She tries so hard to instill order in the Bauer household, but she is no match for me and Dad.
“Okay,” she finally says, “but I want that timer set for two hours max. Got it?” She narrows her eyes at me first, then turns to Dad to make sure he’s listening.
“Got it,” I say, as Dad nods and types code into the computer.
“Here you go, Nix, two hours,” he says, handing me an ear trans.
I plop myself in the comfy old recliner across from the couch and push back until I’m nearly horizontal, then pull a throw blanket over myself. “Nighty-night,” I say, clipping the earpiece onto the titanium stud in my left ear. A high-pitched frequency sequence begins to transmit code between Dad’s computer and my brain. A few seconds later I’m in the test Landing.
It’s the same Landing I was in earlier—the big, glass shopping mall—but now it’s on Christmas steroids. Hundreds of thousands of twinkly lights cover every visible surface. A three-story Christmas tree fills the central atrium, its ornaments representing every country on the planet, as well as the one hundred-plus MEEP world templates. A toy plane flies around the tree in spirals, waving a banner behind it that reads PEACE ON EARTH on one side, MEEP ON EARTH on the other.
On a nearby stage a choir of Meeple sing a jazzy version of “Jingle Bells,” then segue into “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow” as synchronized fluffy white snowflakes fall from the ceiling. Elves from the fantasy templates stroll though the crowd, passing out sample potions and discount coupons. Every item in every store in the Landing will be “on sale” for the next month, guaranteeing billions of dollars of profit for MeaParadisus Inc.
Not bad for selling the equivalent of the emperor’s new clothes—exactly nothing, in other words.
But MEEP shoppers won’t care. It’s like Diego Salvador, the MEEP’s zillionaire founder, says: “They’re paying for the experience.” And he has a point. Compared to shopping in a real-world mall, the Landing is a cakewalk. First of all, the Meeple walking around are all good-looking and cheery, every single one of them. No whiny tots, no disgruntled husbands, no peevish mothers, no obnoxious tweens. Additionally, no lines, no waiting, no schlepping—your purchases go right into your virtual storage locker.
I spend the next hour checking out all the special features so I can report back to Dad. I visit Santa, who lets me choose a gift from his workshop. (I pick night-vision contact lenses—awesome.) I participate in the gift exchange, where you can donate something from your inventory and get a surprise gift in return. I donate the size-D breast enlargement I’d purchased earlier and happily get an ultra crossbow in return, which I can’t wait to try out on my next quest.
I play a bunch of mini-games: Reindeer Racing, Chimney Toss, Snowman Slalom, etc. I kiss Lancelot under the mistletoe at the courtyard King Arthur Yule Party (what can I say, I’m a very thorough beta tester), then check out the Joyeux Noël runway show, where all the latest wardrobe options are being modeled. Some of the new medieval dresses are pretty cool and I try some on for fun. One of them actually looks halfway decent on me, so I put it on my Wish List. With my no-curves body and dirty blond hair, I make a pretty convincing wench. Who needs enhancements?
I check the timer and see that I’ve only got fifteen minutes left, so I head for the main control panel at the Information Desk. MeaParadisus prides itself on “global awareness,” so if you’re not into the whole Christmas thing, you’ve got options. I press the HANUKKAH button, and immediately everything’s decked out in dreidls and stars of David, the blue-and-white-robed choir belting out Hebrew tunes. I press the rest of the buttons in turn—KWANZAA, WINTER SOLSTICE, BODHI DAY, and so on—and watch the scenery change before me like a fast-forward movie montage.
The final button says HOLIDAY-FREE, which I assume just takes you back to the regular old Landing, but I have two minutes left so I push it anyway. In the blink of an eye, the decorations disappear, the Meeple choir is gone, the party’s over. The Landing is blissfully calm and quiet, with only the tranquil burbling of the water fountain to break the silence.
I breathe in and enjoy the low-stim environment after two hours of overload, then jump out of my freaking skin when a huge banner unfurls