Gamers' Quest

by George Ivanoff

  ‘How do you know about this portal thing?’ asked John.

  ‘I found it by accident on my last entry to Designers Paradise,’ answered Giles. ‘I like the library. It's peaceful. I usually spend an hour or so here every day after school – reading, browsing, exploring. And one day, I found the information portal. I ended up spending so much money on information, that I ran out of time in Designers Paradise.’

  Giles stopped as they came to the end of the aisle.

  ‘Here we are.’

  They stood in front of a donut-shaped desk situated at the junction of numerous aisles, as if each led browsers towards it. Looking up, John saw that the desk was directly under the apex of the dome. Tina ran a finger across the surface of the desk and wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Why is everything so dusty in here?’

  ‘Ambience?’ suggested Giles.

  ‘Good day,’ said the bespectacled, grey-haired lady seated in the centre of the desk. It was as if she had been crouched down, hidden from view, ready to appear the moment someone approached. ‘You may call me Grace. What can I do for you young people today?’

  ‘We'd like some information, please,’ said Tina.

  ‘Well, this is a library.’ The lady smiled as she peered over the top of her glasses. ‘So you have come to the right place.’

  ‘We'd like some very specific information, Grace,’ explained Giles. ‘We'd like to know why the parameters of Suburbia are changing. And how we can exit.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Grace reached over and chose a book from the stack to her left. The word PLAYERS was embossed in gold letters on its dark leather cover. She opened the large volume, seemingly to a random page, and ran a finger down the blank paper. The page glowed softly under her touch. She nodded and Giles placed his hand on the page, which flashed with light as it scanned his palm.

  Giles removed his hand and Grace touched a finger to the page again.

  ‘Hmmm.’ She raised an eyebrow, slowly shaking her head.

  ‘There should be more than enough money in my account,’ said Giles. ‘I used a credit stick when I entered.’

  ‘Yes, I do remember you, young man. And I remember just how much accumulated wealth you have. But I cannot access any player accounts or files.’ She paused to remove her spectacles and clean them on her beige, knitted cardigan. Repositioning them on her nose, she tilted her head to one side and stared ahead intently.

  After about half a minute, Tina leaned over to Giles and whispered, ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘I'm just fine, thank you, dear,’ said Grace, suddenly looking at Tina. ‘But there appears to be something wrong with the network. We have become isolated.’

  ‘So, what's going on?’ asked John.

  ‘That's a very good question. I'm not sure that I have an authoritative answer.’ She paused to think.

  She closed the first book and took another one from a nearby stack. She opened the untitled volume, leafing through the pages until she found what she was looking for – another blank page. As she gently brushed the paper with her finger, seemingly indecipherable text and symbols scrolled rapidly across the page.

  ‘It certainly seems that the Suburbia environment has been compromised. The boundaries are weakening. Other environments are intruding. The phenomena appear to be steadily increasing. I'm afraid there is nothing I can do to stop it.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Tina.

  The librarian's eyes widened. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Is there anything that we can do?’ asked John.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there anything anyone can do?’ asked Giles, desperation creeping into his voice. ‘Is there anyone who can help us?’

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Grace. ‘You could try to contact the Designers and beg for their help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It may be possible to pass through a weakness in the environment boundaries,’ explained Grace. ‘Passing through a weakness may give you access to the control centre. If you are able to get there, you could seek an audience with the Designers.’

  ‘And they could fix this?’ asked Tina.

  ‘I suspect so,’ said Grace. ‘They are the Designers. They can do anything. Whether or not they choose to, is another matter entirely.’

  ‘There seems to be a lot of ifs, buts and maybes in all of this,’ complained Giles.

  Grace smiled. ‘Things are what they are.’

  ‘How do we find a weak spot?’ asked Tina.

  ‘I do not know,’ replied Grace. ‘The appearances seem to be random.’

  She took another book from a pile and opened it. With the touch of her finger, a map of Suburbia was displayed on the pages. Little spots of light appeared and disappeared at random locations.

  ‘You see,’ said Grace. ‘The spots of light are the weaknesses. There are many. They vary in size. You'll need to find one large enough to get through. Try to find one that is relatively stable. You don't want it to close up while you're only halfway through. That might be messy.’

  She snapped the book shut.

  ‘Is there anything you can do to help us?’ asked Giles.

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wait.’

  Grace retrieved yet another book, opened it and touched a blank page, her eyes rapidly following the text as it appeared.

  ‘I could disperse your avatars,’ she said, looking up. ‘Although whether that would be a help or a hindrance is open to debate.’

  ‘Do it!’ said Tina. ‘I'd rather face this as myself.’

  ‘Me too,’ added John.

  ‘Well, I'm not sure,’ said Giles.

  Grace flipped a page in the book and pressed her hand to it.

  ‘That's betta,’ said Tark, running a hand along the scar on his head. ‘I is me again.’

  Zyra spun around, swishing her travelling coat about her, then froze, striking a pose, knives held at the ready. ‘Much betta.’ She smiled, showing off her studded teeth.

  ‘Oh yes,’ sneered the now shorter and podgier Princeling Galbrath. ‘This is so much better.’

  ‘Shuts it!’ said Zyra, concealing her knives.

  ‘I'm sorry to interrupt,’ said Grace, looking down at another book. ‘But we have visitors.’

  She held up the book so that they could see. An image appeared on the page. Police, with swords drawn, were marching towards the front of the library.

  ‘And, pray tell, what do we do now?’ asked the princeling.

  ‘Is there a back ways out?’ asked Zyra, turning to the librarian.

  ‘Why, yes.’ Grace pointed to one of the aisles. ‘Just follow that bookshelf till you reach the far wall. Turn right. And it's a couple of metres on your left.’

  ‘Let's get to it,’ said Zyra, as she took off.

  Tark and the princeling followed.

  ‘Praise be to the Designers,’ whispered Grace as they left. ‘And their ingenious creations.’

  20: Invasion

  Tark, Zyra and Princeling Galbrath ran out through the back door of the library, into the parkland. As they approached the concealed SUV, they saw smoke billowing out from its open bonnet.

  ‘Crap!’ cursed the princeling. ‘Someone's gotten to it.’

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  The sound was coming from the bushes next to the car.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Zyra.

  Crack. Crack.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the man in the grey suit, stepping out into the open. ‘Times to go back to school with Mr Cracker.’

  ‘Makes us.’

  ‘Oh, my pretty-pretty, I intends to.’ The Cracker pulled back his jacket and drew a sword. He sliced the air with it and smiled. ‘I intends to.’

  He suddenly lunged, not at his opponents, but at the nearest tree. As the shimmering steel stabbed at the trunk, sparks flared. A charred hole gaped in the side of the tree.

  The Cracker bared his yellowed teeth. ‘Gives up?’

  ‘Nots a chance,’ sai
d Zyra, drawing her knives and taking up a defensive stance.

  ‘I was hopin’ you'd say that.’

  ‘Don't!’ shouted Princeling Galbrath. ‘If you touch the sword with your knives, the charge will kill you!’

  The Cracker attacked Zyra who deftly sidestepped the blade.

  ‘I'll deals with you soon enough.’ The Cracker glared at the princeling.

  As Zyra put away her knives, Tark picked up a fallen tree branch that was about the length of a sword.

  The Cracker made another lunge for Zyra. Princeling Galbrath hissed and waved frantically at Tark to get his attention and pointed at the duck pond. Ignoring him, Tark tried to come around behind the Cracker. But the thiever saw him and rounded on Tark. Tark jumped back, the blade barely missing him.

  Zyra crouched down and scooped up a handful of dirt. The Cracker turned to her and she flung the dirt into his face. With grit in his eyes, the Cracker staggered back, screeching in anger.

  Tark took the opportunity to lash out at him with the branch, smacking his legs from behind.

  The Cracker fell to his knees, one hand rubbing at his eyes while he slashed the sword wildly about him. Tark and Zyra both scrabbled back.

  With the Cracker distracted, Princeling Galbrath raced over to Tark. ‘Get him into the pond!’ he hissed.

  ‘Wot?’ Tark looked at the princeling as if he were a raving lunatic.

  ‘The pond,’ Galbrath repeated. ‘The water will conduct the energy from the sword.’

  The princeling didn't have the opportunity to explain any further, as the Cracker was on his feet again and charging at Tark. The princeling dived out of the way as Tark raised his branch defensively.

  The sword connected with Tark's branch. The branch shattered, throwing Tark to the ground.

  Glancing briefly at the princeling, Tark scrambled to his feet and took several backward steps in the direction of the pond. ‘Oi, Cracker,’ he called. ‘Ya useless git.’

  Zyra stooped down, grabbed a small rock and took aim.

  ‘Don't,’ said the princeling. ‘Let Tark handle this.’

  Zyra raised an eyebrow, but held back and watched.

  Tark backed away from the Cracker, continuing to throw taunts. The Cracker stumbled after him, eyes streaming, face beetroot-red with rage. Reaching the edge of the pond, Tark stopped.

  ‘So, Cracker, ya snivellin’ toe-rag,’ Tark goaded. ‘How many times is it that ya've been bested by a 16-year-old girl thiever?’

  With a snarl, the Cracker charged at Tark, who dropped to the ground and kicked out with his leg. The Cracker tripped, stumbled forward and plunged headlong into the pond. With a raucous quacking, most of the ducks made it into the air before the sword electrified the water.

  Energy crackled across the surface, frying two ducks and one thiever.

  For a moment, everyone was still and silent.

  ‘Wow!’ breathed Zyra eventually. ‘How'd ya do that?’

  ‘It wuz ’is idea.’ Tark pointed to the princeling.

  ‘Water conducts electricity,’ said Princeling Galbrath, staring at the duck carcasses floating in the water alongside the face-down, spread-eagled corpse. ‘My late uncle's personal chef used to make an exquisite duck casserole.’

  Tark looked at Zyra and shrugged. ‘Now wot?’

  Zyra gave the Cracker a final glance, then looked around, hands on hips. She pointed to the tall grass behind the playground on the other side of the library. They would have to cross open ground in order to reach it.

  They made it undetected and once safely concealed, they peered out at the street. The once quiet suburb was now filled with panicked people, police wielding swords, and a variety of elements that did not, under any circumstances, belong in Suburbia – cowboys lassoing a steer; an overturned carriage with a distressed horse still attached; a group of bikini-clad women with a volleyball. A peculiar shimmering effect, like a heat haze, came and went, giving these suburban intruders an unreal quality.

  Overhead, a bomber plane came roaring into view, attracting everyone's attention. It too was shimmering in and out of solidity. As it neared the library, the bomb bay doors sprung open and a dark, oblong object plummeted towards the building below. Seconds later, the library erupted into flame, a geyser of heat shooting up into the air and incinerating the plane that had initiated the destruction.

  The force of the explosion shattered shop windows and knocked people to the ground. Thick black smoke billowed out over the street and parkland, as chunks of debris rained down. Princeling Galbrath slowly got to his feet, legs shaking, and stared out at the devastation.

  ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Not the library.’

  ‘Wot?’ yelled Zyra, her ears still ringing with the sound of the explosion.

  The princeling shook his head sadly and turned away.

  Through the smoke and debris appeared a cluster of bedraggled people carrying pitchforks, machetes and burning torches. They looked around, then pointed to the tall grass where the princeling stood. With cries of ‘kill ’em all’, ‘burn ’em’, and ‘flush ’em out’, they made their way to the edge of the grass and hurled their torches at it. The dry, yellowing grass woofed into flame.

  Giving up any attempt at concealment, Tark, Zyra and the princeling fled. They made it to the rear of a set of shops and hid behind a dumpster.

  The princeling tried the nearest door that swung open at his touch. He stuck his head inside the shop then waved the others in.

  The cramped storeroom was filled with cardboard boxes, stacked in haphazard towers that looked like they might topple over at any moment. A television sat atop one of the boxes. It showed scenes of destruction and violence as police clashed with suburban residents, looters raided shops and gangs fought in the streets. The three of them gaped at the television. Then the scene changed to show an advancing army of Roman soldiers.

  Zyra reached out and turned up the sound.

  ‘… forces are gathering on the outskirts of Suburbia,’ said the announcer's harried voice. ‘Invasion is imminent. The police are outnumbered and otherwise engaged.’

  The television showed a close-up of the soldiers with their raised shields. Zyra shrieked and pointed. The design on the front of the shields was a stylised silhouette of a bloated face.

  ‘The Fat Man,’ said Tark.

  ‘I tolds ya,’ said Zyra. ‘Didn't I?’

  Seeing the flicker of a reflection on the screen, Zyra jumped to one side.

  With a loud, unexpected bang, the television exploded. Boxes fell in an avalanche sending the three scurrying from their path.

  Standing in the doorway was a middle-aged man with greying hair, a large gut hanging down over his trousers, and an enormous double-barrelled elephant gun.

  ‘Get the hell out of my shop,’ he demanded, waving the ugly mouth of his gun from one person to the next in an agitated manner.

  Zyra waited till he pointed the gun at the princeling then sprang forward leading with her foot. The gun went off as it was kicked from the man's hands. A chunk of ceiling plaster and dust cascaded down over the princeling.

  The shopkeeper fell, scrambled to his feet and ran back into the main part of the shop. A bell tinkled and a door slammed.

  The princeling looked angrily at Zyra through the gently settling plaster dust, but before he could say anything an old-fashioned, black Bakelite telephone rang erratically. It morphed in and out of reality as it balanced on the edge of a box.

  Zyra reached out and picked up the receiver. It felt insubstantial in her hand and it dropped with a muted clatter to the ground. It was as if it had passed right through her fingers. She tried again, more carefully. It stopped shimmering and she was able to pick it up, but had trouble lifting it to her ear.

  She was greeted by the sound of heavy breathing.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘My, my, my, but you and your associate are proving to be somewhat irksome.’

  ‘But … but, we killed you!’

&nbs
p; ‘You seem to have overestimated your own abilities, whilst drastically underestimating mine.’ The Fat Man's laughter boomed through the earpiece. ‘I'm afraid that I'm not that easy to kill. Granted, you did set me back. And you almost succeeded. But not quite. I began to exit just as my starfighter exploded. And I was dispersed. Left adrift in the system behind Designers Paradise, with no physical presence. It took a little getting used to, but I've discovered that I can exert so much more control as part of the system itself than as a player. So, it seems that you have done me a great service. You have given me the capacity to control everything!’

  ‘But ya is not controllin’ anythin’,’ Zyra yelled into the phone. ‘All ya is doin’ is destroyin’.’

  ‘Well, as the saying goes, you can't bake a cake without breaking a few eggs.’

  ‘Wot does ya mean?’

  ‘I am destroying Designers Paradise.’

  The Fat Man's voice echoed through the room. It had lost its humorous edge and become very serious – deadly serious.

  Zyra dropped the telephone. It was shimmering again.

  ‘No more multiple environments with different rules and different games,’ the Fat Man continued. ‘There will be only one world, with one set of rules. My world! My rules!’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘The reign of the Designers is at an end. The whole of creation will bow to me.’

  Princeling Galbrath retrieved the elephant gun and aimed it at the telephone. He waited for the shimmering to stop then pulled the trigger. The telephone and the box it was sitting on blew apart, showering everyone in shredded comics.

  ‘You do realise that he's completely insane,’ said the princeling, checking the gun. ‘Out of ammunition.’ He tossed the gun to one side and sighed. ‘What I don't understand is why the Designers are letting the Fat Man get away with this. Why don't they stop him?’

  ‘Maybe we should ask ’em,’ said Tark. ‘We's gots ta find a weakness and gets through to them.’

  ‘We did finds a weakness,’ said Zyra, glaring at the princeling. ‘But ’e just shot it.’