PROLOGUE & CHAPTER 1

PROLOGUE

Hydrogen is an element. Elements are the building blocks of reality, and of reality’s extension; the virtual worlds, and within the virtual worlds our world – Second Life. However elements are more than just sub-atomic particles and bits of stringy stuff, they are also demi-gods. And of all the demi-gods of both reality and Second Life, the number one element is Hydrogen. Flighty, fickle, fast to fall in and out of love, bonding easily and then departing quickly, Hydrogen was senior within the panoply of god and goddesses who dwelt in the snowy heights atop the fabled Mons Aetas in the distant Kun Lun range at the edge of time and space. Hydrogen was opinionated and fast to judge others, both its brethren demi-gods and avatars as well.

The other elements, each to his or her nature, reflected their fundamental selves. Old Pb for example said little and rarely moved. He was thought to be a bit dull by the other gods, but he was steady as a rock, unlike Ununoctium who was never around and always late for banquets and feasting. Some of the goddesses like Mercury were so wishy washy and difficult to pin down that they were not very good at being gods at all. What was the purpose of a god or goddess but to judge, give bad advice, and make trouble in the realm of men and avatars?

Many of the elemental gods and goddesses were conflicted and divided, often because of complex unions and relationships with other god and goddesses which inhibited them from freely acting and expressing themselves. Oxygen was like that. Not a bad fellow thought Hydrogen. They often had fun together in a two on one and on rare occasions in a four way. But Hydrogen knew that Oxygen could not be trusted because he was always anxious to bond with the other goddesses and even sometimes the gods. And when he was so entwined Oxygen was, well, hopeless as a god. Simply hopeless.

At judgment, bad advice, and making trouble, Hydrogen was the recognized leader. However Hydrogen had a soft spot in her nuclei and that soft spot was for the Blimp Corps of Second Life. She protected them, nurtured them, loved them, and on occasion she had to punish them for their transgressions when they were bad, or careless, or failed to pay her proper reverence. In this she was fickle and the lash of her hot anger was indeed something that avatars had learned to respect and in most cases avoid. All except for her beloved Balloonists and the Blimp Corps who were most reverent of all.

And the Blimp Corps repaid her in deep respect and loving virtue. Maintaining her purity as a goddess, keeping the other elements away from her chaste form, and calling upon her to lift their spirits and to allow them to soar into the sea of air like birds in flight.

Hydrogen, the demi-god knew all her adherents and worshipers in the Blimp Corps by name. She loved them all, but among the ones she loved, she loved one the most. In many realities, to be loved by a goddess was positive, and good, and beneficial. But in this reality, the reality of Second Life, Hydrogen could be a harsh mistress, a demanding whore, an evil task master, as well as the beneficent and loving mother to her chosen children. Failure to heed her call, or to obey her demands, would surely lead to destruction, death, and damnation in a blazing inferno. Obedience to her ways resulted in liberation from earthly bounds and the immense pleasures of the skies.

Hydrogen spoke in a squeaky voice, a voice which diminished her influence, so she chose to communicate in written words, rather than by the more conventional method of speech. Speech was a method preferred by her sister Nitrogen. But Hydrogen knew that the pen is more powerful and more lasting that the spoken word. Spoken words are often poorly heard, or completely misunderstood in storms, and peril, and in the maelstrom of short avatar lives. Ahh, but to write the words down, was to ensure that they were carefully preserved, read, re-read and passed from generation to generation. Hydrogen liked her legacy, even if it was contradictory, enigmatic, and confusing most of the time. She loved to write in parables, with all the clarity of a fortune cookie, and the certainty of a commandment from on high.

When Hydrogen found her most loved acolyte, and her most cherished avatar, she set about testing the small being with trials and difficult if not impossible tasks which at times made the little avatar suffer and on occasion curse the very goddess who was her patron. And into the hands of this avatar, Hydrogen, the number one goddess in all of the visible matter universe, conspired to place in its hands the holy eight ball of wisdom and instruction.

***
The procession down Beast Street had been short, and the Hero’s of the Battle at Druids Grove were greeted by millions of avatars throughout Second Life, both in the Capital City and on live me-tube and me-pod broadcasts. Confetti filled the skies, the sun beamed down upon the small troop of victors as they marched toward the capital. Extra news papers were printed and banners were flying high in thanks for the protection of all that civilized avatars held dear.

As the group marched up the steps of the great Capitol of Second Life, where the senators and the blue bloods were seated in their ermine and sable robes, the crowds cheered, the reformatory school band played, and the pre-teen cheerleaders cavorted calling out rude cheers and gestures. At the top of the stair stood Governor Linden and Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, famed historian, and Head of the Anti-Monarchist Party, to greet them and present them with the key to the city.

Punky was embarrassed and did not want to be there. Dagmon Zhukovsky, her best friend and Chief of Engineering at the Blimp Works, was also hoping for a fast escape and the comfortable surroundings of a drafting table and a pot of tea. But the Second Sea Lord of the Blue Ocean Navy and the Chair of the Blimp Cartel had insisted that they both be present at the ceremony. Something about ‘coverage’ they had said, so both Punky Pugilist and Daggy stood together with their friends Witney ‘Half Nelson’ Llanfair, and Sindy Blazer, intrepid reporter for The Times, ready to receive the thanks and gratitude of a grateful land.

The speeches were short in part because Governor Linden had a hot date with Lindsey and the senators had notoriously short attention spans since they had to get to lunch quickly and meet with the volunteer legislation writers, first tier lobbyists, and of course the ever present campaign contribution ‘bundlers’.

Before it began it was over. Medals were pinned to their tunics, except in the case of Sindy Blazer who wore a stunning fiery red ball gown by Oscar de la Rental. In Sindy’s case they just handed her the box and looked at her chest. And then it was over. The crowds melted away, the hot dog vendors went searching for new marks, and they were yesterday’s news.

“I hope we are quickly forgotten,” said Punky to Sindy.

“Not if I can help it Punky,” said Sindy. “Disasters, evil plots, and narrow escapes sell papers. And I’m sure that you are about to enter on another adventure and I’m going to be writing about it.” Sindy laughed as Punky moaned.

Punky was about to descend the stairs, when Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, a man whom Punky had come to love and respect, and whom she was allowed to call ‘Muffin’ stepped forward.

“Punky I have an important heirloom to give to you,” said Muffin.

“No, please,” said Punky. “I just did what was right, that’s all,” Punky pleaded.

Muffin smiled and stared Punky right in the eyes as he puffed on his Meerschaum pipe. Not many avatars could stare Punky in the eye. Muffin could stare at Punky eye to eye, because they were both the same height - 4’2”.

Muffin spoke carefully and slowly and without use of the old tongue as was his preference. Punky knew his words were important and carefully chosen.

“Punky, please take this totem. It has protected me for all of my long life, and now its here to assist you,” said Muffin.

“No, I can’t,” replied Punky. But the look on Muffins face made her reconsider.

Muffin put out his hand with the palm up, and one of his liveried minions placed a small wooden box with brass corners into his hand. Muffin then thrust the small box into Punky’s hands before she could object further.

“May I look?” asked Punky.

“Pleasf doos,” replied Muffin reverting to the old tongue of his fore mothers.

Punky opened the box carefully and inside there was a thin golden chain and from the chain hung a small black orb. The orb was like a giant black pearl. She held it in her hand and examined it closely. Punky turned it over and in a tiny window at the bottom of the orb she saw a message appear from the inky blackness.

The message read, ‘The candle is put into the lantern, and the moth is left outside.’

Punky frowned for a moment in puzzlement, and then she kissed Muffin on the cheek. Muffin smiled.


CHAPTER 1 - A WARM SAN FRANCISCO NIGHT

Cold wet fog shrouded the buildings lining the tiny Cowell Place like vichyssoise left in the frig too long. The fog sucked sound from the air and power lines harvested water from the fog and created a mini rain storm in the narrow alley below. Even the cats avoided the place as too lonely. The alley was narrow in places, barely wide enough to get a truck to back up. A couple of old post-earthquake buildings leaned precariously into the alley. Ancient graffiti tags of gangs long ago forgotten faded into oblivion on the brick facades. Gangs like the South of Market Bloggers or the Skype Rangers had once battled for turf here. Stained and dented garbage bins lined one side of the alley making it seem even smaller. The thick fog even pulled the stink from the garbage.

It was 3 in the morning and traffic was slow on Battery Street half a block from the secret server farm of the Lindens, hidden four stories below ground in the bedrock of the Saint Francis strata. At the dead end of Cowell Place stood a small loading dock and its single light bulb. Rather than producing light, the bulb cast grey into the fog and accentuated the feeling of isolation and despair.

Willard Rolf was a rent a cop and he hated it. He got no respect from the beat cops even though he had served 10 years on the force before that dot com incident. They had forced him out of the force.

Willard had known that pets can’t drive and in fact he knew that they could not even get licenses to dirve in California. He had gathered his fellow cop’s money and shorted Pets.com at the IPO and when the stock rose to $80 he was wiped out. So were his buddies on the force. They accused him of speculating with their retirement money. Something everyone knew was not true. It was their pension funds he had used. The Union forced him out and he got no support from the brass. Even the mayor, the corrupt SOB, had been deaf to his pleas. He was still bitter.

But the cops didn’t come down Cowell Place, to the little guard shack on the loading dock, because nothing happened in the alley at night. Nothing at all. And that’s how Willard liked it – peaceful and calm. The fog was dense this night and Willard could barely make out the green trash bins at the rear door of Fat Wang’s Portuguese Bistro about 10 feet distant.

He thought about his ex and how she left him for that web 2.0 schmuck with the pocket protector and thick glasses. He hated the web like he hated his ex. She had met the geek, he had learned later, at Strawbucks coffee. He was steaming milk and had big dreams of putting people’s personal photos on some computer thing and then sharing them with others in the net. Whatever the net was. She had cheated on him that day and then again and again. Eventually she told him and laughed in his face. She called him a looser. Then she left. Didn’t take anything, she just left.

He saw her later getting out of an expensive Italian car and entering the posh “El Taco Oro” on Russian Hill with the geek who wore a silk shirt and tan slacks with Gnocchi shoes. Willard had turned his back on them and walked away before they would notice him.

Willard was studying the racing form. He liked a little filly at Bay Meadows called SlowlyFast in the 5th – a come from behind sure shot. He was going to back the nag with his bookie Slim Jim, if he got the odds he was trying to figure.

Willard heard a tiny high pitched humming sound. He looked up and saw only fog. The humming sound went away. Bugs or something thought Willard on a bugless night. He reached into his heavy wool navy coat and pulled out a bottle of Absinth. “Nectar of the gods,” he said to no one in particular. He opened his thermos and poured half the little bottle into the thermos.

He heard it again but a bit louder this time. But this time it was a bit lower in pitch. Like a small saw cutting through fabric or something he thought. Years on the force had taught him to stay out of other folks business so he poured himself a cloudy green drink and returned to the racing form. In a while the sound went away. And the alley returned to its deadened and dark comfortable self.

Willard liked the graveyard shift. Lindens never used the loading dock at night and the few folks at work in the main building used the front entrance. At sunrise he would make his way to the Bart station and return to his rented room in Oakland. He hated Oakland like he hated the force. He looked at his swatch, a gift from his ex. It was 3:00. In about three more hours and he would go home and crash.

“Hi handsome,” said a voice out of nowhere.

Startled Willard looked up and in the fog he saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. Her beauty was unreal. Her body loaded with curves in just the right locations. Her dress clinging to every bend and bump in the human form that made men forget about other women.

“Can I help you Miss?” said Willard as he pulled himself together. “Are you looking for something?”

She moved a bit closer. As the vision of feminine perfection came close the fog stepped aside allowing Willard to more fully inspect her charms.

“Can I have a light?” she breathed as she pulled a cigarette from a black and red pack that said Davidhoff.

“Don’t got any matches,” said Willard. “Not since they outlawed cigarettes and smoking in this town.”

Willard wanted a cigarette bad when he saw her.

She pulled a second stick from the pack and placed both cigarettes in Willard’s mouth. Then she pulled a bic lighter from her very expensive looking bag and lit both cigs. Willard took a few puffs, then pulled one cig from his lips and held it to her puffy red lips. She took it and pulled in a deep draw. She exhaled smoke into Willard’s face and he started coughing.

“I’m looking for Lindens,” she cooed staring Willard in the eyes.

Perfect blue green eyes thought Willard. Perfect. And those lips, that nose, those features – she was a thing of perfection. She was luminous in her feminine allure and charms. And Willard knew she wanted to share some of that perfection with him. It was in her eyes and in her posture. She wanted him.

“Around the block on Battery is the main entrance,” he said. “But there’s no one here now. This place is automated or something. Its runs on its own at night.”

She pressed her pouty lips together and looked disappointed. Willard was desperately trying to think of something to say that would keep her here for a while in the lonely alley behind Lindens.

“I’m cold,” she whispered in an intimate way as if to say she wanted his heat. “Is there heat in that little shack?” she murmured pointing to the unheated guard shack on the loading dock.

I’ll bet she is cold thought Willard. She’s only wearing a thin silk dress and on a night like this. A warm San Francisco night laden with dense wet cold obscuring fog. She must have been out at one of the SOMA clubs and got lost Willard thought.

“Loopy,” she said as she took another drag on the cigarette. “Loopy Loo, that’s my name.”

“I’m sure it is, Loopy,” said Willard as he started up the short steps to the guard shack.

Willard held open the small door to the one man guard shack which was as cold as the dense night air. However he was certain that they could heat up the shack a bit if they just rubbed some sticks together.

Loopy paused at the door and looked deeply into Willard’s eyes.

Gods thought Willard, she’s perfect. Too perfect.

Willard was right. She was too perfect, because Loopy Lou was not of this world. She was from another dimension, another time, another place where the real does not exist. A place where everyone is beautiful, and young, and reckless. Loopy was on a hunt and at this moment Willard was her prey.

But her objective was more than just Willard. A lot more. For Loopy intended to rule her universe, and she had violated every moral precept and scientific law in order to get what she wanted. She had torn the fabric of time and space that separates the real from the virtual, the fundamental from the illusory, the concrete from the ether.

Willard advanced toward Loopy’s open arms. And then like the fog on Cowell Place Willard went quiet and grey.