Olympus: It's Not Just a Game

Chapter 39

Mr. Morrison called Frieda Simmons into his office. "That woman has never been anything but trouble for me," he snarled. "And she means trouble now."

"I thought you handled her nicely," Frieda answered. "That quick editing job on the Olympus tapes shut her up."

"You underestimate her," Mr. Morrison growled.

Frieda sniffed. "I don't think one single mother is much of a threat."

Morrison eyed her critically. Frieda was upper middle-class through and through, and her expensive private college education, with all its talk about serving the poor and helping the homeless, had never taught her to treat those "poor people" as worthy adversaries. She had no idea what one blue-collar woman could do if she sunk her teeth into it.

This, however, was not the time to complete Frieda Simmons' education. "Yeah, whatever," he muttered. "We still can't plan on her giving up."

Frieda asked, "Why not just call Sparrow and warn her they're looking for Karl?"

Ray Morrison groaned. "I'm already in trouble with Sparrow," he confessed. "She's so mad at me she can't see straight. She told me to take this crew out days ago, and what's happened? They killed JonaDab! You know how many hours he spent working on that character? Here's the guy who owns Olympus, Inc., who made me a millionaire, and I let these kids take him out? He is not happy with me!"

Frieda shrugged. "It's just a game," she reminded him.

Morrison grimaced. "Tell that to JonaDab. It's his business on the line, too. If these folks ever do find Karl, Olympus, Inc., will be toast."

The secretary shook her head. "I don't get," she protested. "What's the big deal with this Karl kid?"

Ray Morrison went over to the door of his office, opened it, looked around, and closed it again. "Look," he whispered. " You're the only one knows this, okay?"

Frieda was flattered. "Okay."

"That company has hundreds-maybe thousands-of runaway kids locked up in their little CyberCamp."

Frieda was shocked. "Why on earth would they do that?"

"Money," Morrison answered bluntly. "Lots of it. Olympus isn't just a kids' game, you know. Do you have any idea how many fat, balding millionaires have found new lives in Olympus? And would you like to guess how many lonely old dowagers are now beautiful young women again?"

"I hadn't thought of that," she murmured. "But what does that have to do with runaways?"

"Rich people have expensive tastes," Morrison snapped. "Sure, teenagers are willing to chuck their dollar coins into the slot and play against computer-generated characters. But the very rich demand more realism than even my artificial intelligence can provide. Folks who are used to being served champagne and caviar by waiters in tuxedos are not going to be satisfied with Pepsi from a vending machine."

"Okay – I guess I get your point. But how do runaways fit in?"

"This kid Karl is a good example," Morrison explained. "He got hooked on the game, but his Dad objected to him spending too much time and money on it. So he ran away to CyberCamp, where he's locked up now. They got him locked up in some little cubicle, and all he can do is play his part in the game."

Ms. Simmons could hardly believe her ears. "But why doesn't he just tell somebody what's going on?"

Morrison laughed, harshly. "Two reasons. First, the little fool still thinks he can win the game. That keeps him going, and going, and going."