Atlantyx: It Begins As a Game . . . And Ends As a Battle for Your Soul

By Chase Dalton

Graduate student Valerie Russell investigates the possible psychological addiction to Atlantyx, a popular new computer game. She finds much more than entertainment and it becomes a race against time to save the lives and souls of innocent young people--and herself.

Garland King, vice-director of the School of Psychology, and Drake Benson, a leader in a national campus ministry, urge Valerie to closely examine one game, Atlantyx. And she soon learns why. The ministry has tracked seventy-one students, all avid gamers, who have mysteriously disappeared. Coincidentally, the producer of the game has garnered sales in excess of one and a half billion dollars over the past year.

Valerie's graduate work explodes into the challenge of a lifetime. She will investigate this threat that blurs the boundary between reality and fantasy, harming innocent people in its path. Her quest brings with it self-discovery, romance, and more than a hint of danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Jul 27, 2008
• ISBN: 9781418514525

Book preview

Praise for Atlantyx

Atlantyx captured me from the start. Imaginative and mysterious, it portrays the yearnings of the heart for a greater reality—and the vulnerability of the heart to false realities. It’s a captivating story.

—RANDY ALCORN,

author of The Ishbane Conspiracy and Safely Home

Atlantyx is captivating and unforgettable. Men and women, young and old, will be fascinated by the romance, danger, and suspenseful drama that grab their attention from the very first page. A mix of realism and fantasy, this book begs us to ask a very important question in today’s society: what is truth? Chase Dalton’s passion and creativity delivers a unique story that will definitely take your breath away.

—MICHELLE MCKINNEY HAMMOND,

speaker, inspirational singer, television co-host of Emmy-nominated Aspiring Women, and author of numerous books, including Secrets of an Irresistible Woman and Get Over It and On With It

Atlantyx examines, from the inside-out, the fantasy world of Internet gaming, where the reader finds a world-gone-mad within a present-day cauldron of corruption. It is both fantasy and realism; its unpredictable twists and turns take your breath and leave you greedy to turn the next page. Dalton’s seasoned writing turns up the heat on this fantasy tale, providing the reader unexpectedly with a wild ride mixed with provocative themes. Impossible to put down! Dalton rocks!

—PATRICIA HICKMAN, author of

Sandpebbles and Katrina’s Wings

Like dice tossed onto a game board, Chase Dalton spills us into the intensity of Internet gaming in Atlantyx. A young gamer turns up missing; an attractive psychologist grieves her father’s death while studying the effects of lives sucked into virtual realities; and a man seeks to counsel and offer a life-line to those reeling from the disconnection and addiction of the virtual world. Atlantyx arrives at a time when the stakes for meaning in our world have never been higher. Dalton delivers in a fast-paced, skillfully woven story of intrigue and suspense.

—JANE KIRKPATRICK,

author of Together In One Place and A Name of Her Own

If you think television is influencing our culture, wait until you read Atlantyx. Chase Dalton opens our eyes to the dark world of video games, which entice our youth into a downward spiral of addiction. Atlantyx is spellbinding and will completely change the way we view the harmless video game. A talented writer, Chase Dalton knows how to tell a story, and how to capture your attention until the game is over.

—KEN WALES,

veteran filmmaker, author, and executive producer of the award-winning CBS television series, Christy

Chase Dalton has intricately woven a tale of fantasy and terror in Atlantyx, but his true giftedness as a writer is most apparent in his ability to craft such an endearing love story in the middle of all the chaos. Valerie Russell, the heroine of our story, takes us on a dangerous journey into the seductive web of video games. Through the battle of good over evil, we are stretched to limit to see who will win the biggest game of all. Chase Dalton is a brilliant writer who has created a page-turner that you won’t be able to put down.

—SUSAN WALES,

co-author of A Match Made in Heaven, speaker, and producer

ATLANTYX

A Novel

CHASE DALTON

00_01_Atlantyx_0003_001

Copyright © 2002 by Chase Dalton

All rights reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson, Inc.

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, plot, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Dalton, Chase

Atlantyx / Chase Dalton.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-7852-6980-0 (Paperback)

1. Women graduate students—Fiction. 2. Compulsive behavior—Fiction. 3. Computer games—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3604.A34 A93 2002

813'.6—dc21

2002007442

Printed in the United States of America

1 2 3 4 5 6 PHX 07 06 05 04 03 02

For Mike Hyatt—

For all that is,

seen and unseen

Contents

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty - one

twenty - two

twenty - three

twenty - four

twenty - five

twenty - six

twenty - seven

twenty - eight

twenty - nine

thirty

thirty - one

thirty - two

thirty - three

thirty - four

thirty - five

thirty - six

thirty - seven

thirty - eight

thirty - nine

forty

forty - one

forty - two

forty - three

one

There was nothing as dirty looking, Valerie Russell reflected, as day-old city snow. She sat and stared out the office window, wishing there were something more interesting to observe than passing traffic. This was too similar to the previous year and a half, when she sat by hospital windows waiting for her father to give in to the cancer.

Now she was alone, trying to find some way to chase her dream. If only her new boss would show up and give her the keys to the kingdom.

Her watch showed no movement whatsoever. But the past twenty months had taught her the power of patience. She stared at the gray January world outside the grimy window and willed herself to stay calm.

Denver University’s psychology department was in a newish brick building facing the busy street that bordered the school’s northern end. It was not a prestigious university and had no such power as the University of Colorado. But competition for graduate positions was ferocious these days, and Denver had wooed her with the sweetest words in Valerie’s entire universe—a free ride. She could work on her degree and teach and actually receive a paycheck, something that brought the dream a whole lot closer.

While nursing her father, Valerie had worked a variety of jobs, all of them demeaning. Free nights she had spent at the local library, reading psych journals, hearing the clock tick, and wishing she did not want to be in school so intensely. Her father had sensed her worry that the temporary dead end might become permanent, and for that he apologized often. Which, of course, only left her feeling more guilty.

But he was gone now, and she was here. So what if her new boss was an hour-and-a-half late? She would wait here forever.

The door slapped open, the metal handle chipping deeper into the brick wall. A burly man with armloads of papers and books bustled in. He frowned over black-rimmed reading spectacles and barked, I don’t see students on Thursdays.

Dr. Seymour?

That includes graduate students. He leaned his armload on the door to his private office, fished in one pocket for his keys, shifted hands, and almost dropped his load. Valerie rose to assist him and received a grunt in response. Thursdays are the only time I have to myself these days.

The registrar said—

Doesn’t matter what that old biddy told you. He unlocked his door, pushed inside, and added his pile to the jumble cluttering every flat surface, including the seat behind his desk. You see this mountain range of paperwork? Rivals the Rockies. That’s what I’m supposed to go through. Only nobody gives me a spare minute. Thursday afternoons isn’t too much to ask for.

The registrar said I was scheduled to deliver my first lecture tomorrow, Valerie finished determinedly.

The words galvanized the older man by degrees. She watched it happen, saw the stiffness rise from his shoulders to lift his head like a puppet’s. Dr. Seymour turned slowly about, revealing eyes hard as agate, cold as the street outside. What did you say?

I have my schedule here, if you’d like to see— She started to rummage through her shoulder bag.

You’re one of those new ones, aren’t you?

Valerie stopped searching. One of what?

Don’t you turn my questions about, young lady. This isn’t one of your afternoon tea dances. I want a simple answer, not a waltz around this brick cell of an office.

The days behind began gathering together. All the struggle she had just endured, the pain. Excuse me?

Should’ve seen it straight off. Well, your kind isn’t welcome here. The professor was too busy with his own ire to notice the shift in the wind. Not now, not ever. The registrar tell you that also?

Valerie heard the warning whisper, the one that urged her to turn and walk out, save the day by retreating. But she was beyond the point of caring any longer. My ‘kind’?

Go on, get out of here. He wasn’t even looking at her any longer. He began shuffling through his papers, found the journal he was searching for, and slid it from the pile. This meeting never happened.

Is that a fact? Valerie reached over with the fingers of one hand spread out wide. She slapped the magazine from his hand, plastering it back to the desk. I don’t know who you think you are, bub, but in my book you’re history.

Now you look here—

Not anymore. You’ve had your say. It’s my turn. She silenced his bluster by moving in close enough to show the tightness behind her gaze, the ache bitter as old rage. It was strong enough to wake him up fully, shake him out of his self-serving confidence, and stop his protest before it started—all that without raising her voice a fraction. "The only thing I can figure out is that you’re upset because I’m five days late. Well, now, isn’t that just a pity? I’ve messed up the schedule of a fool who’s so entrenched in his brick tower he’s forgotten what it’s like out there in the real world."

She stepped even closer, until she could smell cinnamon and coffee on his breath. "So let me inform you of a little fact. I buried my father the day before yesterday. My last living kin. And I am not about to start my new life by having anybody tell me—"

Ms. Russell? A lithe man moved in so fast he might have been on skates. So glad you could make it. I’m Dr. King.

"This man had the gall to suggest—"

But the lithe man already had ahold of her elbow and was pulling her away—dragging her, really. Yes, of course. Sorry we’ve disturbed you, Baird. You know where to find us if you need anything further. This way, Ms. Russell.

She made do with one more glare, armed as she was with nothing else. But it was enough to have the older man flinch as if she were indeed taking aim.

Then she was moving through the outer office, back into the hallway, where she became surrounded by between-class clamor. Then it hit her. I just called the head of my department a fool.

Don’t give it another thought. This way, please.

But she was done being moved around. Valerie stopped at the juncture between the office corridor and the building’s front hall. I’m finished.

Not at all.

If he wasn’t planning to can me, he will be now. She wanted to find some quiet corner, or a rest room. Somewhere private enough that the world could not watch her weep. I’m cooked.

Ms. Russell, listen to me. Please. Dr. Seymour didn’t hire you. I did.

The world had already begun to melt around the edges, such that she had difficulty refinding any sense of focus. What?

Please, my office is just down the hall here. This time Dr. King managed to steer her along the hall and through the open door and into a seat. He shut the door against the student noise. How about a coffee?

You hired me?

That’s right. A coffee would do us both some good, I think. He moved to the corner alcove. How do you take yours?

Black.

A serious caffeine fiend. Good. A trait I like to find in all my research postgrads. He slipped the mug into her numb fingers. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Why on earth did you go to his office and not mine?

The registrar . . . excuse me, what did you say your name was?

King. Garland King. I’m vice-director of the department. I cosigned your letter of acceptance, along with Dean Smiley. Remember? He reached over, lifted the mug for her. Go on, take a sip. It helps. I know.

The bitter black brew tinted the world a little sharper. That was an awful experience.

I’m sure it must have been. The registrar is one of the few points Baird Seymour and I agree on. She should have been mothballed decades ago. I warned her a dozen times and more to make sure you avoided Baird entirely and came straight to me.

The man seated opposite her was only a few inches taller than she and not much heavier. His face had the tensile strength of tested steel, finely chiseled and lean. Why did he talk to me like that?

In response, Dr. King rose to his feet and asked, Are you up to a little walk?

Long as I don’t have to see Dr. Seymour again.

Don’t worry. He won’t emerge from his cave for hours. He led her across the hall and down a flight of concrete stairs.

As soon as they passed through the first set of doors and entered the windowless basement corridor, she smelled it. Garland King noticed the change and smiled for the very first time. This way.

Valerie knew what she would find before he opened the reinforced steel doors. It had been two years since her last time in such a place, but it might as well have been yesterday. She surveyed the scene before her and felt the odor permeating into her hair, her skin, her clothes. She turned to Garland King and said, Dr. Seymour is a behaviorist.

An absolute fanatic, the lean man agreed.

The basement chamber was a full hundred feet to a side. The ceiling was fifteen feet high and lined with fluorescent lighting and ventilation shafts. Yet no amount of circulated air could erase the smell. The rat cages were stacked ten high and ran in long rows that completely filled one side of the chamber. There were hundreds of the test animals. Thousands.

Run down the list of behaviorist theories, Garland King went on, and you’d be describing Baird Seymour to a T. Such as, everything to do with human nature is a product of the environment. Or that there are no prenatal tendencies, nothing in terms of behavior or attitudes derived from genetics. Or that every component of human nature that is worth noting must also be measurable. Which means neither emotions nor opinions bear any weight with Dr. Seymour or his cadre of profs and graduate students. Since most human behavior is too complex to be tightly measured, they use animals small enough that they can control their test environment.

Prehistoric, Valerie declared.

Their voices attracted attention from the chamber’s other side, where students in lab coats gathered about testing chambers and steel lab tables and wired control instrumentation. A bearded professor straightened from a glass-walled water maze and demanded hotly, You need something?

Just leaving, thanks. Garland motioned Valerie back toward the door.

She waited until they were back in the corridor to ask, How do you survive?

Economics. He led her back up the stairs and into his office. The administration has read the writing on the psychology-department wall. Student enrollment is down everywhere, and a lot of little colleges like ours are in trouble. Our own department was dying. Other universities have discovered that students are attracted to all those factors loathed by behaviorists—emotional studies, psychological counseling, personal evaluations, career assessment projects. And projects like your own.

Still, I’m surprised he ever hired you in the first place.

Oh, I’m a recent convert. More coffee?

I’m fine, thanks.

I was trained as a behaviorist, and like a lot of the people downstairs, I stayed with it because it was a tried-and-true method. Until I was forced to rethink my direction. He hesitated long enough to cast her a measuring glance. Then he decided, Maybe we’d better leave the rest of that discussion until you’ve settled in.

All right.

I’m sorry you were tossed into the deep end your first day here, but at least you’ll now understand why I tell you to have as little to with that group as you can. Whatever you need, right down to paper clips, come see me. If they can, they’ll block you every step of the way.

Valerie stared out the rear window, seeing the same gray vista as before. This was what she had dreamed of for so long? You’re not actually talking sabotage.

Lock your office and your lab. Make sure I personally vet any under-grads you want to take on as assistants. Garland wore the tight grimness of one who had been through all this before. And be ready for the unexpected.

Over the ensuing days Valerie slipped into a routine of teaching and setting up her thesis protocol. Professor Garland King did little more than observe. He was there whenever she needed either advice or equipment, and his door was never shut if she wanted to discuss her project or the parameters of her tests. But the initial friendliness was not present. Instead, he seemed to be waiting. For what, she was not certain. She almost expected him to say he had come up with second thoughts about the topic of her studies. But all of her carefully prepared defenses proved unnecessary. Garland King might be waiting for something, but he was also willing to wait for her to find out precisely what on her own.

All undergrad psychology majors were required to donate a minimum of twenty hours lab time every semester. It was the only way most graduate students completed their studies, by tapping into this ready source of cheap, forced labor. In the case of Denver University, the majority of undergrads found themselves cleaning rat cages and holding stopwatches for the grad students associated with Dr. Baird Seymour.

This made the response Valerie received, when she posted her request for students to show up for testing, all the more understandable.

Let me get this straight. The spokesman of her first four