Mark glanced up from his paperback and saw Marla lazily breast-stroking about fifteen metres away from the side of the yacht. The water was a superb aquamarine, calm and crystalline under the still blue sky.

"Come on in, Mark," Marla laughed, turning onto her back and treading water.

He put down the book. "You know my thing about sharks," he said, trying not to sound irritated. Marla laughed again, set off away from the boat using a rhythmic over-arm style. Mark made a little frown, then returned to his reading.

And then, something... out of the corner of his eye. In the water.

He put the book down and searched the water. There was something… and a second or two later he saw a triangular shape as it disappeared underwater about sixty metres astern. Then thirty metres, then gone again, but leaving a tell tale ripple. He stood up to the railing, saw Marla still swimming, now more casually, away from the boat. "Marla!" he shouted, but she didn't seem to hear.

And then there it was right next to the yacht, right under where he stood. He even saw what type it was, and how big it was.

"Jesus Christ, Marla!" he screamed. But he knew that she couldn't get back now, not even if she knew the danger.

Mark faced a simple choice.

He leaped over the side, feet smashing into the shark's huge snout. There was the cold of the water, and the solidity of impact, much harder than he'd been ready for. He felt an ankle gone, broken maybe; the pain was bad. An enormous thrashing followed, he was momentarily upside down, and then something big smacked Mark in the mouth. He went under and swallowed water, but struggled back up to the surface. Blood surrounded him, presumedly his own. He looked around frantically.

Marla was about sixty metres away, still swimming rhythmically. "Marla! Marla!" he screamed, rotating in the water, searching. "Jesus, Marla!" but she just kept swimming. Salt water filled his mouth, he coughed and spun around quickly. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" he screamed, and felt a warmth at his groin. "Marla!" he screamed again, spitting bloody foam, and then something made him look down.

Its mouth was bigger than anything he could imagine...

Mark escaped the celebrations. They were celebrating him, his success. He was the first person to win the house, first to reach level ten. This was game show history, and they were all partying in the hospitality suite. But Mark sat by himself watching a TV monitor off the main studio. It was about fifty times smaller than the one the live audience viewed during the show, but all too clear anyway.

They were in that cafe, the expensive one Marla liked. The camera zoomed in on their table. She asked him to get her more sweetener, so he went back to the bar. She watched him walk away, then she took something small out of her bag, mugged for the camera, and dropped it into his flat white. This scene had been used for a set up promo before they showed Mark in the tank. Highest game show ratings ever.

He remembered then Marla watching the show once before as he'd come in from work, some embarrassed woman failing at level three, backing away in horror as her husband was taken away by some cops. Her husband had put the drugs in a glass of bourbon. The drugs were to make the contestants disorientated, vulnerable to the VR input. An ambulance, paid for by the show, had driven him, whacked, from the cafe to the studio. They harnessed him up and the show was under way.

He watched himself prove his love for Marla, again and again.

At level one he gave up a his new pick up; level two his apartment; level three his job; level four (somehow) all his money; level five was a broken leg; level six his kidney; and level seven he risked brain damage. Then came the finals, as they called them, real tests of love: on level eight he pushed her out of the way of a speeding bus, and got crunched himself; on level nine he climbed out on onto the ledge of a tenth story window to save her, and he slipped and fell; and then tonight, for the first time ever, someone made it through level ten.

He watched his face, each time the sick resignation. There was nothing noble in all the sacrifice; he was just a victim, too dumb to know what was going on.

He watched the two sleek young women in evening dresses pull him to his feet and out of the VR harness, unzipping the sense-suit and removing the helmet with practiced ease, undressing a dead man. The tight undersuit was stained at the crotch.

The audience was going wild. Marla was jumping up and down and clapping her hands next to the compere, Tim West. "Mark Buzza, you have won ... the magnificent House in the Mountains!" he announced. The young women in red evening dresses held Mark up in front of the smooth young man and Marla. Mark coughed, then vomited, the young women let go and he dropped to his knees. "Don't worry," the compere said to Marla, "happens all the time - we'll just edit it out."

Mark sat on a barstool next to his friend Tom Kemp, drinking beer. Tom was talking: "Still, know what they say: What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, eh?"

"Dunno, Tommy," Mark said, investigating the bottom of his beer glass. "Some things just fuck you over. Some things... well, they just make you feel like you've been turned inside out. There's nothing at all good about them."

"Uh," Tommy said. "Anyway, we get an invite to the celebration party? They're gonna show it live..."

"Sorry. 'Side from me and Marla, network people only. You wouldn't wanna come anyway..."

"Yeah, well, not me so much, but Amy loves that show. She says closest anyone got before you was some woman two years back got to level nine-"

"Wonder if anyone keeps tabs on what happens to the contestants," Mark said.

"Waddyamean?"

"Well, can change a person, having their innermost nightmares slammed in their face..."

Tom just grunted. "Anyway, got that stuff you wanted. You becoming a terrorist now?"

Mark laughed. "Just some alterations on my folks' property. A few stumps to shift."

"Hope y'know what you're doin'. That stuff is dangerous."

"Don't worry," Mark said, smiling with his mouth. "I know what I'm doing."

The House in the Mountains was built on a cliff, held up by four ferro-concrete pylons driven into the cliff face, overlooking the teeming city below; and on a night like this the view was almost worth it. Two million dollars, the network guy said.

Mark leaned on the balcony, gazing back into the large living room now full of people. Marla was by the fire talking animatedly to Tim West; she wore a striking black gown, showing off her new breasts. Aside from Marla, Tim, and Bambi and Shari , Tim's assistants, there were production people from the show, some of the studio audience (supposedly chosen by lottery but, according to one of the grips, all friends or relatives of the production manager), and some network types. The show had rated number one for over eighteen months, and so Mark's triumph was some kind of serious media event. Several cameramen flittered in and out and around as well, getting it all, broadcasting live.

Mark turned back to the view and saw a remotely controlled hovercam rise up over the balcony from below, taking some long shots.

Inside, someone cued Tim, and gently pushing Marla to one side he addressed a camera. "Welcome, everyone, to the official presentation of the wonderful House in the Mountains - that much sought after major prize of... Do You Really Love Me? - to the first person to get through level ten... Mark Buzza!"

Mark saw the cameras swing towards him. The script said he was supposed to raise his arms in victory, walk on over, place his arm around Marla and exchange banter with Tim West. Then Jeremy Wilding, network chief, would actually present them with the keys to the house.

Mark placed his drink on the balcony, glancing over at the hovercam with its winking red RECORDING light. He pushed away from the balcony and walked over to where they all stood.

"Before we make the presentation," Tim West said, "is there anything you'd like to say, Mark?"

They'd given him a speech to learn, all about thanking the network for the opportunity, and finishing on a little quip about how Marla was worth every second of it, and how he'd do it all over again for real if he had to, and she was supposed to give him a big hug then.

"Why yes, Tim, there is," Mark said, after just a little longer than the director would like, and he reached into his jacket.

From his inside jacket pocket he took an object the size and shape of a packet of cigarettes. "This is a radio control device," Mark said. Marla frowned at him, Tim West maintained his industrial smile, Jeremy Wilding turned to start to whisper something to one of his underlings.

"Yesterday I set explosive charges on the pylons that support this house. This,” he held up the object in his hand, ‘will detonate them."

There was a shocked silence, and then Tim West, ever the professional, said, "A little prime-time joke on us, huh Mark? But now perhaps if we-"

"No, it's no joke, Tim," Mark said, looking at Marla, " This is for real."

End