eXistenZ by Christopher Priest

labeled in bright colors. There were pinball machines in every available spare spot, and the kids leaning over these were setting up a cacophony of mechanical clattering, signal bells and electronic bleeps. Lights were flashing everywhere.
    The customers, prowling along the aisles, kept handling the products, taking them down, looking closely at the small print, turning over the boxes to read what might be printed on the reverse. Most of them were muttering secretively, sometimes to one of the others, most often to themselves.
    Pikul and Geller squeezed their way along the aisle in which they were, trying to remove themselves from the press of unwashed bodies.
    At the far end a cashier was working behind an old-fashioned cash register that was sitting on a tall counter. He eyed them suspiciously from time to time, but in general was kept busy looking intently at the mass of customers, presumably watching for attempts at theft.
    When they passed in front of the counter, Pikul noticed that the young man—gangly and sallow in appearance, like many of the customers—was wearing a name tag. He was identified as Hugo Carlaw.
    They went into another aisle, not as crowded as the first.
    “Have you worked out where we are yet?” Pikul asked.
    “Yeah, now that I can see it more clearly, it’s easy. I’m stunned! It’s so realistic! This is the game store I used to go to when I was a kid. The very one! This is exactly how I remember it! I’m amazed! It belongs to a Mr. Nadger or Nadder, or some strange, foreign-sounding name like that. I would hang out here for hours when I was a teenager, hoping for a chance to jack into one of the games.” She nodded toward a row of consoles where many young people crowded around the brightly lit and constantly changing color screens. “Just like most of these people, in fact,” she said.
    “Are you serious? This is where you were years ago?”
    “No, it’s not real. It’s a simulation. Remember, we’re ported together in the game-pod. eXistenZ has complete access to both our central nervous systems. The games architecture we experience in the game will be based on our memories, our anxieties, our preoccupations . . .”
    “Not ours,” Pikul said. “Yours maybe.”
    “At the moment my memories are probably predominating. But that isn’t necessarily the rule, and your unconscious can and will take over at any time. It’s just that I’m more used to the game than you, I know some of the moves. You’ll catch on soon enough.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “You keep saying that. Let’s have a look at some of this stuff.” She turned to the nearest rack and began sifting through the packages on display. “Look at this. Games I’ve never even heard of. Biological Father. What the hell kind of game could that be? Hit By a Car . . . not much imagination needed for that one! Shop Rage. Theme Supermarket. Landlords on the Rampage. Beastmaster of Avalon. Viral Ecstasy. Chinese Restaurant.”
    “The excitement is mounting,” Pikul said sardonically. “I can hardly wait to play Biological Father . . . a shoot-’em-up arcader, right?”
    “Listen to this.” Geller was reading the back of the Viral Ecstasy box. “When you play this, you get to invade a specific human body—you can choose from a whole library of historical characters—then you create ingenious viral strategies to cope with the efforts of the body’s immune system to destroy you . . .”
    “That sounds like it’s about as much fun as having our friend Gas put in a sicko bioport.”
    “It’s just one of the games I picked up at random,” she said defensively.
    “Not entirely randomly. Not if it comes from your subconscious.”
    “It might have come from yours,” she pointed out.
    “Oh,” said Pikul, who hadn’t thought of that. He swiftly changed tack. “Look, can you explain something to me? All this stuff on these racks reminds me of what we’re doing. We’re in a game, okay, but what precisely is the