The Game

by Terry Schott

  Chapter 38

  If a tree falls in the forest and no one’s around…does it make a sound?

  That’s an interesting question, I suppose. Here’s a better one. If something happens inside the Game and no one views it…did something actually happen?

  Incredible events happen every moment inside the Game, and it’s common for no one to ever know they occurred.

  How is this possible?

  Easy.

  At any given moment, there are millions of players inside the Game being viewed…by absolutely no one.

  Author unknown

  I walk through the front door, smiling and taking a deep breath. I love libraries!

  For the books? Hahaha, hell, no. Why would I love libraries for the books? You can find books everywhere today. You don’t even have to leave your house to get one delivered or digitally downloaded.

  No, there are more interesting things in libraries than books. Are you watching me? Can you hear me? Then come along and I’ll show you what I’m talking about. Keep your eyes open and pay special attention. Perhaps we’ll be fortunate enough to find one today.

  This library is nothing special, just a regular library in a regular town. A stereotypical librarian looks up from behind her desk and smiles as I make eye contact with her. That’s right, miss, I’m just a regular middle aged man walking in to check out your books. It’s best for you to believe that, dear, because the truth of who I am really am would make you throw yourself in front of oncoming traffic to escape your terror.

  I head for the stairs; I like to work my way down from the top floor. I’ve visited countless numbers of libraries and have developed a nice routine. I hear telltale sounds from the main floor, over by a corner table, but I don’t break my ritual. It’s been weeks since I’ve had any luck. If it’s on the main floor, then I’ll be back and find out soon enough. I’ve come to savour the process almost as much as the successes.

  The top floor is the kids’ section. It’s rare to find one in the kids’ section but let me tell you, when I do have luck there, it’s the best of times. Not today, though. A quick walk up and down the aisles turns up nothing. After a leisurely stroll, I head to the next level.

  Computers and cubicles on this floor. I walk slowly past the backs of the tiny enclosures, letting my hand gently touch each one as I pass by. I can feel the warmth and faint hum from the computers at the desks and hear the dull silence of the people sitting behind each computer screen. Quietly I observe each person as I stroll by. Look at them — they’re barely here. Glassy blank stares, half open mouths, ridiculous headsets covering their ears as they listen to some idiotic song or video or movie. I want one of them to lock eyes with me. Come on, slags! Look at me! I want to scream at them as loud as I can and ask them why they’re sitting here wasting their play. There’s no game inside that stupid little box that can compare with the one you traded your life force and hard-earned credits to play. ‘What are you looking for?’ I want to yell at them. ‘It’s right in front of your face, stop looking past it. Don’t make it so complicated, children. The simplest answer is the answer.’

  But none of them look up. They’re lost. It’s a Thursday afternoon and here they are, sitting mindlessly in a library. For a few minutes I walk back and forth past the lines of dull computer people like a caged tiger. Watching. Waiting.

  I sigh. No, nothing here that interests me.

  Down to the main floor I go. Around the edges rest the shelves of old, often forgotten literature. Off to the left is a glass-walled room, sound proofed for audio books. In the centre of the main floor are the tables. This is often where I find success, the tables. It seems to draw them, like moths to a flame.

  One table has a teenage girl wearing headphones and typing away on her laptop. Nicer headphones than the drones upstairs; she’s better than them. Her eyes are clear and she looks to be actually doing something productive on her computer. Good for you, darlin’.

  There are two empty tables beside her, then a table with two mothers. They are talking while their children recline in strollers. One child throws a plastic cup onto the floor and the mother doesn’t stop talking or break eye contact with the other one, she simply bends down and hands it back to the child. Amusing to watch. As I walk past, the child looks at me. His blue eyes sharpen in alarm. What’s wrong, little fella? See something that bothers you? I appear to smile kindly at him, but it’s not truly a kind smile. He begins to cry, waving his arms towards his mother, looking for protection. His eyes dart to mine, then frantically back towards his mother. I shake my head. It’s okay, little boy, I’m not here for you today.

  I hear the sound again and look to my right. There are three tables out of the way behind a row of bookshelves. I lean over at the waist and take a quick peek; It looks like we are in luck today.

  I grab a book, not even bothering to see what kind it is, and move to the table beside him. It’s often a him. His hair is white and dirty, standing up in some places and flat against his head in others. He looks to be about 60, but I guarantee you he’s younger. On the table sits a beat-up tan bag, zipper open, stray items threatening to fall out. Crumpled pieces of paper, a small, broken umbrella, dozens of worn pencils of various lengths. A black plastic bag is stuffed into the corner. It’s chaos inside that bag, but not to him. He wears a trench coat, faded and worn. He wears a stained sweater over a splotchy, yellowed dress shirt; both are stained and threadbare. His beard is scruffy, and he smells, I can smell him from where I sit at the next table. The sour smell of days-old sweat and unbrushed teeth. Papers are strewn across the entire table, some fresh, some crumpled and stained. There is a small pile of notebooks stacked within reach of his right hand; every once in a while his hand absently strays to touch them, lingering for a few moments before returning to hold the paper he is furiously working on.

  I open my book and pretend to read it as I wait for him to start talking. He looks like a talker.

  After a brief period, I’m rewarded for my patience as he blurts out in a loud, confused-sounding voice, “Buoyancy! It’s all about water!” then he flings the sheet across the table, scrambling through the messy pile he grabs another full page with purpose and looks down at it.

  “It’s the weight of water that makes it difficult to walk on,” he says before reaching to open one of the notebooks from the pile. He opens it and I get a brief glance inside — the most detailed pencil drawing of a brain that I’ve ever seen, but I know what a brain looks like and this drawing has some tiny additions to it. Quickly he stands up and walks away, the book hanging open loosely at his side. He mumbles as he walks, and I slowly begin to count.

  When I reach the count of 22 he appears back at the table and sits down, placing the book on top of the others and grabbing a pencil to start colouring another blank page. As he colours, his loud talk begins to come faster, mostly nonsense but interrupted with sentences of pure brilliance. All around him the occupants of the library go about their lives, politely ignoring the crazy man who sits in their presence.

  He repeats his ritual twice more, grabbing the top notebook and walking around for exactly 22 seconds before returning to his seat and beginning to work on a new sheet of paper. When he gets up and walks away for the third time I quickly move to sit at his table. I have 20 seconds before he returns, so I sit politely looking at the papers, careful not to touch or disturb any. I see some extremely advanced material laying here. The most intelligent people on the planet would need help deciphering most of it.

  He comes back and sits down, not giving me any indication that he sees me. That’s normal. I sit quietly watching and listening. He’s fascinating. Broken. Brilliant, most likely, and a remarkable source of knowledge, if you know how to get it out of him. I happen to specialize in that.

  He works quietly on his pages, saying nothing, which tells me he’s aware of my presence on some level.

  When he returns from his next walk, I decide it’s time to break the silence. “Buoyancy, huh?�
�� I ask.

  He doesn’t look up as he mutters, “The water’s too heavy to walk on.”

  “Show me,” I say.

  He looks up and meets my eyes. Then he looks around, first to his left and then to his right. Slowly he reaches for a notebook from the bottom of the pile. Licking his lips nervously, he opens the book with shaky hands and passes it to me. When the book is touching my hands I break eye contact and look at it. In the neatest, most elegant handwriting is written an extremely complex set of mathematical equations. I grin because I recognize them. Slowly I read it and turn the page, finding the next full of the same type of equations. He looks at me hopefully and when I nod he sighs in relief. I hold up my finger for silence.

  Finally I look at him. He’s been watching me quietly like a student watching a teacher mark the final exam, unsure if they will pass or fail. “Do you know what this is?” I ask him in my friendliest tone.

  He shakes his head and points to his skull. “The water’s too heavy,” he says.

  I reach forward and touch his skull gently, closing my eyes as I open myself up to the energy I command. The coldness from my hand covers his head, telling me what I need to know and giving him some small relief. He leans back in his chair, appearing normal for the first time. “Thank you,” he says, tears forming in his eyes.

  “Don’t thank me,” I say. “It’ll come back in a few seconds. But if you come with me I can try to help you.”

  He nods quickly. They are so quick to believe the lies. But it’s necessary, and in the long run I will help him. When I’ve retrieved everything I can, I’ll probably help him escape this broken avatar shell he’s trapped in. His type of broken is special, though. He’s more valuable this way than he ever was as a normal person.

  I pull out my phone and dial a number, watching him pleasantly. “I’ve got one,” I say, and hang up. Leaning towards him, I flash him a smile. “Somewhere in your head, my friend, you’ve been doing something very special. You’ve been spying on the Mainframe and stealing its secrets. Very powerful secrets that now belong to me.” I tap the notebook and grin. “We are going to do some truly evil things together.”