The Danger Game

by Ian Bull

  Trishelle picks up her guitar, sits on the arm of the couch, and strums a new tune.

  “I’ve another thought. Want to hear it?”

  “Babe, we should stay in our lanes, don’t you think?”

  She shoots me a look that says; it’s my turn now, so keep your mouth shut.

  Glenn lifts his head and squints at her in the sunlight. “That sounds nice.”

  “Is the sun bothering you? We could close the curtains.”

  “Yes. Please make it as much like a cave as possible.”

  I yank the curtains shut. I’ll tin foil the windows if it keeps them talking. Glenn opens his eyes as the room darkens, listening to her play.

  Trishelle strums her new tune. “I like caves too. The creatures inside live and die in darkness, so they use other senses besides sight to navigate. But, because we rely on sight, they remain invisible to us. Yet, they’re right there.”

  Glenn sits back up. “Yes! And that’s Douglas Bushnell is doing, like all cybercriminals. They render themselves invisible. Yet, they’re still here.” He casts his eyes down. “But I haven’t figured out how to find him.”

  Trishelle sets the guitar aside. “It’s not just Bushnell and Heyman. We think Tina Swig is with them too.”

  Glenn’s eyes widen. “That makes sense. And makes it even harder for me to find all three.”

  You can’t.”

  “Yes, he can, Trishelle. That’s why Glenn is here.”

  “He just told us he needs NSA computers to do it.” She turns back to Glenn. “You can’t chase the money. Can you chase them through the app?”

  “It’s just like the money. I make a story submission, then chase it through different internet exchange points, but they disappear into the darkness fast.”

  “Like trying to see an animal in a cave.” Trishelle moves next to him on the couch. They’re almost knee to knee, which makes him shudder. She scoots back.

  Glenn nods. “Exactly. And they run away and keep making episodes.”

  “So, we stop trying to find them. We try to beat their game instead. Do you play games online, Glenn?”

  “I’m the best Nightstream player on the East Coast.”

  “I bet you can play The Danger Game better than they can. There must be a way to dominate their game. Take it over. Turn their game into a game of your own.”

  “Brilliant! That’s it!” Glenn jumps up, infected with her idea. “But I can’t do it alone. We need to crowdsource this thing.”

  I feel clueless. “What would this crowd do?”

  “Imagine millions of players buying their app and playing online, but dedicated to spoiling their game—thus saving Steven and Julia.”

  “Do people do that?” I ask.

  “Some people play online games just to make mischief. They disagree with the game itself, so they spoil it for the other players. It happens in shooter games all the time. You’re about to shoot someone and score points, and they interfere. It’s called ‘griefing’ because the spoilers give you grief.”

  I look at both of them. “Okay, I get it. Nice idea. But we can’t just make a billion submissions and crash their website. We want to save Steven and Julia.”

  Glenn flicks his fingers, releasing his pent-up energy. “He’s right. We have to steer the outcome. Our millions of recruits must play their game but our way.”

  “And what way is that?”

  Trishelle jumps in. “Maybe our spoilers can flood their game with storylines in which Steven and Julia aren’t tortured. That way, Steven and Julia may live long enough for us to rescue them.”

  Glenn shakes his head. “It’s called The Danger Game. They won’t back down, no matter what our spoilers send in.”

  “And for me to rescue them, I need to know where they are, Trishelle.”

  Glenn paces the length of the dining room, turning at each end like a lion in a cage. “But her idea is good. Real good. I just have to figure it out.”

  “Then what do you need, so I can get it for you?” I ask.

  Glenn stops, his face so close to mine I can smell Cheetos on his breath. “I need Corporals Darna and Rafael Hilaro here. Today. They’re stationed at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California.”

  “Why them?”

  “I met them at the Black Hat conference in Las Vegas. They’re the only ones who can beat me at Nightstream.”

  “And what will they do exactly?”

  “We will build a rival game dedicated to griefing The Danger Game. We must code the game, and put it online as fast as possible, and they’re the only ones who can do it with me.”

  There’s one colonel stationed at the Presidio of Monterey Army Base who owes me. His number is still in my contacts. This better work. I’m running out of favors.

  23

  TINA SWIG

  Wednesday, March 13, 4:00 p.m. (CET)

  At noon today, Douglas jumped into the tender, and Carlos drove him to the island of Ustica. Without me. No announcement, he just went. He was gone for three hours, and, upon his return, he went straight into the master suite to take a shower.

  He has a lover there. Maybe she follows him, appearing in ports when he calls for her. He may have two or three lovers following him, all as loyal as red-haired Rebecca.

  I don’t confront him. She’s not in my face or in my bed or using my toothpaste. He’s being discreet, which I appreciate.

  I also went to Ustica this morning for a run. I had to ask Douglas for permission, then go to Carlos and request a ride ashore, who then talked with the captain and first mate—men with whom I’ve never spoken. They just salute and disappear. The ship’s bridge is also off-limits, which means Douglas is probably up there spying on me with hidden cameras placed around the ship. I think they’re inside the light fixtures.

  I ran the ancient stone steps on Ustica for fifty minutes, and Carlos watched me from the tender the entire time. I didn’t let up until my lungs ached in my chest.

  This tension is not freedom. Now I understand Devon’s frustration. But it goes with the territory, and we’re too close to the destination to turn back. Just a few more days and we’ll be off this yacht. Then, we’ll both have the life that I promised him.

  I make sure to be in the master suite when Douglas emerges from the marble bathroom after his shower. There are no cameras here. I examined every bend and divot in the wood and plaster.

  The door swings open, and Douglas comes out wearing a white robe. He walks to the bar and mixes his green drink. “How are the tech bros? Keeping you busy?”

  “We’re flooded. People want dragons, mermaids, zombies, and ghosts.”

  “And we’ll make money with every one of their silly requests. We don’t want to kill the goose laying the golden eggs too soon, right?”

  Most of the story submissions are for torture and murder. But we’re saving that for the final episodes. “What’s the body-hack today?”

  “I did six minutes in the cryo-chamber that Carlos installed.”

  The marble bathroom has a tall hexagon-shaped metal chamber that’s just big enough to fit a human. It stays cold when he gets out, and it cools the master suite a few degrees. “Isn’t six minutes a long time?”

  “You have to work up to it.” He sips his drink and smiles, showing off that adorable, green mustache.

  “I’m excited for the next episodes. It will be hard to top the last one.”

  “That last episode was hard to produce on a tight schedule, although it did give us the huge audience we wanted. Now, we can crank out episodes with more words and fewer special effects.”

  “I’d rather just make them suffer.”

  Douglas finishes his green drink and pops his NAD+ pill to keep his cells working at top capacity. “They’ll suffer. This is The Danger Game, after all.”

  “I don’t like them acting.”

  “People pay and send crappy dialogue, so let’s give them crappy dialogue. It’s easy, and it keeps the gamers playing. The scenes st
ill have pain and suffering.”

  The show is at risk when Julia Travers speaks. She gains power. When Douglas created the opening for the show, he shouldn’t have put in those overwrought lines from Shakespeare that she howled up at the cameras. She’s too compelling. That’s why she’s a star; she’s genuine, and the audience wants to see more. Even the tech bros at their monitors lock eyes on her when she comes on screen. They feel for her.

  We should stick with the cartoon idiocy that worked so well in the second episode. That absurdity makes them look silly, so their pain feels fabricated like the fight scenes in a superhero movie, and no one believes their situation is real. If we give her lines, she can make it real again, and take over the show.

  Douglas reads my face. “Say it, my love.”

  “I want episode four to be over the top. Like episode two.”

  He beckons me to him. I get off the bed, walk into his arms, and kiss him. His breath smells like fresh kale. “The game will still end with them dying, but I want to make as much money as we can along the way. We may even hit two billion.”

  “I’m not a gambler like you.”

  “My biggest gamble so far has been on you, and it’s paid off.”

  I lay my head against his chest. “You’re the perfect fit.”

  “And so are you.” He wraps his arms around me. He’s getting aroused, which arouses me. Whatever happened this afternoon wasn’t enough, which I like.

  “Devon is struggling with the Hodge conjecture. He’s getting cabin fever too.”

  “Invite him out of his lair. Carlos can take him ashore.”

  “He wants to use the internet.”

  “Not until the game is over. If he wants to send or receive email, Rebecca or I can do it for him, encrypted.”

  “He knows that. But he’s a teenager.”

  “I’ve made sure that he has wonderful distractions here to stimulate him.”

  He means Rebecca. I almost say something. Instead, we fall back onto the bed.

  24

  STEVEN QUINTANA

  Kidnapped 56 hours ago

  I float in dark, warm water, not knowing where my skin ends, and liquid begins. My body expands until the water and I become one.

  “Wake up!” Peter Heyman’s voice is the fish hook in my brain that yanks me awake. I roll away from Julia, off the mattress, and onto my knees on the cold cement. Julia’s panting nearby. We’re full of adrenalin with nowhere to go.

  The overhead lights snap on, blinding us. I cover my eyes and flip my middle finger skyward. “Fuck you, Heyman. Who turned you into such a monster?”

  “My brother. He’d beat me senseless. He wanted to turn me into him, and it worked.”

  “He must be very proud of you.”

  “I killed him. The trouble is, I keep wanting to kill him.”

  “You should have thought of that before you did it, you murdering moron.”

  Julia pokes me in the ribs. “Don’t aggravate him. It doesn’t help our situation.”

  “She’s right. Act if you want to live.”

  “I don’t act to live. I live to act,” Julia says. “Bring it on.”

  “Learn from her, Quintana.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Try harder. Your show is a hit, and we want to keep it that way.”

  “What do you mean?” Julia asks.

  “The Danger Game. It’s what you’re shooting. Act or die. That’s the premise. People love it. Your head exploding in your spacesuit got thirty million views.”

  Julia’s face turns red hot. I ache for her. After all her hard work, they can destroy her career in less than a day.

  I point at the dark form on the catwalk, who seems to be Heyman. “You can’t stand that she beat you people twice already! And she’ll beat you again!”

  Julia touches my arm and her eyes bore into mine. “I don’t care about beating them. Performing is how we stay alive right now. That’s the job.”

  Heyman shouts at full volume. “Smart woman.”

  Two scripts drop from the catwalk and hit the green cement floor with a thump.

  “Memorize the first twenty pages and you get breakfast. Then, we start shooting.”

  The scripts are thick. I skim through mine, glancing at a few pages. It’s all dialogue. My body temperature jumps ten degrees, and the sweat spigots turn on. I’d rather be poked with more cattle prods than do this.

  Julia picks up her script and laughs as she turns the pages. “Yesterday, you humiliated us with stupid action scenes. Now you want us to do legit theater?”

  “Your public is requesting it, mistress thespian. Start memorizing if you want to eat.”

  Julia takes her script and goes to a corner.

  I can memorize fine; it’s the acting that scares me. Julia feeds off it but not me. My skill is staying hidden, observing, recording, and remembering.

  Then, it hits me. But people watching me may be good. Friends are watching, looking for a way to help us. Maybe I can use these words to reach them.

  I sit down against a green wall opposite Julia. We trade glances, but I look away. They’re watching, but I can hide in plain sight.

  25

  JULIA TRAVERS

  Kidnapped 57 hours ago

  I sit in my corner and leaf through the hundred pages they dropped from the scaffolding. There are dozens of scripts inside that we must memorize.

  One’s a thriller, another a slasher, another a drama. We blaze through the first script in an hour. I confront Steven for cheating on me. We fight like cats for ten pages, then I shoot him and laugh while he dies. That earns us more stale sandwiches and water.

  Act or die.

  Will they really broadcast all this? Doubtful. Maybe they’re gathering enough material to create digital versions of us. Then they can kill us and still make our holograms perform forever. At least I’d be out of my misery.

  Sipping warm water keeps me from trembling as we memorize the next script. Steven crouches against the wall on the other side of the room. He looks like a teenage boy from here, with his script between his knees, mouthing the words. It makes me wonder what our son would look like. He may look like Steven does now, except curled up with a book worth reading. That vision gives me hope.

  “You have ten minutes. Then you do script two.”

  Up in the scaffolding is the silhouette of a bald man in a long trench coat. It’s Peter Heyman, lording over us.

  I’d like a sweatshirt to sleep in. If I could sleep better, I could think and find a way out of here. But that’s Steven’s job. He better be thinking of something.

  Steven stares at his script. He keeps mouthing the words and then touching the page like he’s counting. The tip of his right index finger is red. He’s bleeding. Somehow, he managed to cut himself and he’s touching his bloody fingertip to the paper. I can see it from this angle but, because he’s crouching against the wall with the script between his knees, no one in the scaffolding can see.

  They better not or they’ll kill us in an instant. Whatever he’s doing, he better tell me in Morse code tonight.

  “It’s time.” Heyman’s voice sounds like we’re in a horror movie, which we are.

  We leave our scripts and face off in the middle of the room. A half-apple box, painted green, drops down from the scaffolding. It’s for me to stand on, so our eyes are level, and I’m not staring up into Steven’s face.

  “Stand on your marks.”

  We get in place and exhale. Steven looks different; he’s not a scared rabbit anymore. His eyes are set with that thousand-yard stare he gets in warrior mode. I think about losing him, and my eyes well up with tears.

  “Action.”

  “Start?” Steven asks, then blinks.

  Heyman yells, “‘Action’ means start, moron! It’s your third day!”

  “I can’t remember! I have to start over!”

  “Then do it, idiot.”

  Steven keeps blinking. “I am leaving you,” he says like a bad rob
ot.

  I grab Steven by both arms. “What can I say to make you stay?”

  Steven plows ahead. “The things we had, have never, ever been worth anything. Let’s not kid ourselves that we can change. I have napped through my life like a sleepwalker. But I’m awake now. Nothing can rescue us.”

  Those aren’t his exact lines. He can memorize anything, why is he messing this up? “You won’t even try?”

  Steven grabs me back, pinching my muscles. “Don’t you get it? I hate you. I will kill you for what you put us through.”

  The lines are stupid, but his harsh voice triggers me. I fall to my knees, sobbing. “Please. I beg you. Don’t kill me. I love you….”

  He wraps his hands around my neck. The veins on his neck and the muscles in his face bulge as his hands tremble—but his fingers don’t tighten. I hold my breath and bug my eyes out, pretending. I claw at his hands and hit his forearms, then go limp. He lets go, and I fall to the floor, staying still for thirty seconds. I finally gasp, filling my lungs.

  “Unsatisfactory.”

  Steven looks up. “We performed exactly what’s on the page.”

  “You changed some of the words, Quintana.”

  “I’m trying. You’re lucky I memorized as much as I did.”

  “And you did not strangle her to unconsciousness.”

  “I was acting. Acting is pretending.”

  “Don’t pretend. Strangle her.”

  “Why not make us kill each other?”

  “We’ll get there.”

  The point of today’s episode hits me. Yesterday they humiliated us. Today’s scripts are about making us suffer, and Heyman is going to make sure it’s as real as possible.

  “You will strangle her into unconsciousness. Now.”

  “No.”

  “Drop.”

  Five ninjas drop from the catwalk with their cattle prods and surround Steven. One jams him under the arm, and Steven’s arms contract, so he slaps himself in the face.

  Steven says something in Spanish and it enrages the man, and he keeps poking him until Steven falls to the floor, convulsing.