Gamerunner

by B. R. Collins

  There’s a five-second pause. Then the corpse starts to evaporate — as if this was an instance, and it was going to reappear outside . . . The way it would have done before, Rick thinks, if Herkules hadn’t been cheating.

  The ghost turns to watch it go, helpless, his expression turning to fury. His transparent fists clench. The translation program says, ‘Muck you, little female dog, muck you, muck —’

  Rick watches too. All that expensive armour, he thinks; all that expensive body-moulding, all that virtual beauty . . .

  Then the ghost disappears; not dissolving like the corpse, but gone cleanly, like a candle flame. Spat out of the dungeon, to the nearest soul-tree . . . no. Wait.

  Rick puts his dagger blindly back into his belt, suddenly trembling. That, he thinks, that was someone dying for real. Or nearly. The ghost hasn’t gone to a soul-tree; it’s been wiped. No resurrection for him.

  He says, ‘A trick? Honestly, the idea! Nice girl like me . . .’

  He’s done it. He’s won.

  Chapter 6

  Rick drops to the floor and lies flat, staring up at the ceiling. Even that’s modelled perfectly. He starts to laugh.

  You have defeated Herkules404 in PvP combat. This account has now been closed, so the corpse is unavailable for looting. All items have been transferred automatically into your inventory.

  Oh. He’d forgotten about all that stuff. He says, ‘Open inventory,’ and watches the scroll unfurl against Daed’s beautiful ceiling. Armour — well, fat lot of good that was — winged sandals, which he already has and are overrated anyway, a sword, which should raise a decent sum at auction . . . hundreds of gilt, a library of maps . . . Gods, who cares, anyway? He can’t keep this stuff: now he’s got rid of Herkules, he’s got to kill himself. Well, Athene. And she’ll be wiped, just like Herkules, blinking out of existence, because when you die in the Roots . . .

  He wonders vaguely where Herkules got his cheat. It was a good one. Clever. He thinks: Hats off.

  He gets slowly to his feet. The euphoria has gone. He thinks: At least now I can go back to bed. And Daed will be pleased with me. That’s something, isn’t it?

  He looks listlessly at the line of disabled traps stretching back the way he came. Beyond them there’s a spindle-trap, still active, that he remembers vaulting over, a lifetime ago. That’ll do.

  But he can’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. He tries to recall the rush of triumph he felt a moment ago, but it’s faded, drying to nothing, like sweat. He’s never worked this hard, not for anything. He raises his eyes to his inventory — Athene’s inventory — and wonders what she’d do if he didn’t kill her, if she logged in tomorrow and found all this stuff in her account. Would she ever find out what he’d done? She might work it out: that armour might be custom-made . . . a map of the Roots . . . But she won’t be able to log in, tomorrow, if he kills her. She’ll have to open a new account.

  He says, ‘Open map of the Roots.’ It unfolds into place, over the map that Daed gave him, and he waves it sideways so that he can compare them. Yep — a pretty good copy, less detailed, but —

  What the hell is that?

  Herkules’ map doesn’t show a dead end. It shows a hidden portal.

  Rick turns slowly. He looks at the blank wall.

  A hidden portal. Oh, gods.

  He really, really hates portals. You need more guts, more nerve for a portal than for a boss fight or a brawl or — well, almost anything else. You have to run at them. Fast. If you’re wrong or not fast enough, it’s just a wall. And the tank will sculpt a wall: if you hit one at speed, it hurts just as much as it would in real life. Fifty per cent of Crater’s personal injury litigation is something to do with portals, and it’s not surprising. There are people who can do everything else, but they never get the hang of portals.

  That’s why Herkules met his corpse here, Rick thinks. Because it’s the end of the quest. Just beyond that wall . . . Daed didn’t trust me. He made the map lie, just in case. He thought if I got this far . . . He thought that if I got this far, I wouldn’t be able to resist finishing the quest.

  And he was probably right. After all, Daed’s always right; that’s one of the things Rick hates about him. Yes, it would have been hard to turn away from that portal, knowing Daed trusted him, steeling himself to walk into that spindle-trap. If the portal had been on the map, it would have been a temptation: possibly too big a temptation. OK, Rick thinks. I don’t blame you, Daed. I wouldn’t have trusted me, either.

  And it makes it easier, in the end. So you expect me to be untrustworthy? Rick thinks. OK. Suits me. Serves you right if I am untrustworthy.

  And I’ve earned this quest. I’ve got here. No one else could have done it. That portal is mine.

  He licks his lips, tasting sweat and the acid tang of exhaustion. Then, slowly, he moves to the blank wall and runs his hands down it. It’s only the tank, sculpting the shape of old bricks and crumbling mortar, he knows that; but right now he could swear it’s real. He’s come to the end of the Maze. It’s the end of the known world. He thinks: I’m the first person, the only person, ever . . .

  He feels the excitement rising, a sly edge of it breaking the surface like a dorsal fin. The wake of it ripples through his head, nudging him off-balance. He’s scared; but not of failing.

  He takes five steps back, and an extra one — not for luck, but something else. A mark of respect, maybe, a gesture of appeasement . . . He thinks: Sorry, Daed. If you’d trusted me . . .

  Then he shields his head with his arms, takes a deep breath, and runs at the wall as fast as he can.

  Four steps, five, six, and —

  He keeps running, stumbling, hunched against the impact, but it doesn’t come, still doesn’t come, still doesn’t —

  And when he opens his eyes he’s bathed in golden light and there’s nothing, only infinite space and light, empty and beautiful.

  He hears a laugh — a soft, delighted sound, not of amusement but sheer pleasure, like someone who’s died and discovered it’s not too bad after all — and realises it’s his own voice. The acoustic relays it back to him with a clean, deep note, like music. Gods, he thinks, this is heaven, Daed’s designed heaven.

  He laughs again. The glowing mist around him swirls and dances.

  Congratulations, the screen says to him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. I can’t express how much this means to me. I’d like to thank everyone at Crater and especially Daed, my mysterious possibly-not-father-at-all, who has always been there for me, if only to criticise and order me around. Thanks, Daed, this one’s for you —’

  You have successfully completed the Roots of the Maze, the screen says, ignoring him. The mist begins to clear, slowly, like Rick’s sobering up. Behind it there’s a garden: grass, trees, fountains, the kind of garden that would be riddled with traps, if it were just another part of the Maze. Thank you for playing. Game over.

  The words disappear. Rick takes a step forward into the garden, hands on his weapon-belt, through force of habit. In the Maze, there’d be enemies, at least. You’d never find a garden that was . . . just a garden. But here there’s nothing. Just the sound of the fountain. He keeps walking, savouring the scent of . . . what? Jasmine? Something old, anyway, something extinct. The grass makes a soft, agreeable noise under his feet. Yes, heaven. Peace. Game over . . .

  He stops, then, and looks back over his shoulder. The portal has gone; there’s only more garden where the door would have been. No way out. And no traps, no enemies, nothing.

  Gods, what is he supposed to do here? Sleep?

  He steps forward again, a strange impatient ache in his throat. He can still see Game over, as though it’s branded on his retina. He rubs his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into his face, suddenly sick of the faint gold haze. He feels moisture on his wrists and the brief sting of sweat on his eyelashes. When he looks up again he’s sure that something will have changed: he waits for a
threatening note in the music, an ominous shadow behind the vines . . . Come on, he thinks. Please. Am I dead or what?

  But . . . yes. Something has changed.

  Faintly — very, very faintly, so faintly he isn’t sure that he’s really seeing it — the air is shimmering, forming itself into words. He blinks and frowns.

  The words are just a ripple in the haze, insubstantial, like writing in water. They’re hard to see; but he can read them, just.

  Welcome to the endgame.

  He reads them again and feels the grin spreading across his face, like there’s someone putting their thumbs at the corners of his mouth and pushing. He hasn’t won. Thank gods . . . It’s not over.

  Welcome to the endgame.

  He closes his eyes. Suddenly he’s tired. He could lie down on the floor of the tank and die, right now. He opens his mouth to log out.

  There’s a noise he recognises. A brief, mechanical, swish-buzz sound, something so familiar he can’t quite, can’t quite —

  He opens his eyes and Daed’s there, right next to him, blurry, too close. The nausea rises as he struggles to focus. Daed’s shouting. Rick says, ‘Wait, Daed, I can’t see, I need time to adjust,’ slurring his words. ‘Just a second, Daed, what’s going —’

  Then there’s pain exploding into his face, and he feels himself fall, straight down into blackness, like a magic trick.

  Part 2

  Welcome to the endgame

  Chapter 7

  He woke up. He hurt. He looked at the ceiling and didn’t know where he was, or who, but he knew he was in pain. Bits of his body demanded his attention. Slowly words came back to him, unscrolling like windows on an old flatscreen computer. Shoulders. Abdomen. Ribs. Head.

  And then, finally, his own name.

  Oh, yes, he thought. Rick. Me.

  It should have been a relief that he’d remembered who he was, but the pain cancelled it out. He took a deep breath, and another, testing. He had to close his eyes for a moment, because there was a sudden surge of nausea, swirling up into his vision like a cloud of ink. After a while it faded. He tried to imagine that his body was made of gas: thoroughly insubstantial, weightless. He sat up.

  The room was dark, full of bluish shadows, and he was alone. It could have been any time of day, any time of the year. But at least it was his own room, and he was in his own bed. Presumably he wasn’t dead, or dying, then. He said, ‘Time, please.’ The digits flashed up on the blacked-out window: 0543.

  He looked at them until they said 0548. Then he dragged his fingers over his forehead, trying to drive away the ache. He said, ‘Date, please,’ and then looked at the numbers and realised he had no idea what they meant. It wasn’t like he ever needed to know the date. He wasn’t absolutely sure he knew what year it was meant to be.

  The last thing I remember, he thought. Was . . .

  Welcome to the endgame, just clear enough to read.

  And —

  He ran his hand over his jaw, gingerly. What else? The sound of the — yes — that’s it, it was the noise of the tank door, opening. The blur as his eyes adjusted, and Daed’s face, shouting at him. And then the pain and the darkness.

  Rick’s hand paused. He moved it upwards, wiped his mouth with his fingers, pressing harder than he needed to. It hurt. His lip was swollen, and there was a sharp stab of pain as his finger dug into his gums. He explored with his tongue and tasted metal.

  Gods, he thought.

  Daed hit me.

  Daed hit me so hard he knocked me out. He overrode the security on the tank and opened the door manually and came in and hit —

  The nausea came back in a rush. This time breathing didn’t help. Rick jerked forward — Maze-trained reflexes, he thought, at least they’re good for something — and vomited on to the carpet. It was like being thrown against a wall. He retched and spat. The wet patch on the carpet split into two identical twins of itself. He let his head drop on to the pillow and watched them dance.

  I’m ill, he thought. Where the hell is everyone?

  He tilted his head back, so he was facing the nearest hidcam, and said, ‘I think I need a med. Please will you send me a med.’

  Nothing changed. He thought: They have to send someone, right? They’ve seen me puke. They know I’m ill. They have to help me. I’m important.

  The digits on the window said 0556, 0557, 0558 . . .

  He rolled on to his side, away from the smell of vomit. His mouth tasted of acid and the sore place on his gum was stinging. He thought: What if no one comes, ever?

  He closed his eyes and thought of Daed’s garden, full of shimmering golden mist, with the words hanging there in front of him like a mirage.

  Welcome to the endgame.

  What happened? he thought. What’s going on?

  What did I do?

  When he woke up he was starving, and his skull felt too big for his head, but he was feeling better. He could sit up without being sick, anyway. He folded himself over, rested his head on his knees, and felt his lungs expanding into the small of his back. Yes, better. Although his ribs . . . ‘Lights, please,’ he said, then pulled up his T-shirt and wished he hadn’t, because seeing the bruise made it worse. He didn’t know how he got it, either, and didn’t want to think about it, because if you looked at it from the right angle it looked like a footprint. Gods, Daed wouldn’t . . . would he?

  Rick told himself it wasn’t as bad as it looked, covered it up again and got out of bed. The feeling of carpet under his bare feet was a good one. He was alive. That was something.

  ‘Time, please.’

  1803.

  OK. No wonder he was so hungry. He walked carefully to the door, and opened the delivery box. He’d been out twelve hours, so there should have been two meals waiting for him . . . but there was nothing. He ran his hand over the bottom of the box, disbelieving.

  He slapped his palm against the comms panel so hard it didn’t sign him in immediately and he had to try again, more gently. Then he said, ‘Housekeeping, please.’

  A pause. Hello, Rick. How can I help you?

  ‘I want some food, please.’

  Glad you’re feeling better.

  ‘Breakfast,’ he said. ‘Green tea, Spanish omelette, bananas, buttered toast, bacon —’

  Housekeeping said, I will be delighted to send you a protein-and-vitamin shake. Would you like painkillers with that?

  Great, Rick thought. They don’t send a med, but they stop me eating decent food now I’m feeling better. ‘Look, I’m fine, I just want —’

  Would you like painkillers?

  ‘No, I’d like —’

  Your breakfast will be with you in a few minutes, Rick. Enjoy, and get well soon! The comm cut off. The panel went back to silver.

  ‘Caviar,’ Rick said to his reflection. ‘Champagne. Lobster. Honeyed dormice. Nightingales’ tongues.’

  Silence. He thought: This is a punishment. No one gives a toss what I eat, really. It’s Daed. He must have told them not to give me what I want.

  Rick closed his eyes and slid slowly down the wall, until he was sitting on the carpet with his knees up. The floor undulated, tilting from side to side like a ship. He didn’t know if it was really moving or not; although he could hear the wind and the smack of rain against the windows, so it might have been.

  He thought: Daed told me not to complete the Roots of the Maze. He told me over and over again. He was very clear about it. And . . .

  . . . and I completed the Roots of the Maze.

  He heard Daed’s voice, as though the words were burnt into his brain. You do exactly, exactly what I tell you. And in return I will continue to protect you from everything you need protecting from.

  Rick opened his eyes, because he was getting dizzy. He took a deep breath and gasped at the twinge of pain in his ribs. If Daed did stop protecting me, he thought, and then deliberately bit down on his sore lip to distract himself. If —

  Imagine.

  But it can’t be that big a d
eal. Whatever I’ve done, it can’t be that serious.

  Can it?

  He waited until there was the click of Housekeeping signing in, and let his head roll sideways to watch the door slide open. The man with the tray — it wasn’t anyone Rick knew — raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. He crouched down and put the tray within Rick’s reach, and left again, silently.

  The milkshake was brown and tasted foul. Rick managed to swallow three big gulps and then had to stumble to the bathroom to wash his mouth out. But he could think a bit more clearly now. He put some trousers on — if he’d had more guts he’d have done something about his bruises, but even the thought of it made him wince — and logged out of his room.

  His body took him to the tanks, out of habit, although he only realised when he staggered on the stairs and asked himself through clenched teeth where he was going. He couldn’t play in this state, he knew that. But the instinct was too strong; and anyway where else was there to go?

  The tanks were all free. He went to his favourite one, at the end, and pressed his hand against the panel to log in. It wasn’t working. He tried the one next to it, and the one next to that. They all said the same thing.

  Sorry, there seems to be a problem with your account. Please contact Crater Customer Services.

  ‘For gods’ sake, just let me in.’

  Sorry, there seems to be a problem —

  He smacked his hand against the panel, wiping his prints over the screen to register them. ‘Come on . . .’ Behind him the rain splattered and spat against the glass, and he felt the skin on his back prickle. He said, ‘I’ve got an infinite account! Let me in!’

  Sorry, there —

  OK. He took a long breath. There was the smell of disinfectant, and, underneath, the clinging odour of sweat. It made him feel queasy.

  He was locked out of the Maze. Someone had closed his account. Daed, presumably.