“No. What if a real book was created by the game because you needed to find it decades later?”
“Shit,” I said.
Scarpio nodded and smiled. “It’s a mindfucker, isn’t it?”
“You’re saying it’s all the Moriarty Factor? That this Rabbits AI did everything? There are no multiple universes?”
“I have no idea if we’re living in a multiverse or not. I was never interested in quantum physics, I’m afraid.”
“What about the discrepancies?”
“You’re talking about the Mandela effect? The Berenstain Bears?”
“I’m talking about the Fremont Troll holding a Mini Cooper instead of a Volkswagen bug, a movie that used to exist but no longer does, a restaurant that closed permanently six years ago suddenly open again for business, a dead artist miraculously alive, writing and recording amazing new songs.”
“Okay, so, based on what you’ve seen and experienced over the past few months, do you believe it’s possible that, given absolutely unlimited financial resources and imagination, a group of people could have been hired to adjust the Fremont Troll sculpture and then put it back as it was? Or to reopen a restaurant? Or to manipulate your devices to avoid delivering search results related to one film? Or even create a new album from a dead artist?”
“I suppose so,” I said.
“But there is another possibility.” He paused for a moment, and appeared uncertain whether he should continue.
“What is it?”
“As you know, the game is extremely complicated. Uncovering sophisticated patterns, reality-questioning discrepancies, and unbelievable coincidences can be exhausting. Often this exhaustion—coupled with the mental and emotional gymnastics required to move forward during gameplay—results in some players experiencing certain…”
“What?”
“Breaks. With reality.”
“You think I imagined the whole thing?”
“Not at all; I’m just describing a phenomenon. The scope and impact of the game is sometimes hard to imagine.”
“Why did you come to visit me at the arcade that night?”
“I was led there, by the game.”
“You were led there? What does that mean?”
“I was simply following the signs.”
“Playing Rabbits?”
He just shrugged and then grabbed something off a nearby counter and handed it to me.
It was my phone.
On the screen was a video taken on the floor of what appeared to be a stock exchange somewhere in Asia.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“This was running for half an hour this morning on the ticker at the Tokyo Stock Exchange.”
It was The Circle.
Eleven Roman numerals and ten names （there was a blank space after VIII） moved along the ticker atop the huge displays that made up the index perched high above the trading floor.
Next to the Roman numeral XI was a one-letter name: K.
“Is this real?” I asked.
Scarpio nodded.
“Are you sure I was alone when you found me?”
He nodded. “Were you with somebody before that?”
“Yeah, a friend of mine named Emily Connors.”
He appeared genuinely surprised.
“Emily Connors?”
I nodded. “You recognize the name?”
“I do,” he said. “A friend of mine named Emily Connors occasionally uses my lake house in Seattle, in exchange for watering the plants.”
“Does she have a sister named Annie?” I asked.
Scarpio shook his head. “Not anymore, but she did. Her sister died years ago.”
“Do you have any idea where Emily Connors is now?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t spoken with her for a few weeks. I’ve tried calling, but the number I have for her is out of service.”
Emily’s friend who owned the amazing lakeside mansion was Alan Scarpio. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.
“So, wait, if I won the eleventh iteration of the game…” I said.
“You’re wondering if there’s a prize?”
“Is there?”
“Oh yes. There most certainly is,” he said.
“What is it?”
He shrugged. “Remember, we’re talking about the most sophisticated artificial intelligence system ever imagined by humankind, capable of advanced recursive self-improvement, running on a limitless quantum system. Now imagine that system had access to every single piece of information ever uploaded, scanned, or spoken near a microphone connected to a modem.”