The Leveller

by Julia Durango

  “Explosive slingshot,” says Chang, oblivious to Moose’s theatrics.

  “Mage staff,” I continue, selecting it from my inventory.

  “Double wrist daggers,” says Moose, slicing his hands through the air like a juiced-up ninja. “Gonna slice ’em to pieces, leave a pile of bones in my wake. Hope you suckers got your dish gloves ready.”

  “Samurai kanabo,” intones Chang. “Ready in five, four, three . . .”

  We each adjust our ear trans and when Chang says, “Go!” we clip them to our studs.

  When I wake up, I run right through the Landing and out the door to Rapunzel’s Tower. I’ve already equipped myself via the external settings on my device so I don’t waste time going through my inventory now. Time is precious if I want to win, and I always want to win. I may not be a trash-talker like Moose or possess Chang’s precision mind, but I have my own strategy that serves me well in the gaming world. On the outside, I play it casual, let the competition think I’m an easy mark, the first man down in battle. On the inside, I’m a machine.

  As I book it to Rapunzel’s Tower, I hear the skeleton horde screaming their battle cries in the distance, though I can’t see them yet. The tower’s nothing but a tall, skinny stone turret, just like from the pages of a fairy tale, a popular choice for the timed battles we play.

  We invented these mini-games after we got our MEEP piercings a year ago. Since the MEEP only offers a single-player option, there’s no way for us to play together, like we did in the nonvirtual game platforms. They say a multiplayer MEEP is in the works, but due to various liability issues with the neuroscience involved, it’ll be another year or two before its release. For now, “crisscrossing,” or playing across worlds, is a straight-up no-no except for licensed beta testers like me. And even I have to be careful about not abusing my beta code, or the MEEP admins will toss me out of the chowder like a bad clam.

  Our mini-game rules, strictly enforced by Chang, go like this. First, we agree upon the constants: same setting, same enemy, same length of time, same number of weapons. Then we run a draft pick for the weapons—no overlap allowed, since they’re the variables in the equation. Next, we place our wagers—losers pay for chili dogs at the Pound, winner gets to set rules for the next game, things like that—to stoke the competition. Finally, we battle, each in our own MEEP worlds. After the allotted time, we come back together and compare notes. Whoever destroys the most enemies before dying (or if you’re lucky, before time’s up) wins.

  Afterward Chang writes up the results in his game log to share with LEGION, his online MEEP Geek community. Those guys are all about the data and figuring out how to use it to hack the MEEP. They’re probably responsible for the Black rumors too. According to LEGION, Diego Salvador is the Russian czar of the gaming world, and they are the rural peasants, trying to topple the empire brick by virtual brick.

  Moose, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about stats, efficiency ratios, or how to exploit glitches; he plays solely for bragging rights. And me? I love the rush it gives me, kind of like a runner’s high, I suppose—that moment when I feel invincible, like there’s no one I can’t level.

  At this moment, however, I’m far from that moment. The skeleton horde is now visible on the horizon, charging at me like a sea of rattling bones. I scoot inside and seal the door, then take the stairs two at a time until I’m at the top of the tower, where waist-high stone walls offer me protection on all sides. Even though you can’t physically feel pain in the MEEP, your brain still registers all the emotions that go with imminent bodily danger: fear, anxiety, panic, and sometimes even exhilaration, as crazy as it sounds, especially if you have a bit of a masochist streak like Chang. Though certain enemies still freak me out—I’ve never been overly fond of anything that may want to take a bite out of me, for example—I’ve logged so many hours in battle and “died” so many times that any dread I used to feel has mostly been replaced by anticipation. Right now I feel jittery, like my palms would be sweating and my heart racing in the real world, but pumped, too, for the fight to come.

  I ready my crossbow and wait for the horde to come within range. As they near, I see that they’re all dressed in ragtag fashion, like they’ve just popped into the Goodwill store on the way over. Some wear Civil War uniforms, others jaunty pirate hats and pantaloons; a few sport bridal gowns complete with flowered veils. Apparently, no regulation uniform is required in this oddball regiment. I like it. Even better, their weapons are all handheld: swords, clubs, and axes. Nothing projectile.

  “Fish in a barrel,” I murmur under my breath, then whoosh, I loose my first arrow. A skeleton in a red fuzzy bathrobe goes down like . . . well, like bones in a bathrobe.

  “One down, ninety-nine to go,” I say, pleased with myself, then quickly take down two more. My ultra crossbow is wicked fast, the perfect weapon at this height. The ragamuffin skeletons skitter around the tower, clamoring to get in. I pick them off right and left, my body working in perfect rhythm as I slide the arrows from my quiver, load, aim, fire.

  I can taste the pecan pie now.

  Even if Chang’s slingshot and Moose’s boomerang prove as deadly as my crossbow, I know I’ve got better aim than both of them. The rush sweeps over me: I’m in the zone. “Nixy B. for the win,” I crow aloud. Right then, a skeleton wearing what looks like a toddler’s sailor cap turns to the bonehead next to him and rips the guy’s arm right out of its socket.

  “Holy sh—” I start to yelp, but before I can finish the obscenity, Sailor Cap flings the dismembered arm bones at me. I duck, but it’s too late, the arm too long. The bones hit me right between the eyes and knock me on my butt.

  “That was humerus,” I joke to nobody as I stumble back onto my feet.

  Though vexed the horde won’t be dispatched as neatly as I’d hoped, I can’t help but give a mental high five to the MEEP designer who programmed a big dollop of sassy into these skeletons.

  I look down and laugh-snort at what I see next. The horde is working together to form a human—or undead, I should say—ladder up the side of the tower; all that’s missing is the circus music and peanuts. They stand on each other’s shoulders, three skeletons high on all sides, circling the tower like an overzealous cheer squad. They put our own high school cheerleaders to shame. Mindy and her crew always act a little too cool for school, if you know what I mean. In contrast, these boneheads have spirit, yes they do!

  The spryer skeletons are now climbing the ladder, cracking their comrades’ bones with impunity as they use a rib cage here, a skull there, for purchase. I manage to ward off the first wave with some quick-fire crossbow action, but there are too many, too fast.

  I whip my mage staff from the holster on my back and crouch down, tensely waiting for the second wave. One exhale is all I get before they come scrabbling over the stone walls like clicking white spiders. I jump to my feet and pivot-spin a full 360, taking off four skulls with my outstretched staff—WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK.

  Not bad, I think, stopping to catch my breath before the third wave arrives.

  CLICK CLICK, I hear behind me. My heart races as I twirl around, staff at the ready.

  I’m face-to-face with my old pal, Sailor Cap, who clacks his big grinning teeth at me, then plunges his sword through my heart. Though I feel no pain, the force knocks me backward, and I drop my mage staff.

  Fy fæn.

  Score one for the boneheads.

  As I slump to the stone floor, my ear trans starts beeping at me, summoning me back to real life. I can’t believe thirty minutes have passed so quickly—I would have guessed no more than fifteen—but then again, it’s easy to lose track of time in battle.

  When I open my eyes, my parents hover over me, staring into my face. I nearly jump out of my skin. “Jeez!” I yell, sitting up on the couch. “That’s totally creepy! What are you doing?”

  My parents look at each other, like the
y’re trying to decide which one of them should answer. As I try to back away from their looming faces, I notice that Chang and Moose are still asleep on either side of me.

  “Did you guys override my ear trans?” I ask, irritated by the parental intrusion. This really isn’t their style. “And why are you back already?”

  Mom clears her throat. “Phoenix, our boss just called—”

  Uh-oh, I think. Too much unauthorized bounty hunting. They’re shutting me down. “Little boss or big boss?” I ask, turning to my dad.

  “The boss,” he says. “Very very big big boss.”

  “Diego Salvador called?” I ask. My mind is whirling. Surely the MEEP’s head honcho doesn’t deal with small-fry levellers like me. That’s what minions are for. “So what did he want? Are you both getting huge promotions?” I ask and fake a smile, though I know that’s definitely not the case. My parents look way too serious for this to be good news.

  Mom shakes her head. “It’s his son . . . Mr. Salvador’s only son has gone missing in the MEEP.”

  So I’m not busted. I shrug as the relief washes over me. “Tell them to send in the MEEP-O Men,” I say. “Kid’s probably hiding out in some virtual tiki hut surrounded by topless hula dancers. They’ll find him soon enough.”

  Dad frowns. “It’s not that simple, Nix. Apparently they’ve been trying to reach Wyn for days, but he’s managed to barricade himself in.”

  “Well, that was asinine,” I say. “But he’ll surface soon. His real body’s gotta be pretty hungry by now.”

  My parents exchange a grim look.

  “That’s just it, sweetie,” says Mom. She takes my hands and kneels beside me. “He left behind a suicide note.”

  FOUR

  DIEGO SALVADOR’S PRIVATE JET IS SO SWANK I KEEP REACHING INTO my pocket for my phone. I’m dying to take a photo of myself reclining in the leather lounge chair, sipping ginger ale from a crystal glass, so Chang and Moose can see what they’re missing. But then I remember that this is all supposed to be TOP SECRET, like we’re on some James Bond spy mission to Russia. All that’s missing is an exotic-looking woman with a bountiful rack named Anita Shelferdeez and we’ll be set.

  Unfortunately, I’m not able to share these thoughts with anyone else on this fancy tin can because I’m surrounded by furrowed brows: Dad, who’s next to me, squinting into his laptop, and Kora Lee, who’s across from us, grimacing at her phone. Kora is Diego Salvador’s personal assistant, sent to collect us at the heinous hour of six this morning at the small airfield outside of town.

  After my parents broke the news to me yesterday about Salvador’s missing son, things went a little crazy. Chang and Moose were shuffled out the door with Tupperwared leftovers, my mom answering their puzzled faces with nondescript murmurs: “Family emergency, nothing to worry about, Great-Aunt Martha . . .”

  Once they were gone, Dad dialed up Diego Salvador on his laptop, while I combed my fingers through my hair and grumbled a bit. Here we were, about to videoconference with the richest, most powerful man on the planet, and I was wearing an old Zelda T-shirt with a fresh gravy stain on the chest.

  I don’t think Mr. Salvador noticed. When his face popped on the screen, it looked just like it had on the cover of Time magazine last year when he was declared Man of the Year: tan, handsome, slightly graying hair, a jaw that meant business. He greeted us tersely, managing a polite nod of the head for my mom, but clearly in no mood for small talk.

  “Phoenix,” he said, turning his attention to me.

  I grabbed Hodee, who was curled up underneath my feet, and tried to cover the gravy stain with him.

  “Your parents tell me you’re quite a creative beta player,” he continued.

  I shrugged, unsure of what to say. Did he know about the levelling? That could be bad.

  “In fact, they say you have a talent for finding players in MeaParadisus, whether they want to be found or not.”

  Yup. He knew. I glanced at Jill then and she nodded slightly, which I took to mean: The jig is up; go ahead and speak freely.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, I don’t know that I can find anybody, but I haven’t failed yet. I’m pretty familiar with the various MEEP templates, which helps.”

  “Yes, my usage admin shared your stats with me. You’ve spent nearly as much time in the MEEP as my full-time developers . . . lots of late-night hours you’ve racked up over the past year.”

  At that point, both my parents whipped their heads around to look at me. I kept my gaze on the laptop screen and avoided all eye contact with them, glaring instead at Salvador. How many ways could I be ratted out in one day? First, my parents tattle on my levelling business, then Salvador tattles on my nighttime usage? Did personal privacy mean nothing anymore?

  “I’d like your help, Phoenix, on a very challenging retrieval mission,” Salvador continued, completely unfazed by my I-can’t-believe-you-people gaze. “May I count on you?” he asked.

  “How much does it pay?” I replied without blinking. Jill gave a little gasp beside me while Vic did a slow-motion face palm. I’d obviously just embarrassed the hot heck out of them, but I figured it was time for payback in that department.

  Diego Salvador’s eyebrows raised the slightest fraction of a millimeter, but otherwise he matched my poker face steel for steel. “Interesting question. I suppose I should ask how much you charge your other clients when you engage in levelling . . . in direct violation of the beta agreement, may I add.”

  I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Salvador put up a hand to stop me. “No need to worry, Phoenix. As I told your parents earlier, I understand that all business enterprises of a grand scope like MeaParadisus will naturally produce an intrepid subclass of entrepreneurs such as yourself. Which is exactly the kind of guts and initiative I need. Will five thousand dollars plus expenses suffice?”

  I pretended to think this over while my mother gave me a swift kick underneath videocamera range. Ah, maternal love. “Fine, but I’d like a five-K bonus if I get him back in an hour,” I said. What the heck? I figured. He’s a billionaire; ten thousand dollars is chump change to him. I have college tuition to think about.

  “Done,” he said. “I’ll send my plane for you first thing in the morning. I prefer to discuss the details in person.”

  So that’s how Vic and I ended up here, swigging ginger ale and winging our way to Salvador’s place in the Florida Keys. After some discussion, it was decided that Dad would accompany me for tech support, while Mom and Hodee would stay home and hold down the fort. Of course, then Jill had to give me the whole eight-hours-of-sleep lecture and threaten to lock down my MEEP device at night if I couldn’t control myself in the future. To be fair, though, she was a champ this morning, getting up at five o’clock to make coffee and drive us to the airfield.

  A little bell dings in the plane, and Kora, who’s said very little to us so far except to take our drink orders, unbuckles herself from her seat and leans forward. “Mr. Salvador has instructed me to fill you in on some of the details before we arrive, to save time once we get there,” she says, removing a digital tablet from an expensive-looking leather briefcase.

  Kora Lee is dressed in a white silk blouse, a red pencil skirt, and black pointy heels that say “sexy” and “don’t even think about it” at the same time. Her long black hair is parted perfectly down the middle, her makeup so immaculate she almost looks airbrushed. I wonder how she does it, how she achieves this perfection, given that she and the pilot left Florida in the middle of the night to arrive in Illinois by six. I suppose when your boss is Man of the Year, there’s no such thing as “weekend casual” or flying in your jammy pants.

  “Three days ago, while his father was in California to launch Christmas in the MEEP,” Kora begins, in the precise, clipped voice of a newscaster, “Wyn Salvador entered a custom MEEP world of his own creation. Later that day, when his grandmother, Bet
ina Oviedo, or Mama Beti as she is called, summoned him for Thanksgiving dinner, he was still in a state of MEEP sleep. Though surprised her grandson would skip a holiday dinner, Mama Beti was accustomed to Wyn spending much of his time in the MEEP, so she had no cause for alarm at that point. She had a dinner tray sent to his bedroom in case he woke up hungry, then she herself went to bed.”

  My dad and I exchange a guilty glance. We’ve both done the exact same thing before—gamed through dinner, only to wake up later and find a sandwich next to us with an attached note from Jill saying “Eat this, knucklehead.” It’s easy to lose time in the MEEP, especially if you aren’t hampered by the automatic shutoff.

  Kora continues. “When Mama Beti went to check on him the next morning, Wyn was still MEEP sleeping, his ear trans still active, his food cold and untouched. She immediately called her son in California. Mr. Salvador dispatched a programmer to enter Wyn’s MEEP world and bring his son back.”

  I nod and throw back a little more ginger ale. So far this is the same story I’ve heard a hundred times before, ever since I started levelling: kid escapes to fantasy world until his parents get fed up and drag him back to reality. Although given that Wyn’s dad is a flipping billionaire, how bad can Wyn’s reality be, I wonder. A mansion in Key West, servants, private plane? I shake my head. Rich kids, so spoiled.

  “The programmer made it to the Landing with no problem,” says Kora, “but trouble began as soon as he entered Wyn’s custom MEEP, a maze of sorts.”

  My ears perk up. “A maze?” I ask.

  “Yes. It seems Wyn built a series of rooms and corridors, a labyrinth, outside the Landing. Each room presents a different challenge to the player.”

  My dad and I exchange another glance, eyebrows raised, a glint in our eyes. I know he’s thinking the same thing I am: sounds like fun. But then just as quickly, Dad’s face transforms back to Serious-Father look. “So where does the suicide note come into play, Miss Lee?” he asks, reminding me that I mustn’t appear too jaunty on this trip.