The Leveller

by Julia Durango

  “It’s not a suicide note per se, rather a message contained in the first room. According to the various programmers who’ve entered—there have been several in the past few days—the room is completely white. Once you step into the center of the room, words appear on the walls. Here, I’ll read them to you.”

  While Kora scrolls down on her tablet, my dad and I lean forward, eager to hear the first piece of the puzzle.

  “Now begins the great adventure,” Kora reads. “Though I leave behind a body, my soul will live forever in the MEEP.”

  Oh for the love of God and sprinkled donuts. What a drama queen. I try not to roll my eyes, but I obviously don’t succeed because my dad frowns back at me. “My soul will live forever in the MEEP?” I repeat. “Didn’t anyone explain to him that the MEEP is a game, not an afterlife?”

  “Ease up, Nixy, it’s not for us to judge his thoughts or beliefs,” Dad says. “Clearly, he was—is—a distraught young man.”

  I shrug, but let it go. Wyn’s message doesn’t sound very distraught to me; more like some eager cult member who just drank the MEEP Kool-Aid.

  “So what happens after that?” I ask Kora. “After the message appears?”

  Kora hesitates and furrows her flawless brow. “The floor opens and drops you into a shark tank.”

  My heart stops for a moment. “Fy fæn,” I mutter under my breath. A shark tank? What kind of a sadistic rasshøl was Wyn Salvador? Like I said, even though you can’t feel pain in the MEEP, you can still feel terror and horror and paralyzing fear. And sharks happen to be my worst fear, which is why I’m perfectly happy living in Illinois: plenty of land mass between me and those beady-eyed eating machines.

  “That’s just evil,” I say with a shiver, really feeling for the programmer who first made the awful discovery. I’d rather be burned to a crisp by a fire-breathing dragon—and I have—than be the next victim of Jaws’s toothy shredder.

  My dad is frowning big-time now. He knows how I feel about sharks. “So Wyn was allowed access to all the in-house prototypes?” asks Dad, with more than a hint of anger in his voice. “A shark tank would be impossible to create with the currently released modules.”

  “Mr. Salvador gives his son full access to the database,” Kora replies in her clipped voice. “Wyn likes to experiment with the newer modules and he provides valuable feedback. His father trusts him implicitly.”

  “Sounds like that was a mistake,” grumbles Dad.

  Kora purses her lips. “I believe your daughter has access to some beta modules as well?”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t abuse it,” says Dad, which is technically not true, but I do my best to play the part and look innocent.

  Kora casts a skeptical eye in my direction, then nods curtly at Dad and continues to scroll through her tablet.

  “What happens after the sharks?” I ask, after a moment of awkward silence.

  “Anaconda,” Kora says matter-of-factly and, unless I am imagining it, with a bit of pleasure at my expense.

  “Nice,” I murmur.

  “I believe there are carnivorous plants in that room as well,” she adds.

  “Wow, this Wyn sounds like a real nature lover,” I say, feeling myself loathe the guy more and more with each passing moment.

  “The programmers who’ve entered the maze have made a diagram of their findings,” Kora says, pressing an icon on her tablet and passing it to me. “You should use the rest of the flight to familiarize yourself with it.”

  I take the tablet from her and Dad leans in to look over my shoulder. After a few moments, he lets out a long whistle. “Looks like Wyn thought of everything, didn’t he?” he asks.

  “And this may just be the beginning,” Kora replies.

  I look at her in question.

  “None of the programmers made it to the end of the maze,” she explains. “No one made it past the fourth room.”

  “So what, they just quit? Or are they still working on it?” I ask.

  Kora turns her eyes from me. “As of yet, none of them wish to reenter the maze. Some of them are physically exhausted and are recuperating in one of Mr. Salvador’s medical facilities. Others are . . . compromised.”

  “Compromised?” my dad asks, frowning again at Kora.

  Kora shifts uncomfortably in her leather seat. “The doctors think perhaps a slight case of PTSD, though that has yet to be verified.”

  “They went crazy?” I ask, my voice louder than I mean it to be, while Vic snorts at Kora’s soft-pedal.

  “Perhaps it’s more accurate to say they went into shock,” replies Kora. “In any case, they’re all currently under the care and supervision of the world’s best doctors. I’m sure they will be fine after a short rest.”

  “And you expect me to send my only daughter into some monstrous playground that scared the living daylights out of grown men?” Dad asks.

  Kora bristles. “Not all the programmers were men, Mr. Bauer.”

  Now it’s Dad’s turn to shift uncomfortably and I can’t help it—I grin behind my hand. I mean, Kora does have a point, even if she’s using it to change the subject.

  “My apologies,” Dad says, then clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to imply, of course, that—”

  “But back to the maze,” I say, trying to save my dad from any more potential embarrassment. “So no one knows how it ends. And we can only assume that Wyn saved his best defense for last.”

  Kora nods.

  “The Big Bad,” my dad mutters. “God only knows what that might be.”

  I blow a long breath out of my cheeks.

  If there’s something worse than a shark tank, I’m not sure I want to know.

  FIVE

  I LOOK OUT THE WINDOW AND SEE THE PERFECT BLUE GULF OF MEXICO below me, the Florida Keys stretched out like a long tentacle through the sea. I try to breathe in the beauty of it, but the tentacle has reminded me of a giant squid and now it’s all I can think about. Giant squid. Could that be Wyn’s grand finale?

  God, I hope not.

  After going through the list of maze obstacles with my dad, I’m not sure whether I want to congratulate Wyn after I level him, or break his nose. He certainly chose some creative ways to keep people from finding him.

  “Looks like he’s preying on people’s phobias,” my dad says as we study the diagram together in awe and horror.

  Claustrophobia, arachnophobia, agoraphobia . . . Wyn tucked them all into his little shop of horrors, almost as if he’d had a pile of mental health brochures by his side to use as a blueprint. No wonder some of the programmers cracked trying to rescue him.

  The plane begins to descend and Kora directs our attention to one of the islands near the tip of the chain. “That’s Abigail Key, the Salvador estate.”

  “They have their own island?” I ask. “I thought they lived in Key West. I saw a picture of their mansion in Time magazine last year.”

  Kora nods. “You’re thinking of Casa del Sol. They own that, too. Mr. Salvador conducts most of his business from the Casa and entertains there as well. That’s where my own office is located, in fact. But he prefers to keep Abigail Key private, for family use only.”

  “Abigail was the name of Diego’s late wife,” Dad explains. “Abigail Brooks. She was a world-class pianist. Passed away a few years ago.”

  I vaguely remember this from the magazine article. Some kind of rare bone cancer, I think.

  “The island estate was Diego’s gift to her,” Kora says. “It’s where the family retreated when she became ill.”

  I peer down at the island, a lush green paradise growing right out of the sea. A runway cuts through the trees along the eastern shore. On the opposite side I spy the top of a sprawling mansion with a crystal-blue pool winding along the back of it like a river. I can also make out a pair of tennis courts, a boat house, and a dock with sever
al boats anchored to it, including a small yacht. An incredulous snort escapes from my nose or mouth or wherever snorts primarily originate. Abigail Key looks just like the fantasy island template in the MEEP, only it’s the real thing.

  This is what Wyn Salvador is running from? His own private paradise?

  A few minutes later we taxi down the runway and soon we’re released into the hot island air. I feel my hair immediately frizz in the humidity while my black T-shirt and jeans cling to me like foil on a baked potato. So this is why people wear white in the tropics. A crisply dressed chauffeur (in white, as if to prove my point) shuttles us from the runway to the house in the queen mother of all golf carts, with gold-stitched leather seats, a small refrigerator (we may help ourselves to its contents, says the chauffeur), and even a rooftop air conditioner, which blows a cool mist onto my neck. Suddenly I feel like I’m in Disneyland, only I forgot my tiara and princess dress. Right now I look closer to someone’s rotten stepsister with my big rebellious hair and melting mascara.

  Kora leads us into the mansion and I try to act cool, like I’m not completely agog at the palatial furnishings, the artwork, the total dripping-in-wealth feel of the place. We go up a grand staircase, down a hall, and into what Kora calls the conservatory, like we’re playing a big game of Clue. The vast room is all skylights, blossoming plants, fresh-cut flowers, and wicker furniture scattered about. An ivory-colored grand piano sits in the middle of the room, though its keyboard is closed, its embroidered bench tucked up beneath it like a foal snuggling its mother. I draw closer to look at the framed photograph ensconced between two vases of small pink roses on top of the piano. A pretty woman with light brown hair and kind green eyes smiles out from the photo.

  “That’s my Abigail,” a voice says, and I turn around to see Diego Salvador walk in. “This was her favorite room in the house.”

  “I can see why,” says Dad, walking over to shake hands with his boss. Though Dad has cleaned up well for the occasion, shaved the Neanderthal beard and trimmed his hair, he still looks like he belongs in a grassy field hefting boulders and throwing hammers for fun. In contrast, Diego Salvador, though almost as tall as Dad, has the lean, muscular look of a soccer player or distance runner. The thought flickers through my mind that they would make an interesting match for each other on the battlefield. Dad would have extra strength and heft on his side but Salvador looks a little lighter on his feet, and faster perhaps.

  “Isn’t that right, Nixy?” Dad says, and I realize I’ve spaced out and missed part of the conversation. Dang. I nod and agree with who-knows-what, then smile at everyone, trying to cover for my brain lapse but pretty sure I just look like an idiot. Not a great way to start the job.

  A young man clad in the same white servant uniform as the chauffeur rolls in a cart of coffee, orange juice, and individual quiches, and Salvador leads us to a small seating arrangement set in an alcove of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea.

  My dad and I dig into the quiches while Salvador and Kora look on.

  “Please excuse me if I seem rushed,” Salvador says, signaling the servant to pour us some coffee, “but I’m sure you understand my urgency.”

  “Of course,” Dad says, putting down his fork. “Three days your son has been in MEEP sleep now?”

  Salvador nods. “Four, counting today. We have a doctor monitoring his vital signs and feeding him intravenously.” He looks at me now. “You’ve studied the diagram, I presume?”

  I swallow the last bite of a very tasty bacon-and-cheese quiche so I can speak. “I have. Your son seems quite determined to be left alone, given the amount of traps and torments he left behind.”

  Salvador’s face darkens. “Yes. I take full responsibility for that. I should have been here for him. Thanksgiving was Abigail’s favorite holiday. I never missed it when she was alive, but since her death, I’ve always arranged to be away. I should have realized it would be a hard time for Wyn, too.”

  I don’t know what to say. Thankfully, Dad clears his throat and comes to the rescue. “Parenting is a tricky job, especially where teenagers are involved,” he says, his eyes flicking my way ever so slightly. “They sometimes act rashly, say or do provocative things, because they want our attention.”

  I beg to differ but I keep my mouth shut.

  “Let’s just do our best to get Wyn out of there,” Dad continues, “and then I’m sure the two of you, father and son, will get things sorted out.”

  Salvador nods. “Of course. Let’s get started, then. Are you up for the challenge, Phoenix?”

  I pause for a second and Dad jumps in again. “Look, Mr. Salvador—”

  “Please, call me Diego.”

  “Diego, before we send Nixy or anyone else into a very frightening situation, I’ve been wondering . . . why not try the Reset button on the Landing console? A reset would restore the game to its default settings and Wyn would automatically be released from the MEEP.”

  Salvador shakes his head impatiently. “We’ve thought of that, of course. But Wyn himself would need to be in the Landing for that to work. The game won’t reset if a player is still at large.”

  “Right,” says Dad, rubbing his jaw. “Then how about shutting down the entire MEEP for a bit, activating a mass Awaken frequency?” he continues. “I realize you’d get complaints by the thousands, but the world can survive without a game for a few minutes.”

  Salvador frowns. “Too risky, I’m afraid.”

  “Risky how?” I ask. I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. Kora had already explained that the MEEP-O Men had been unable to shut off Wyn’s game externally, that none of their usual Awaken codes had worked. But surely Diego Salvador had the power to reset the whole game. “You activate the frequency, everyone wakes up. . . . What’s at risk besides a few million grumpy players who’ve had their game interrupted?”

  “It’s not that simple, Nixy,” Kora says, glancing at Salvador for permission to go on. He nods at her, and I sense some impatience in his eyes. He clearly wishes to be done with this conversation.

  “Everyone playing on a regulation frequency would wake up, yes,” explains Kora, “but we’re not sure what would happen to players who’ve used nonregulation codes to enter.”

  “Hackers, you mean?” asks Dad.

  “Yes, there is some . . .” Kora begins, then pauses to search for a word, “speculation that a mass Awaken frequency would leave any nonreg players in a kind of limbo.”

  Dad and I both raise our eyebrows at that.

  “Limbo?” Dad says, turning to Salvador.

  Salvador drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Possibly comatose,” he finally says.

  “Comatose?” I repeat, slamming my orange juice down harder than I mean to. I run a finger down the edge of my left ear and feel the small metal stud there. “What about all the safeguards you guys are supposed to have in place? All that medical research done to make sure the MEEP doesn’t fry our brains?”

  “The MEEP is perfectly safe for those who abide by the contract,” Salvador assures us. “However, we cannot guarantee the safety of intruders or those who choose to bypass the safeguards.”

  My stomach turns upside down. I think of Chang and Moose, who constantly experiment with nonreg frequencies. They’re probably in the MEEP right now using one of their hacks.

  “So Wyn must have used a nonreg code to bypass the timer?” Dad asks.

  “Yes,” Salvador says. “So you see why I hesitate to activate a mass Awaken. Many lives might be at stake, including my son’s. Believe me, we’ve explored every angle. Your daughter is our last attempt at in-game retrieval. If Phoenix fails, however, I’ll take the risk and shut down the MEEP. I already have the best doctors in the world on call if that becomes necessary. I want my son back.”

  “And what about everyone else?” I say. “The people who don’t have fancy doctors on hand and billion
s of dollars to pay hospital bills?”

  Salvador shrugs. “I save my concern for those who play by the rules, Miss Bauer.”

  So it’s Miss Bauer now. Apparently I’ve ticked him off. “I’ll be sure to pass that on to your rule-abiding son when I find him,” I say. “And I will find him. Just don’t turn off the MEEP.”

  “Very well,” he says, rising to his feet. “Shall we?”

  As we follow him out of the room, I feel my phone vibrate in my jeans pocket. My phone! I’ve got to call Chang and Moose now.

  “Excuse me, I need to use the restroom first,” I say.

  Salvador looks me up and down. I swear his eyes linger on the pocket where my phone is.

  “Long flight, gallons of ginger ale,” I explain with a quick laugh, hoping I merely sound stupid instead of nervous.

  Salvador narrows his eyes at me and we stare at each other for a bit. Finally, he nods at Kora. “Please show her to the guest facilities,” he says, then turns to me. “I’m sure I need not remind you of our privacy agreement.”

  I give him my best poker face. “I’m a vault, Mr. Salvador.”

  I follow Kora down the hall and she gestures to a door. “When you’re finished, you can meet us in Wyn’s room. Go back the way we came, past the conservatory, last door on your right.”

  “Got it,” I say, then lock myself in the bathroom. It is, of course, bigger than my bedroom at home. I sit on a sofa-type lounge chair—do people really need to rest after using the toilet?—and dial Chang; Moose never keeps his phone charged, and besides, he’s usually with Chang anyway.

  “Nixy,” Chang answers in his flat voice.

  “Put Moose on speaker phone,” I tell him, keeping my voice as low as possible, and wait until I hear Moose’s signature greeting in the background.

  “How’s tricks, Nix?” he mumbles through what sounds like a mouthful of something. Peanut butter Pop-Tart, if I know Moose.