The Sacrifice Game by Brian D’Amato Page B

sit in that position again and whatever.”
    “Oh. Yeah, I guess I do,” I said. “I have one left.”
    “When is it?”
    “Uh . . . January twentieth. At noon. Four years from now.”
    “That’s great, okay, so maybe we should do something together then.”
    “Well, I don’t—uh, okay.” This topic was harshing my wave. I scooped up a stone and thwacked it down, a
hane
on her last point. Nothing board-shattering. I hit my clock. Maybe I don’t need to find out what’s the real deal with Tony. Maybe I should just take off now. No, don’t. Leave now and she’ll really know something’s up. In fact she’ll probably tell them to ratchet up the surveillance on you. Although that’s kind of weird, she’s a romantic interest and also your Stasi minder. Although the whole thing is weird. Well, NFML. Not For Much Longer. Just crush her flat in this one game, have two bites of bibimbap, and book. No sweat.
    “Okay, it’s a date. Even if we’re both married to other people by then. Right?”
    “Yeah . . .” I said. “. . . Why, are you getting married?” Damn it, Jedface, don’t ask girls questions like that. Have a drop of sangfroid. Forget Sick Tony Sic, you lost, get over it. Anyway, what do you care? Nothing matters. We were all going to be dead in—no, don’t think dead. Nonexisting—
    “No, I’m not,” Marena said.
    I said okay, or something. I tried to look at the board, but the game was at that point where the stones start to look and even feel like pustules erupting on your skin, and you just want it to be over.
    “Are you upset about Tony staying here?” she asked, a little muffledly because she was working on that fingernail again.
    “No, I mean, he, you know . . .”
    “I totally haven’t touched him.”
    Huh.
    “It’s okay,” I said, “you get, you get to touch whatev—”
    “It’s not a romantic thing, he’s just staying here because he’s, for a place to stay.”
    “What about that getting-married business?”
    “That was a different guy.”
    “Oh.”
    “And I’m not sure about that lately.”
    “Oh. Okay.”
    “I mean—look, this is all getting into feelings and, like, feelings.”
    “Yeah. I have difficulty with those things.”
    “Hmm,” she went. She sort of melted herself down into her oddly yielding Memory Foam cushions and stretched out prone.
    “Maybe it’s okay, whatever happens,” she said, “maybe there’s another whole world out there, like with that Mr. Bubble thing?”
    “Sorry? I don’t get the reference.”
    “The Crazy Foam, you know, those two guys from the Layton Institute with the bubbly verses, uh . . .”
    “Oh, the bubbleverse,” I said.
    “Right.” She was referring to this incident back in 1998 when a pair of Warren-funded physicists reported that said they’d created a bubble in the quantum foam and created another universe that, at that moment, was the exact twin of our own, but which, because of random perturbation, would exhibit divergent outcomes later on. It was purest bullshit.
    “That’s what I said.”
    “Uh, yeah.”
    “Do you think that’s possible?”
    “You mean, that they created another universe in their lab?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, I, you know what Taro says, multiple uni—they’re, you know, cheap on theory, expensive on universes. So, no, I don’t, really. That’s just something people say when their equations don’t come out right, they say whatever’s left over just slides into some other handy universe.”
    “Yeah, but they said they saw it.”
    “How would they see it? It’s not in the same universe.”
    “Anyway, we’d be in it,” I said.
    “Okay, I don’t know. That’s what they said. And they said there was definitely not an infinite number of universes. There aren’t even a lot.”
    “So how many are there? Like a handful?”
    “Right. A few more ’n a couple.”
    “Five or six?”
    “That sounds about right.”
    “Huh.”
    “Still, that’s just my