Gamerunner

by B. R. Collins

  ‘I hope I’ve made myself clear.’

  ‘So . . . I understand.’ Daed coughed, for too long, and Paz made a sudden sound of disgust. Finally he cleared his throat. ‘You’ll pay me for as long as I keep ahead of the gamerunners. But after that —’

  ‘After that I shall stop paying you.’

  ‘OK . . .’ Daed said, and his voice still had rough edges, as if the cough was just biding its time. ‘Suppose I call your bluff? There are new games being commissioned all the time, you know. Crater may be the biggest company now, but . . . You need me as much as I need you.’

  Paz laughed. ‘You want to leave? Feel free. The quickest way is by the window.’

  Daed didn’t answer. Rick imagined them there, looking at each other in silence. Even from here he could hear the rain splashing against the glass; he thought he could hear the hiss as it corroded.

  ‘Splendid,’ Paz said, at last. ‘I’m so glad we’ve got that sorted out. Creative meeting tomorrow, zero-six-hundred hours, followed by Marketing and a working lunch. I’ve told Housekeeping to give you caffeine, amphetamines, whatever you need.’

  ‘Morphine.’

  ‘If you’re good.’

  ‘And Rick —’

  Rick moved, instinctively, and grimaced. But it was OK, he hadn’t made any noise.

  ‘Yes?’ Paz said. ‘He’s looking rather battered, I must say. Be careful, you don’t want Wellbeing to get involved. That could be complicated for both of you.’

  ‘I want decent food privileges for him. And his account reopened.’

  ‘How touching,’ Paz said. There was a pause. ‘All right. For as long as your work is satisfactory.’

  ‘Thank you.’ There was a clean, bell-like note, as Daed reactivated his flatscreen. ‘Now I’d like to work, if you’d excuse me.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Paz’s footsteps moved towards the door, and Rick got ready to run. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘One more thing . . . Could you forward me the account details of the avatar who finished the Roots? The surves could do it, of course, but this sort of thing can be awkward if it falls into the wrong hands.’

  ‘She’s — yes,’ Daed said. ‘No problem. I doubt it was actually her, though. Her card details —’

  ‘Oh, please, Daed. Who would steal an avatar to run the Roots? I’ll get someone to pick her up, make sure the word doesn’t get out. And to get the name of her Cheat, as well.’

  Pick her up . . . Rick looked at the grey door in front of his face, and for a second he couldn’t remember what other colours looked like.

  ‘I —’ Daed coughed again; but this time it didn’t sound quite real. ‘Paz . . . I don’t think it’s worth it. It’s perfectly possible that her account was hacked — if she’s not the one who actually ran the Roots —’

  ‘Since when did you make policy decisions? If it wasn’t her, too bad. These things happen.’ A fractional silence. ‘As I said . . . people are dispensable.’

  There was a noise like a footstep, and Daed’s chair skidding on the floor. He said, ‘Paz . . . look, I think that’s a step too far, when there’s no guarantee that it was her.’

  A silence. Rick strained his ears, but — right now, the moment when he most wanted to know what they were doing — there was nothing.

  Paz said, ‘Hmmm,’ and from the tone of her voice Rick knew she was smiling. ‘Daed, there are a few things I’d like you to understand. Sit down.’

  A footstep, and a tiny creak.

  ‘Good. Listen to me. I’m not exactly sure what happened in the Roots, the day before yesterday. The surves tell me that there was something . . . not quite right. Something . . . unusual. Now, I’m sure you will agree that it’s out of the question for us to let word of this get out. Imagine the chatrooms, for example. Whoever it was running the Maze, they must never have the opportunity to discuss their victory. You’re with me so far. Yes?’

  No answer; but from the way Paz went on, Rick thought Daed must have nodded.

  ‘I’m glad you’re being reasonable. Incidentally, I believe it’s perfectly possible to trace the specific tank in which a particular player was running. So, if we did have any reason to suppose that there was anything . . . irregular . . . in what happened . . . well, it would be easy to discover the identities of the people involved, and . . . take appropriate action. Do I make myself clear?’

  Another silence; Rick supposed there must have been another nod.

  ‘As I am personally convinced that there is no reason to look further into the affair, I’m going to authorise Customer Services to pick her up and neutralise the situation.’ Her voice was as smooth as her stockings. ‘But if you have anything you want to tell me — any details, I mean, which might be useful — then now is the time.’

  Rick closed his eyes. For an instant he saw Athene looking back at him. He thought: She’s not real. That face isn’t real. She probably doesn’t look anything like that. I don’t even know her.

  Please, Daed . . .

  Daed said, ‘On second thoughts, Paz, I dare say it’s unlikely that anyone hacked her account.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Her heels clacked on the floor; there was a small, soft sound, that Rick couldn’t place. Paz said, ‘You’re a sensible man, Daed,’ and laughed. ‘Or . . . whatever you are.’

  Rick thought: She kissed him.

  Suddenly he felt so sick he could die of it. He didn’t even care how much noise he was making as he struggled to his feet. He had to get back to his room before he threw up, that was all. He stumbled away, concentrating on staying upright. He kicked something, heard the plastic cup hit the wall and felt a splash of something damp and thick on his face. Behind him, Paz said something else, laughed. He could smell the P&V shake, and Daed’s cigarette smoke. He swallowed and tried to breathe. The corridor turned a right-angle and he hit the wall and rebounded, kept running. He couldn’t hear their voices any more.

  But he didn’t make it to his room before he vomited.

  Chapter 9

  He floated face down, watching the shark in the water below, the slow flick of its tail from side to side. It rolled a little, showing its teeth. He dived, swam above it, then stayed where he was, holding his breath. He reached down and half knocked, half slapped the glass, fighting the inertia of the water. He didn’t know whether the shark was real or not. If it was a projection, it was good: he’d never seen it repeat an action. Now it saw him and surfaced a little, until it was close enough for him to see the water flowing over its gills. He hovered, waited, feeling the familiar frisson of almost-fear. Then he ran out of air, and surfaced.

  He rolled over and looked up at the glassed-out sky, moving as little as he could, kicking gently to stay afloat. It was only just after noon, but the clouds were massed so thickly it could have been evening. For once, though, it wasn’t raining: if the ceiling broke, he wouldn’t die. Or not so soon, anyway. There’d be radiation, of course, Old World chemicals, the last exhalation of the Alternative Energy Source century still hanging in the air. He imagined the poisons slipping invisibly into his lungs, the seeds of cancer growing, putting down roots. He shut his eyes.

  Daed designed this pool, he thought. A glass box, between a great white shark and the outside world. Nice one.

  A metaphor.

  Gods, what was wrong with him? He held his nose and somersaulted, blinded by bubbles and cool blue light. Then he found his feet and waded to the edge of the pool, dragged himself out. He saw the massive fish-shaped shadow move away, blurring as it dived deeper. Either it was a really good program, or . . . He paused, wiped the chlorine out of his eyes. Or there was an aquarium, directly below the pool. It was mad; no one would do that. But . . .

  He’d never wondered about it, before.

  He reached for his towel and wrapped it round his shoulders so that it covered him like a cloak. He went through the archway and sat heavily on his bed, not caring if he dripped everywhere. He’d got so much time to think. He should have been in the Maze, right now —
if not actually running it, then talking to his guilds, getting supplies, politicking . . . His reputation would die, slowly, if he stayed away too long. He had a couple of vendettas, and he still had to finish the solo he was running, the day he —

  The thought made him wince.

  But if he didn’t run the Maze . . . what was he meant to do?

  There is another world, Rick, he thought. The real one. The one where, if you die, you really die. Ring any bells?

  The one where, if someone gets killed because of you, they really —

  The real world.

  But he didn’t know how the real world worked. He didn’t know what to do. He’d spent all his life in the Maze.

  Well then, he thought. Time to find out.

  The cameras followed him as he logged out of his room and walked down the corridor, his hands deep in his pockets, his rainhood under his jacket, where the lenses couldn’t see it. He could feel the rigidity of the breathing panel pressed against his chest. There was already sweat building up on his breastbone. What was he doing? The hood was there for emergencies, anything that might mean he had to leave the complex, like bomb threats and fire drills and electrical failures. You had to practise once a year, getting it on and off, but apart from that he wasn’t allowed to touch it. He thought of the sign next to the hook where the hood normally hung: PENALTY FOR IMPROPER USE.

  Some people had to wear them every day. If you lived in Undone, and didn’t work for Crater, or the government, or . . . well, OK. Just Crater or the government. He imagined what it was like, being used to the hood and the rain and the outside world . . . There were thousands of people like that. Millions. And not just the ones who were alive now, but their parents, and their parents’ parents, all the way back to the Alternative Energy Source pollution, and the nuclear disasters. It was . . . normal.

  Just not for me, Rick thought. I’ve never been outside, not since I can remember. I’m protected. I’m privileged.

  I’m a freak.

  Thanks, Daed.

  He gave a V-sign to the nearest camera and went down the stairs.

  He went down and down and down, until he lost count of the storeys. Maybe the stairs were actually an optical illusion, not going anywhere. But just as he was starting to think about trying to find a lift, he got to the bottom. There was just a door, wire-reinforced chemiglass, glinting like a net. When he put his hand on the comms panel it said to him, Ground floor. Please select your destination.

  The menu came up, but only some of the options were illuminated. Rick tried to select outside access, but the screen didn’t respond. The words were faint and greyish, like meeting room, creative department — everything, in fact, except canteen and toilets.

  Rick selected toilets.

  The comms panel said, Enjoy your visit, Rick! and the door slid open.

  He walked down the corridor. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew from the Maze that it was better to go quickly in the wrong direction than too slowly in the right one. Anyway, there was only one way to go: ahead.

  Then he came out into the atrium, and he stopped dead, in spite of himself.

  It was like something out of the Maze: but real.

  It was huge. He hunched his shoulders, taking a deep breath. That’s what it’s designed for, he thought, to make me feel tiny. There was a staircase opposite him — a hundred ems away, or more — but he could see that the steps were the height of a man, too big to climb. It curved up spectacularly, a double helix, twisting on itself like a strand of DNA, all the way to the roof, until Rick felt a sort of vertigo just looking at it. There was no reason for it to be there, except that it said: You are not important. You — are — too — small.

  Then he saw it was a fountain. It shone and trickled with water: clean, uncontaminated water, more clean water than most people would ever see in their lives, probably. More water than anyone had a right to.

  You — are — poor.

  But it was silent. Rick wondered for a second if it was a fake, a projection, because surely the water would make a noise, hissing gently over the stone, dripping . . . Then he swallowed soundlessly, and realised there were wave absorbers, deadening everything. It was like he’d gone deaf.

  You — are — trivial.

  This is the heart of the complex, he thought. This is Crater.

  The worst thing was, he was pretty sure Daed had designed it.

  He wanted to turn around and run away, back to his room. He shouldn’t be here. But he couldn’t move. He thought of the shadow-rats in the Maze, how if you turned a light on them they froze and stared blankly and let you kill them.

  Get out, he thought. Now.

  But in the Maze he wouldn’t turn back, would he? And this — the real world . . . It’s just the endgame, he thought.

  Welcome to the endgame . . .

  He ran forward. His feet didn’t make any noise on the stone. But his body worked the way it was supposed to. He could hear his heartbeat, just. Not even Crater — not even Daed — could take that away. He ran until he had to swerve sideways, round the staircase, and he could see past it.

  There were doors in the walls of the atrium, each with a neat histro plaque on the door. Meeting Room, the nearest one said. The door was twice the height of a man, smooth and platinum-slick. There was no comms panel.

  He skidded past it — felt the friction under his runner, and wished he could hear the sole squeak — and on. Marketing Department. Creative Department. Security Office. None of them had comms panels. He thought: Maybe no one ever goes in or out. Maybe you have to be born in there.

  Opposite him — the other end of the atrium from the door he came in by — there was an archway. It had to be three storeys high. And through it he could see a glass wall with airlock doors, and through that a vast hall with more glass walls, glinting with comms panels and —

  People.

  He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen so many people, all at once; not in real life, anyway. There had to be six or seven of them. They were pulling off their hoods, changing from faceless shadows into Crater employees, pressing their hands against the panels to check in, saying things over their shoulders . . . They’d come in from the outside. They stripped down to their in-clothes, dropped their out-clothes into a basket, and queued for the airlocks.

  He stood where he was, trying to learn the procedure. All that trouble, just to stay alive. He crossed his arms over his chest, squeezing his hood into his ribs. It didn’t look the same as theirs. And they had suits, as well. What if, when he went outside —?

  And they had guns . . .

  They started to trickle out of the airlocks. The first one out waited for the others. Rick smelt something harsh and chemical, burning the back of his throat, and knew it must be rain.

  He waited until they had gone — they shot him an odd look as they went past, and stopped talking — and then walked slowly to the door of the nearest airlock. The comms panel swirled blue. He looked through the glass. Beyond the airlock there was the entrance hall, with more panels; and then more glass, and then . . .

  He put his hand against the comms panel.

  I’m sorry, you’re not authorised to access this area. Please contact your administrator.

  He said, ‘I want to leave the complex.’

  I’m sorry, you’re not —

  ‘I want to go outside.’

  I’m sorry, you’re not —

  ‘I’m Daed’s son, I can do what I want! Now let me out.’

  I’m sorry, you’re not —

  He took a long breath in. Then he put his hand carefully back on the panel, and said, ‘Request personal response.’

  A long pause.

  I’m sorry, there’s no one available to help you right now. Please try again later or contact your admini—

  No. He turned away; not because he was giving up, but because he thought he’d explode if he didn’t. He focused on the great staircase, trying to calm down. But it didn’t help. It said to him,
indifferently: You — are — trivial.

  He had to get out. Why couldn’t he get out? What was this place, a prison?

  He thought, too late: Shut up.

  The giant steps ran and trickled with water, telling him how rich Crater was, how much they could afford to waste. The impossible silence pressed like fingers into into Rick’s ears, right into his brain.

  You — are — nothing.

  He spun, shielded his head with his arms as if he was running a portal, and threw himself at the glass.

  It clanged and resonated, silently. Rick heard himself cry out, very faintly, as if he was a long way away. But the pain was loud, and right here. He staggered backwards and swore, hearing the air suck the words away before they were fully formed. Black specks buzzed in the corners of his vision like swarms of flies. He knew they weren’t real because he could hear them.

  Please be careful. Your nearest first aid point is —

  He turned himself sideways and ran at the wall, again. It hurt, again; but at least in different places. The glass vibrated and sang without a sound.

  Please be —

  He hissed and drew back, shaking. It was glass, for gods’ sake. He had to be stronger than glass. Even if it was reinforced, special, bullet-proof —

  He didn’t let himself finish the thought. Because if he couldn’t break the glass, he couldn’t get out, and if he couldn’t get out —

  One more try. This time he knew the wall would crack, at least. He drew his hand back and made himself believe that his arm was stronger than the glass wall. Stronger than Crater. Then he punched.

  He dropped to his knees, cradling his hand, rocking back and forth. He heard the faint distant sound of his breath, sobbing in and out. With an effort he straightened his fingers and fought the new wave of pain. He blinked until his eyes focused again. He looked up. There was a red smear on the glass.

  Please, the comms panel said to him. There were more words than that, but he didn’t get to read them. Something was pulling him to his feet and fastening his wrists firmly behind his back before he had time to resist. A voice — a human voice — said, ‘OK, that’s enough.’