hand, can be granted or learned on your own—the System will recognize them either way. And skills improve the more you use them. You’ll gain incremental proficiency with practice.”

  “And traits?”

  “Awarded upon achieving attribute milestones. Typically more like abilities than skills, but often passive or innate effects that activate without conscious control.”

  “Does everyone get the same traits?”

  “At the lowest level of gain, usually.” Chelsea leaned on the countertop. “Still sure you can’t take the tutorial?”

  I wavered for a second, but then I thought of the goblins in the scenario. They didn’t usually travel alone. There’d been something like sixteen of them in that first pack that had attacked me. Even if Bear and Zelda were together, that might give them trouble.

  “I really can’t,” I said, with a firm shake of my head.

  “All right. Time to choose your abilities, then.” Chelsea straightened, picked up the pitcher of milk, and poured it into the cup with the adeptness of a practiced barista. She pushed the cup across the counter toward me, then stood back and gestured at the glass display case. “Take your pick.”