The whole sky turned blood-red, displaying a blue number: 300. It went down to 299 after a second. No-one quit the system. They stood on the street and looked up at the huge countdown in the sky. The whole World, the whole universe kept a mutual silence. People crowded and said nothing. It seemed that each one of us was counting down the final seconds of his or her life.

I had never seen such a grave scene since I first had come to MUD. No-one was hurrying anymore. Not now that we had less than five minutes till the end of the World.

Something flew overhead, circled over the crowd. A light shone up, lit it in a circle of flame. It was a Wizard. Suddenly, a wiry voice broke the silence. "One seventy-eight, one seventy-seven, one seventy-six..." The voice was harsh. It sounded like someone's final voice. It was frightening. People listened quietly, waited quietly. A girl beside me began to cry. There were tears in all kinds of colours, blowing amongst the crowd. I thought: she must have got a Dynamic Expression Tracer. My nose grew warm too, but I refused to set the "Cry" command. Sadness permeated the crowd and there was crying, crying....

Under the b.l.o.o.d.y red sky, the number grew smaller and smaller, nearly at zero.

"I didn't expect to be so sad...." Porket said. "Goodbye!" I hugged him closely. "Come back after you die!" He raised his hand, wanted to say something, but couldn't continue.

The time had come.

The whole World froze at that moment, including Porket's hand: splashing tears, simulated sad faces. Everything froze...and slowly, slowly faded out, faded into a rimless dark. A window appeared. "MUD system has shut down. Thank you for your support."

I took off the headpiece and just sat there. The true tears disobeyed my command, falling down my face. The s.p.a.ce around me seemed full of grey air. Outside, the noisy world was still there, and it seemed there had never been a MUD system, that this external system had never been shut down. Looking out of the window, I saw many skysc.r.a.pers rising over the modern mist. The sky was grey, the buildings were grey, the world was grey, and the world was real. Time went by peacefully without any graphics. Who said time did not exist? I sat down on the chair. My gaze took in the door to the bathroom, the door to the bedroom...then the door to there.

I had not been out of the apartment for three years.

What should I do? I felt sick. I thought it might be the absence of the virtual s.p.a.ce simulation. I had heard someone call it MUD Syndrome. I knew nothing about medicine, but I knew it was an addiction, and if it was that then we were all junkies.

The grey wall around me asphyxiated me. Outside, the world was the same grey. I paced back and forth in the room, taking deep breaths. My sight was blurry. To avoid fainting, I ran into the bedroom, threw myself onto the bed and fell into a sleep haunted with circling blocks of primary colours.

The alarm woke me up. I surfaced as from an abyss, staring around me without comprehension. It was 4:00 p.m. already. The computer told me there was an urgent email for me.

I went and opened my mailbox.

Dear ****: Hi!

I am One More Sight of You. I have not contacted you before. I found your mailbox address from MWA. Please read the following words carefully.

Hacking the core system of MUD by a secret hacker organisation--Hacker's Cave--caused the shutting down of the MUD system. MWA a.n.a.lysed the attack course, and has gathered 10890 Wizards to back-trace the attackers in the past few hours. We ask you for your help. Please connect to the following address: temp.mud.tsinghua.edu.cn This is a temporary command centre. It supports an emulation-type MUD-7 service, which means you can access it with your terminal with the same effect as a real MUD system.

Yours, One More Sight of You 11/04/2097 09:21:37 GMT.

We strike back! I put on the headpiece and connected to the address at once.

A long path. The red wall on each side of it nearly touched the sky. I moved quickly. Figures appeared and disappeared around me. They were all Wizards, shuttling between sites, collecting information, tracing the attacking hackers. I felt the fire of battle burning in my heart. We strike back! It was a mistake for them to treat MWA as a group of managers. Here were the best master hands, and they would teach these hackers a lesson.

A Wizard who looked like an angel flew down from the sky and touched me with a box. "Okay. You've pa.s.sed the ident.i.ty verification. Follow the arrow, please." Then he turned and flew back into the sky.

An arrow appeared above me, showed me the direction. Following it, I came to the control hall. Strangers were standing in groups, talking to each other. One of them saw me and walked over to me. "Are you the first hacked account--Xingxing?"

I nodded, wondering who this guy was.

"I am One More Sight of You, the Arch-G.o.d of MWA. Welcome to the Discussion Hall of G.o.ds!" He introduced me to the others.

"Ah! Nice to meet you all!" I knew these G.o.ds would never come out unless an extremely important event had happened.

"Let's start! We've found the headquarters of the Hacker's Cave, but met with very strong opposition and were unable to penetrate their defences," One More Sight of You said. "We've processed a total of seven attacks, but they all failed. Luckily, we found their leader's address in one of the sorties."

"What?" I was shocked. You should know that the most difficult thing on the Internet is getting the real ident.i.ty of somebody. And revealing someone's ident.i.ty was a disgraceful thing. You couldn't play anymore if you publicised somebody's real ident.i.ty in MUD.

"It's true. One of our commandos broke into their file system for thirty-two seconds and downloaded a few files. We discovered that one of them was a love letter that their leader wrote to someone, and we found his address in the letter." He showed me the address. "We've decided to face the real person," he said.

"Fine," I said. Then, as he waited, "But what do you need from me?"

He didn't answer me, but turned to the others. "Because you live closest to him," one of them said, "we need you to solve this problem."

"Do you mean you know my address?" I asked coldly.

"As managers of MUD, we know every user's address," One More Sight of You said. "Things will get worse the longer we stand here and just talk. We need to initiate a powerful approach immediately."

"What kind of approach?"

"How did those hackers treat you?" he asked me.

"They killed me."

They nodded to me but said nothing. I looked at the floor for a few seconds. Then I said, "Okay, I will go."

They smiled. One More Sight of You came over to hug me first, then the others did the same thing. "You will be a hero in the history of MUD!" they told me.

Quitting the Internet, I took off my headpiece and washed my face in the bathroom. I went into the back room, opened unused cupboards, brought out a dirty coat, shook it, and put it on. Dirt and dust made me cough. I closed my eyes, thought back for the address and the door pa.s.sword. I opened my eyes and took out a box from under the bed. I opened it, took out the gun, loaded it with bullets. I wasn't a fierce or cruel man, but it didn't pay to cross me. I went back, turned off the computer. I felt calm.

I could see the corridor when I opened the door to there. I faced it for the first time in three years. It didn't seem to have changed much. I gathered my courage and stepped out, went to stand before the lift. The sound of the door closing behind me made me freeze, and I almost ran back home at once. But I soon controlled my absurd alarm and regained my confidence. "It's nothing," I said, speaking out loud, and pushed the lift b.u.t.ton. Nothing happened. Did I need to find any keys first? I looked around and laughed. This was the real world, there were no rules here. I found a notice that said the lift had been damaged. I said, "d.a.m.n it!"

I walked down the stairs.

The light was off. I watched the dark stairs and felt afraid. Could it be outer s.p.a.ce? I held onto the wall and climbed down step by step. Good, there was a light three floors down. I counted the number of floors whilst I was going down. I lived on the seventeenth floor of the building, so that would be...three hundred and forty stairs. G.o.d!

The eleventh floor. My legs began to ache. The distance I had walked here was longer than I did on an ordinary day. More stairs materialised on every corner, endlessly. There wasn't a single person in the corridor. It was as quiet as a cemetery but for the sound of my breathing. I began to doubt whether I would ever see the ground.

Finally, pa.s.sing a corner, I saw a door marked Exit. I walked over and pushed it open.

Noisy world.

Cars, people flowed on the busy street. There was such a variety of colours, beautiful colours below the grey world seen from my apartment. The billboards, the cars, the walking girls, even the rubbish bins beside the street were so colourful. And the sound. The sound here wasn't so pure, so perfect as in MUD. But these sounds made me feel fresh and cool. Catching sight of a streetcorner, my heart beat faster. A six-floor building was over there. It looked very special amongst these skysc.r.a.pers. My target was in a room on the fourth floor there. I put my hand into my pocket, touching the gun, and walked forward, step by step.

There was an iron fence around the building. I pulled open the gate and it made a grating sound. Had he heard it? Was he watching me? I looked for his window but could see only blinds. The door to the building was unlocked. I walked in. An old man popped his head out and looked at me questioningly. I smiled and pointed upstairs. He nodded, gla.s.sy-eyed, without any expression. The dilapidated stairs were covered with a dirty carpet. I stepped up carefully. My legs ached again. Some beggars were sleeping in the corridor. It was difficult to believe that the best hacker in the world lived in such a place. I steered clear of them and stepped up to the fourth floor.

n.o.body was there. I looked around. Maybe some of them were protecting him, so I had to be careful. The sound of the city was far away. I walked to the door slowly, checked that no-one was there, and keyed in the pa.s.sword.

The door slid open quietly. There was a hallway two or three metres long. I could hear rock music at the end of it. The living room was strewn with take-away boxes, papers, dirty clothes. Blinds covered the windows. The music came from a room next to the living room. I took out the gun, stepped soundlessly to the door of that room, and pushed it open.

A man sat there with his back to me, wearing a headpiece of a type I'd not seen. The screen in front of him displayed data, a lot of it. It seemed to be Internet addresses. He didn't hear me, but was nodding his head and wallowing in the world of rock music and the Internet. His hands moved on the keyboard quickly, the data changing at his command.

I stepped behind him and raised my arm. The muzzle of the gun was only twenty centimetres away from his head. My hand shook a little. I took a deep breath, held the gun steadily, and aimed at the centre of his head.

The song suddenly finished. I kept still, listening to the sound of his typing. I was waiting for the music to start again. The man in front of me sighed.

Another song began then. Guitars were screaming wildly. I pulled the safety catch, tightened my finger on the trigger.

The man was nodding his head violently in time to the music.

I stared at him. It was he who had made me die, who had hacked my account, who had caused the MUD system to shut down, who had made all those people in the square cry. I wanted to see him dead.

The music was earsplitting.

He knew nothing at all, nodding his head like an idiot.

Tears formed suddenly. I couldn't help myself. I put the safety catch back with trembling hands, put down my arm, stepped away slowly. I could see his headpiece shaking on top of his head. I stepped back to the other side of the door, closed it, and walked softly away. I walked through the living room, the hallway, the door. I didn't cry until I stood in the corridor. I ran down quickly. A beggar was frightened, staring at me with bloodshot eyes, but said nothing. I ran out of the building and sat on a bench in the street, sobbing. I was trembling all over, as if I had just woken up from a restless dream.

I put the gun in my pocket. I took out and lit a cigarette, watching the people all around me.

A little girl pulling seven or eight balloons walked by me, jumping, laughing. An old beggar carried ratty bags and followed, smelling of carrion and humidity. Roaring cars drove past. A dog didn't pay any attention to its master's scolding, piddling at the street corner. An old woman in a red skirt was haggling with a man behind a stall. A group of young men were laughing and looking around, talking to each other. The little girl with the balloons turned around the corner and disappeared.

This was the real world.

"What are you doing here?" I looked up. She carried a big bag full of groceries, standing there watching me.

I remembered her. I smiled. "I'm watching the street," I said. She looked amazed, and worried. "What happened to you? Why did you come down?"

"Nothing. I just came down."

"En...." She watched me with suspicion. "Let's go back. Don't you want to connect to MUD?" I shook my head, pulled her close to me. "Come on, sit down. Look at the street with me."

We watched each other without speaking. Her eyes grew soft. Finally, she smiled. She sat down by me. "Okay," she said. "Let's watch the street."

She leaned her head against my shoulder. Her breath was warm against my skin. I put my arm around her and held her close. "What shall we do today?" I said.

"L'Aquilone du Estrellas"

("The Kite of Stars").

Dean Francis Alfar.

Dean Francis Alfar is a Filipino playwright, editor, and writer. His literary awards include multiple Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature--including the Grand Prize for Novel for Salamanca (Ateneo Press, 2006), as well as the Manila Critics' Circle National Book Awards for the graphic novels Siglo: Freedom and Siglo: Pa.s.sion, and the Philippines Free Press Literary Award. His first collection, The Kite of Stars and Other Stories was published in 2007. With wife, Nikki Alfar, he has edited the annual anthology series Philippine Speculative Fiction.

The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed, and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.

Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama-the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade), and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch sh.e.l.ls from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.

In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail--the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her--she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death.

These were the elements of the accident-waiting-to-happen: an ill-tempered horse hitched to some n.o.ble's qalesa; an equally ill-tempered qalesa driver with a whip; a whistling panadero with a tray of plump pan du sal perched on his head; two puddles of fresh rainwater brought about by a brief downpour earlier that day; a sheet of stained gla.s.s en route to its final destination at the house of the Most Excellent Primo Orador; a broken bottle of wine; and, of course, the young man who walked with his eyes closed.

Without a moment's further thought, Maria Isabella stepped on the tail of the dog that was resting near her. The poor animal yelped in pain, which in turn startled the horse, making it stop temporarily; which in turn angered the qalesa driver even more, making him curse the horse; which in turn upset the delicate melody that the panadero was whistling; which in turn made the panadero miss stepping into the two puddles of rainwater; which in turn gave the men delivering the sheet of stained gla.s.s belonging to the Most Excellent Primo Orador an uninterrupted path; which in turn gave the young man enough room to cross the street without so much as missing a beat or stepping onto the broken wine bottle; which in turn would never give him the infection that had been destined to result in the loss of his right leg and, ultimately, his life.

Everyone and everything continued to move on their own inexorable paths, and the dog she had stepped on growled once at her and then twisted around to nurse its sore tail. But Maria Isabella's eyes were on the young man in the star-embroidered coat, whose life she had just saved. She decided she would find out who he was.

The first twenty people she asked did not know him. It was a butcher's boy who told her who he was, as she rested near the butcher's shop along the Rotonda du'l Vendedores.

"His name is Lorenzo du Vicenzio," the butcher's boy said. "I know him because he shops here with his father once every sennight. My master saves some of the choicest cuts for their family. They're rather famous, you know. Maestro Vicenzio, the father, names stars."

"Stars?" Maria Isabella asked. "And would you know why he walks with his eyes closed? The son, I mean."

"Well, Lorenzo certainly isn't blind," the butcher's boy replied. "I think he keeps his eyes closed to preserve his vision for his stargazing at night. He mentioned he had some sort of telescope he uses at night."

"How can I meet him?" she asked, all thoughts of musical conch sh.e.l.ls gone from her mind.

"You? What makes you think he will even see you? Listen," the butcher's boy whispered to her, "he only has eyes for the stars."

"Then I'll make him see me," she whispered back, and as she straightened up, her mind began to make plan upon plan upon plan, rejecting possibilities, making conjectures, a.s.sessing what she knew, whom she knew, and how much she dared. It was a lot for anyone to perform in the span of time it took to set her shoulders, look at the butcher's boy, and say, "Take me to the best kitemaker."

The butcher's boy, who at fourteen was easily impressed by young ladies of a certain disposition, immediately doffed his white cap, bowed to Maria Isabella, gestured to the street filled with people outside, and led her to the house of Melchor Antevadez, famed throughout Ciudad Meiora and environs as the Master Builder of aquilones, cometas, saranggola, and other artefactos voladores.

They waited seven hours to see him (for such was his well-deserved fame that orders from all over the realms came directly to him--for festivals, celebrations, consecrations, funerals, regatta launches, and such) and did not speak to each other. Maria Isabella was thinking hard about the little plan in her head and the butcher's boy was thinking of how he had just lost his job for the dubious pleasure of a silent young woman's company.

He spent most of the time looking surrept.i.tiously at her shod feet and oddly wondering whether she, like the young ladies that figured in his fantasies, painted her toes blue, in the manner of the circus artistas.

When it was finally their turn (for such was the nature of Melchor Antevadez that he made time to speak to anyone and everyone who visited him, being of humble origin himself), Maria Isabella explained what she wanted to the artisan.

"What I need," she began, "is a kite large enough to strap me onto. Then I must fly high enough to be amongst the stars themselves, so that anyone looking at the stars will see me amongst them, and I must be able to wave at least one hand to that person."

"What you need," Melchor Antevadez replied with a smile, "is a balloon. Or someone else to love."

She ignored his latter comment and told him that a balloon simply would not do, it would not be able to achieve the height she needed, didn't he understand that she needed to be amongst the stars?

He cleared his throat and told her that such a kite was impossible, that there was no material immediately available for such an absurd undertaking, that there was, in fact, no design that allowed for a kite that supported the weight of a person, and that it was simply impossible, impossible, impossible. Impossible to design. Impossible to find materials. No, no, it was impossible, even for the Ill.u.s.trados.

She pressed him then for answers, to think through the problem; she challenged him to design such a kite, and to tell her just what these impossible materials were.

"Conceivably, I could dream of such a design, that much I'll grant you. If I concentrate hard enough I know it will come to me, that much I'll concede. But the materials are another matter."

"Please, tell me what I need to find," Maria Isabella said.

"None of it can be bought, and certainly none of it can be found here in Ciudad Meiora, although wonder can be found here if you know where to look."

"Tell me."

And so he began to tell her. Sometime during the second hour of his recitation of the list of materials, she began to take notes, and nudged the butcher's boy to try to remember what she couldn't write fast enough. At dawn the following day, Melchor Antevadez stopped speaking, reviewed the list of necessary things compiled by Maria Isabella and the butcher's boy, and said, "I think that's all I'd need. As you can see, it is more than any man could hope to accomplish."

"But I am not a man," she said to him, looking down at the thousands of items on the impossible list in her hands. The butcher's boy, by this time, was asleep, his head cradled in the crook of his thin arms, dreaming of aerialists and their blue toes.