3 Prologue 3: Mathematics

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His daughter catches the damned nanoplague, and they couldn't even get a human to respond to his damn email. Eric had never been much for the holopaper all his bosses tossed around, but he would have shelled out the money for a single sheet just to crush this paragraph of bullshit into sparkling blue dust.

The trip from the Cinncinnati's downtown to Exagen's corporate sector took about twenty minutes by chartered car. Normally, people like he and Lana couldn't afford such luxuries; the C-Rail was always stuffed with contract workers running to and from assignments, keeping their exhausted heads down and sleeping on their feet. But Lana hadn't stopped crying since they left the doctor's office, and for his part, he couldn't look at the three digit number on his credit stick and see anything worth saving.

It wasn't seventy five thousand. It couldn't save Mari, not now, not ever. So who cared what he spent it on?

He sat down hard against the leather seat of the boxy black car and slammed the door, holding Lana with his other arm as she shook and cried her eyes out into his shoulder.

Cinncinnati had embraced green tech hard in the late 21st century, in the wake of the five superstorms that shook the world to its core. Every building in the civil sector generated its own power, using silvery solar panels that doubled as windows. On a day as bright as today, you could barely look outside without squinting. As they raced along the elevated roadway back to their home, the world seemed like one bright blur, too painful to look at, impossible to ignore.

Eric didn't know why the Sunspire got so much attention from Corona watchers. Every city in the modern world had a building just like it, often taller and brighter. But without a king inside, perhaps shining glass lost its luster.

"That concludes our weather report for the weekend," the friendly voice of the smartcar piped up over the sound of Lana's sobs. "In other news, Corona fever has struck again. In the wake of Princess Sabina's pregnancy, thousands of players have queued online for the chance to grab a royal account within the next few days. Joel Fitzsimmons, our media consultant, comes to us live from an unexpected hub of this royal mania: Greaves Spaceport in Washington DC."

Eric would never have watched past that weather report, not even when Mari was well and seized by royal mania herself. But what else could he do? He was a captive audience in the most literal sense, and truthfully, he didn't have the will to argue with the car about changing the channel

A royal account, huh?

The squat metallic Spaceport appeared on the car's holoscreen, as conspicuously futuristic as ever, but instead of being the largely empty relic of the Moon exodus that it was, hordes of people congregated from its parking lot to its doors, peering at their tablets and phones and talking excitedly to one another.

Joel Fitzsimmons stood in front of the building, ready to pick up where his AI co-host left off.

"Thanks, JINI. Well, it's been nothing but crowds here at Greaves today. Employees have reported that they've been experiencing record-breaking crowds since as early as 4 AM this morning. When asked why, one woman had this to say."

The pixelated face of a shuttle attendant appeared in the artificial darkness all interviewees demanded these days. When all mention of you on social media went straight to your employer's file, anonymity surged in importance, compared to the reporting days of old.

"There's some rumor online that going to the Corona's lunar facility will get you a higher chance of spawning with the new royal account," she said, her voice gravelly with fatigue Eric felt in his bones, even if he couldn't see it. "Something about the net worth of the players up there being higher than the one's on the planet. Most of these people haven't bought a ticket on one of our shuttles. They're just standing around, waiting for their lottery results and hoping for the best."

"Do you think you'll see a rise in tourism to the Moon from this surge in interest?" the unseen interviewer asked. The woman shrugged.

The footage cut away to show a sea of people, shoulder to shoulder, on the civilian side of the security gate, blocking the uniformed individuals trying to make their way through with hovering luggage carts.

"To be honest, I don't think most of these people have enough money to buy a shuttle ticket, even if they get a spot in Corona's lunar center. It's not like I blame them for trying, but our facility isn't built to handle these kinds of crowds, and I think we're all kind of feeling the strain. That's all."

With a swell of contemplative music, a series of numbers overtook the scene of the interview.

"Though Corona Online is the foremost video game on the market, valued at just over $11.5 billion, it also has the smallest playerbase of any MMO in the world," JINI's voice commented over a graphic that evolved as she spoke. "With players spending up to fifteen years inside a facility's submersion pod, available spots come along once every eight to ten weeks, if that. The lunar facility is actually the smallest of Corona's twenty internationally distributed facilities, hosting only one hundred players at a time."

"The staff have confirmed an anticipated vacancy within the window of June 22nd to June 30th, but its waitlist is estimated to be in the millions. The odds of any of the people gathered here being the lottery winner are about 7.42 million to one."

The idea that these people could take a day off work for that kind of snowball's chance boggled Eric's mind.

Joel reappeared at the front of the Spaceport, face frozen in the same smile, as though he hadn't moved a muscle during his co-host's spiel.

"The lottery may not be a bad comparison. Top Corona players report earning seven figures in an average year, and a royal account like the one we're expecting can net closer to eight or nine on viewer support alone. With that kind of money on the table, it's no wonder some people are willing to take a risk."

"Mathematically, of course, someone is going to spawn with that account," JINI said off-screen. "And, according to these hopefuls, you can't prove it won't be them."

The car screeched to a halt, the light shining in through the windows faded into the dull fluorescent haze that marked Exagen's underground housing. Eric blinked. He hadn't even noticed that they'd left the city proper. Lana was resting her head quietly against his shoulder now; either sleeping or in a stupor, he couldn't say, but he didn't say a word to disturb her. He squeezed her shoulder, indicating the door sliding open to let them out, and the two of them marched across the astroturfed greenery leading up to their residence hall in listless silence.

Even so, his mind wasn't silent. Despite himself, despite all his better judgment, despite a lifetime of every chance he'd taken going wrong, broken snippets of conversation stuck inside him and repeated with each beat of his heart.

Mathematically, there's going to be a miracle. You can't prove it won't be you.

That account's worth eight figures.

Mari only needs five.