Gamerunner

by B. R. Collins

  ‘Enable PvP,’ Rick says. If he can see Herkules’ health bar, that should tell him —

  Player versus player mode enabled. All speech will be relayed into the arena. There’s a pause. No live players in range.

  Oh, my gods, Rick thinks.

  Herkules404 is dead. He’s a ghost.

  So what the hell is he doing here?

  He starts to run, pauses before he gets to the nearest trap, and calls, ‘Hey! Herkules!’

  Herkules looks round. His mouth moves and there’s a tiny silence before he says, ‘What do you want?’

  Foreign, then, Rick thinks: that’s the translation program causing the delay. He says, ‘What’re you doing? You’re dead. You can’t complete a quest when you’re dead.’

  ‘None of your business.’ He’s standing on top of a pressure switch: a claw is swiping at him, passing harmlessly through his chest and resetting itself, over and over.

  ‘You’re spying out the Roots, aren’t you?’ Rick feels a rush of relief: he won’t have to fight this guy, after all. He’s not going to complete the Roots: he’s just come in for a recce. ‘You think you’ll come back when you’re alive, and you’ll know where to go. Look, mate, it’s not worth it, honestly. No one can complete the Roots. You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Go away.’

  Rick’s pretty sure that wasn’t an accurate translation. He says, ‘I’m just giving you some friendly advice.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything wrong. So muck off and stop bothering me, you skinny little girl.’

  Rick clenches his fists. Of course, he’s Athene. He’s a girl . . . He says, ‘If you’re working for a tankshop, it’s illegal.’ But he knows it’s a long shot: Herkules might be spying out the Roots for a tankshop, but then again, he might not. And he’s spent money on his avatar: with that look, he’s probably some rich eastern kid, not a tankshopper.

  ‘You think I’m doing something illegal? So call a GM. Report me.’

  Rick shrugs. ‘I’m just trying to help.’

  ‘What do you want, a big kiss?’ Herkules leers at him. ‘What guilds do you belong to, anyway?’

  Oh, hell. He doesn’t know. His own are the Assassins, the Heroes, the Alpha Omega, the Silver Shield — but Athene’s? He says, ‘The Alpha Omega,’ and tries to look like he believes it.

  ‘The Alpha —? Oh, yeah, right. Sure you do. If I were alive, I’d love to take you on. You’d be on your knees . . .’ Herkules pouts at him and flutters his eyelashes.

  Gods, who does this cretin think he is? Rick says, ‘Up yours,’ and wonders how it’ll translate.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart. Not now. I’ve got things to do. Now run away and play with your dolls.’

  ‘Oh, whatever,’ Rick says. It’s not much of an exit line, but he’s knackered. He leans against the wall and slides down until he’s sitting with his knees up. That’s it for you and me, Athene, he thinks. We didn’t even need to be here. What a waste of time. I am going to kill Daed.

  He watches Herkules, idly, as he runs the barrage of claws and blades and darts. Why is he running? He doesn’t have to run, if he’s a ghost . . . He must be running for the surves’ benefit, Rick thinks, so that they don’t notice there’s a ghost in the Roots. He’s trying not to draw attention to himself. Because . . .

  I’m not doing anything wrong . . . So what is he doing?

  Rick’s too tired to get a complete grasp on his own thoughts; but his body is suddenly buzzing again. A hunch, that’s all: like a pinprick in the wall of his stomach, hardly noticeable at first, until he feels the unease slowly starting to leak out. He levers himself to his feet, pressing his hand against the wall for balance.

  It’s mad, of course. Now he knows that Herkules is dead, he’s not sure if it’s even possible to follow him. But he should try, at least; he knows he should. Rick thinks: Wait. Daed didn’t know he was a ghost, did he? Daed thought he was alive, and I could kill him. So he’s not showing up as a ghost, on the survey computers. It’s not just that they haven’t noticed, it’s that the server thinks he’s alive . . . So there’s definitely something dodgy, he must be cheating, somehow. And you have to be alive to run a quest, to complete it . . . He must be doing something, he must have a plan, he must be cheating. I have to go after him. I need to do something . . .

  Like . . . Like what? I can’t fight him . . .

  For some reason it’s the thought of Daed — not how he normally is, but how he was tonight, shielding his eyes from the light — that makes up Rick’s mind for him, finally. He’ll do everything he can, for Daed.

  He sets off after Herkules. He’s lucky he’s used to spending hours in the Maze: he can flick his concentration on and off, like a switch. He imagines the traps as part of him: their rhythm is his rhythm, the volume they take up is an extension of his own body. It’s a trick, but it works: he can judge the spaces perfectly, the split-second opportunities for him to move. He doesn’t need to be a ghost. He feels the confidence running through him like water, but he stays careful, not too tense, not too relaxed, because the smallest mistake and he’ll be dead. He tumbles, rolls, skids, goes round a treacherous corner — thank gods, a line of disabled traps, so he can run for a few seconds without thinking — and Herkules is there, jogging up a long slope, towards a blank wall.

  Rick glances at his map. Yep, it is a blank wall. Nothing special about it: just a dead end. So why doesn’t Herkules turn round and come back?

  Herkules slows to a walk, then stops, rolls his shoulders. He reaches down between his shoulder blades with one hand, pushing his elbow back with the other. He stands easily, facing the wall, rocking from foot to foot. Suddenly the pretence of tension has gone out of his movements: he looks like someone stretching after a fight, taking his time before he loots his enemy’s corpse. No need to rush, his body says. Whatever he was trying to do, he’s done it.

  And there is a corpse. Rick sees it before he understands what it means. A corpse; a short, slumped shape, half sitting, half lying against that blank, impassive wall. A vaguely person-shaped, glittering mound of jewelled armour and blond hair, glowing faintly golden.

  Rick didn’t think he could run any faster: but it’s as if Athene adds her strength to his, and together they’re sprinting, kicking up against the wall to get the height to vault a spindle-trap, dropping, rolling, the air whistling as the next trap activates in a cascade of razor-sharp scales like a dragon’s back. Rick’s mind is blank: he’s a camera, a machine, nothing but eyes and muscles, dancing his way through the last ems of danger. He has to get to Herkules; now he understands what’s happening, no, he will understand, as soon as he’s got time to think . . .

  He opens his mouth to shout, but he hasn’t got any breath; and when he surfaces from the next roll something stops him trying again. It’s like Athene whispering in his ear: No, Rick. Not yet. Wait.

  He staggers to his feet, dragging the air into his lungs, scans the space in front of him and sags with relief. A line of plate-traps glints dully, deactivated. Thank you, Daed. He moves forward — soggy and trembling, you couldn’t call it a run — until he’s only a few ems away from Herkules and his corpse. He’s not particularly quiet, but Herkules is staring up into thin air, and doesn’t seem to hear him. Rick thinks, with an irrational pang of shock: He’s got a map, too. Where the hell is he getting these cheats from? When this is over, someone has to tell Crater . . .

  Herkules rubs his eyes, wipes sweat off his forehead, and nods. His lips move, but there’s no sound. Then he takes a step towards his corpse, checks the map one last time, and kneels to touch his body.

  There’s a blue swirl of light around the two identical figures; the corpse dissolves into stars and smoke. When it clears, Herkules is grinning.

  PvP mode is enabled. There is one live player within range. Do you want to engage him?

  ‘Yes, please,’ Rick says, just loud enough for Herkules to hear.

  Herkules turns round, slowly.

  Rick meets his eye
s and feels laughter bubbling up inside him. He says, ‘Surprise!’

  ‘What on earth are you doing? Go away and leave me alone.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing? How did your corpse get here? If you die here, your account gets wiped. There’s no way you could leave your body here. You must have cheated.’ He smiles, showing his teeth.

  ‘Look . . .’ Herkules says. ‘So I might have found a bug. So what? It’s none of your business. Anyway, now you know about it too.’

  ‘And the map?’

  ‘What map? I don’t have a . . .’ He stops. His eyes flicker — he must be reading something that Rick can’t see — and his hand creeps towards his belt. Rick keeps his eyes on Herkules’ index finger, ready to dodge as soon as a weapon materialises. ‘You want to fight me, do you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘That’s stupid. Look,’ Herkules says again. Either the mimic program isn’t working properly or he hasn’t got the hang of sounding reasonable. ‘There’s no reason to fight me. We can both complete the quest — and you’ll get more reputation from that than from killing me. And anyway I’d win. Give it up, sweetheart.’

  ‘Nope. Sorry. No go.’

  ‘What?’

  Rick shrugs. His muscles are so tired it feels like his shoulder blades have got stuck together behind his back. ‘I’ve got to fight you,’ he says, trying to sound like he’s taking it seriously.

  ‘Oh,’ Herkules says, and turns away, fiddling with something at his waist.

  And spins back, catching Rick off-guard.

  He’s fast. Gods, he’s fast. Rick hears his own voice saying, You mean he always wins.

  Stop it. Stop thinking.

  Rick ducks, rolls, inelegantly, smacking his shoulder on the ground, but he’s out of the way, just. He grabs for Herkules’ ankle, but the other foot swings up and stamps down into his face, and he has to block with both forearms. He rolls forward and on to his feet, and spins to face Herkules, his back against the wall, breathing so hard he thinks his lungs might spring a leak. He rests his hand on his weapon-belt. Double daggers? Sword and dagger? Does he want speed, or range?

  Herkules says, ‘Well then, sweeth—’

  And swings his sword in the middle of the word: a nice trick, but this time Rick’s ready. His hands have already chosen his weapon — daggers; if he doesn’t have speed he doesn’t have a chance — and the blades meet and cross in front of him, catching Herkules’ sword at eye level and swinging it away. The metal catches the light and shines like lightning. He lets the momentum carry him off the vertical and kicks with his free foot, but Herkules pulls his sword away and jumps back, on guard.

  ‘Nice try, little girl.’

  It’s stupid, how much that annoys him. He takes a long breath, diluting the anger. He thinks: I’ll kill him. Then he’ll be sorry.

  He relaxes his arms, standing ready. The dagger hilts tremble under his fingers, as if they’ve got a mind of their own. He wishes that they did; he needs all the help he can get. He edges forward, sideways, keeping his weight balanced, ready to go in any direction. Makes an experimental feint —

  But Herkules is there before he is.

  He smashes his sword blade down on the guard of Rick’s dagger. The hilt leaps, biting into the bones of his hand. Rick’s fingers open. He can’t stop them. The dagger drops to the ground. He looks down at it, his guts sinking. The vibration runs up to his shoulder like an electric current, stinging. He thinks: Another centi-em and he’d have disabled my hand. And then: How the hell did he do that? I’d only just moved . . .

  Not that it matters, right now.

  Herkules punches with his other hand, smiles at Rick’s desperate block, dodges his counter-punch smoothly, and swings the blade of his sword up and round, until it’s under Rick’s chin. It’s all so easy; like he was reading every move as it came, like he was hardly bothering to try.

  Oh, gods, Rick thinks, he’s going to kill me. And then Daed will kill me, too.

  ‘So you’re one of the Alpha Omega, are you?’ Herkules says.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rick says. He wants to close his eyes, but it seems cowardly, somehow.

  Herkules laughs. ‘Sure you are. I’ll look you up. What’s your name? You might as well tell me. When I kill you your account will be wiped anyway.’

  ‘Athene,’ Rick mutters.

  ‘Such a pretty name for such a pretty girl.’

  But he doesn’t answer. He stares into the expensive high-cheekboned face and wonders why Herkules doesn’t just kill him. In the Assassins they call it Bondvillain Syndrome: the need to gloat, the subconscious need to give your victim a few more minutes of life. A weakness: you can lose a fight that way.

  Or win it, Rick thinks; if you’re the victim.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘You’re not too bad-looking yourself.’ There’s something in his left hand: the other dagger. His arm is hanging limply at his side, and he wouldn’t have time to do anything before the sword blade went into his throat. But it’s interesting. It sets something off in Rick’s mind: a mental itch, the beginning of a plan.

  Herkules frowns. He’s clearly not used to people being polite, before he kills them. ‘Er . . .’ he says. ‘Right.’

  That’s good, Rick thinks. I’ve surprised him. He doesn’t know what I’m thinking. There might still be a chance . . .

  What would Daed do?

  Herkules says, ‘How come you got this far?’

  ‘In the Roots? Oh. Well. I’m good.’

  ‘No one’s that good. Who’s your Cheat?’

  Rick takes a second to understand: the translation program again. He opens his mouth to say ‘No one’, then hesitates. The sword blade hovers in front of his larynx, and the enemy in range signal is so strong it hurts. He says, slowly, ‘Daedalus.’

  ‘Daedalus? Don’t wind me up, you little —’

  ‘I’m not winding you up. How do you think I got here?’

  ‘Daedalus isn’t real, you silly girl. Daedalus is a myth.’ Herkules laughs. ‘Look around. You think one person could create this? It takes hundreds of designers, years of work, player feedback, and a hell of a lot of of AI code to create this. Daedalus is just a convenient idea. Not a person.’ He tilts his wrist, ready to strike, and grins. ‘So don’t muck me around.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Rick’s pushing it; any moment now he’ll get that sword through his throat. ‘I’m from Crater. Daedalus —’ He swallows. What would Daed do? Think . . . ‘Daedalus is a friend of mine, one of the designers. He sells cheats on the black. I had to give him a couple of grand for this. But it’s risk-free. Whoever your Cheat is, Daedalus is better.’

  ‘So how come you’re the one with a sword pointing at you?’

  Rick tries to smile. ‘Good point. But if you kill me I’ll just come back tomorrow. After I’ve reported you to a GM.’

  The bluer-than-blue eyes narrow. ‘How can cheats be risk-free?’

  ‘Crater turn a blind eye. Because it’s him. Daedalus. He can do what he wants, as long as he goes on working for them. A few cheats running here and there — who cares? As long as he’s still on their side.’ Rick’s talking too fast; but it’s OK, the translation program will cover it.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  It takes every ounce of self-control Rick has to shrug; but he manages it. ‘Fine. Kill me.’ He tilts his head back, as if he’s bored, surrendering himself for the coup-de-grâce. ‘Herkules404, isn’t it? Exploiting a bug . . . or commissioning a Cheat . . . the GMs won’t like it . . .’

  A pause. Rick stays still.

  ‘Does Daedalus . . . this Cheat, whatever . . . sell to anyone who can pay?’

  The sword blade hasn’t dropped; but there’s a tiny, tiny bit more space between Rick’s neck and the edge of the metal.

  ‘Yeah, if you can contact him. But he’s hard to get hold of. Has to be.’

  ‘So how would . . . how do you contact him?’

  Rick stops himself from laughing. Just. ‘I told you. He’s
my mate. I meet him face to face, tell him what I want, where I want to go . . . how hard I want it to be, even. Sometimes it’s good to have a challenge. To know that even if I’m technically cheating, no one else could do what I’m doing. You understand.’

  Herkules’ eyes flicker, searching Rick’s face. He stares back, steady, because that’s the only thing the mimic program will render exactly.

  ‘He’s expensive, though? Daedalus?’

  ‘Not too —’ He stops, smelling the danger, and smiles. ‘Well . . . yeah. Sure. What do you expect?’

  Herkules frowns. ‘Suppose I . . . if this is true — and I’m not saying I believe you — how would, for example, how would I contact him?’

  ‘If you let me go, I’ll give you his real name.’

  The tip of the sword dips, wavers, slides absently away to the side, above Rick’s shoulder.

  One strike, he thinks. Just the one. One chance.

  The tension in Herkules’ sword-hand relaxes. ‘Yeah. Right. And how do I know this isn’t a —’

  Rick steps sideways and punches with his left hand, dagger blade straight into Herkules’ windpipe. There’s no resistance — the tank doesn’t sculpt PvP combat — so only his eyes tell him that he’s done it. He jumps back, because it would be stupid to get killed now, but there’s no need.

  Herkules goes straight down; his ghost stays where he was, the transparent face full of disbelief. He says, ‘. . . a trick?’