Gamerunner

by B. R. Collins

  The comms panel at the bottom of the stairs let him through; there were more highlighted options than last time, but outside access was still unavailable. Not that it mattered; he chose creative department, and felt smug. He walked through the Nucleus, past the fountain, and even though it was huge, and silent, and made him think of Daed, he didn’t feel much more than a tightening in his throat. If Perdita could leave, then so could he. Even if she had to be thrown out.

  There was no comms panel outside the Creative Department door, but he half saw, half felt a glint of silver slide over his retina, and then the door swung silently open. He’d never been here without Perdita, but now he was allowed, apparently. As if Asterion was a password, and more powerful than he’d realised. He went down the corridor towards Perdita’s door, and pressed his hand against the comms panel. But his luck had run out. The panel rippled silkily blue-green, but it didn’t let him in. I’m sorry, it said, Perdita isn’t in at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?

  Not that he was surprised. After all, he was only Daed’s kid; he wasn’t Daed himself. Full-access privileges would have been too much to ask.

  But he couldn’t just wait in the corridor.

  Gods, why hadn’t he thought of this, five minutes ago?

  Someone went past him — one of the Creatives, Rick was almost certain he’d seen him before — and gave him a funny look. Rick looked down at his manky slept-in T-shirt, the hood flapping in his left hand, and thought: Oops. I’m not exactly prepossessing.

  He couldn’t stay here.

  He turned and followed the Creative, not too fast. Rick could tell that he knew he was there: his shoulder blades were tense, like he was afraid Rick was going to hit him from behind. When they got to the door at the end of the corridor he paused, his hand on the comms panel, and looked round. Rick remembered his name, suddenly: Jake.

  ‘Hi,’ Rick said. ‘How’s it going?’ He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried to talk to someone he didn’t know, and it showed. In the Maze there was no such thing as small talk; only negotiation.

  Jake looked at him, and then away. He said, ‘Oh, yeah, good, you?’ His voice was flat, like he was counting. The door in front of him slid open and he glanced at the room beyond, then back at Rick. ‘Er . . . listen, I’m just taking a break, I’ve been working for thirteen hours, really hard, I mean, I just need a coffee, you know —’

  It took Rick a second to get it. Then he said, ‘It’s OK, Daed hasn’t sent me to check up on you.’

  ‘Oh.’ He added, too late, ‘Look, I didn’t think he had —’

  ‘Can I wait in there?’

  ‘Er . . . yeah, sure.’ He frowned and then smiled, too quickly. ‘’Course, no problem. Have a coffee.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Rick said, and followed him. It was the Ideas Space, and it had changed since he’d last seen it. It had been chaotic, full of gadgets and bright colours, cushions and inflatable chairs. Now it was white and minimalist, with doodle screens on every available surface. Apparently blankness was the new inspiration. Rick took the cup of coffee that Jake handed him and wanted to throw it at the wall. He thought regretfully of his technicolor vomit.

  Jake said, ‘So . . . we’re all really excited about the iTank.’

  ‘Great,’ Rick said. He realised, with a weird sadness, that he didn’t even know what the iTank was going to be like. A year, a month ago, he’d have been mad with anticipation, thirsty for every detail, begging to try out the prototypes. ‘What’s new? Better graphics?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Fewer bugs?’

  Jake frowned, then laughed. ‘You’re joking, right?’

  Rick shrugged. The coffee tasted burnt.

  Jake said, ‘You don’t know? This is the biggest step forward since . . . well, since the game tank was invented. This is like the transition from flatgames to realgames. Seriously. Gods, where’ve you been?’

  Something in his tone flicked Rick on the raw. I’ve been in the Maze, Rick wanted to say. In the Maze, and then in the endgame. But he didn’t. ‘So what’s so great about it?’

  Jake held his gaze, then blinked twice. His expression had changed. Now there was a gleam of pride in his eyes. He said, ‘But Daed hasn’t told you . . . ?’

  Rick refused to answer. He was only here to wait for Perdita; this wasn’t his world any more. He stared at the whiteness everywhere and wondered if he could give himself a nosebleed through sheer force of will.

  Jake said, ‘The iTank is . . . it’s the pinnacle, it’s the zenith, it’s — we’ve been working on it for years, years and years. I can’t believe you don’t . . .’ He stared at Rick. He had very pale green eyes, and over-designed eyelashes. He reached out for the nearest doodle screen. He said, ‘The iTank can read your mind.’

  The words sent a trickle of excitement down Rick’s back, even if he wasn’t sure he knew exactly what they meant. ‘You mean there’s a direct link between the iTank and the player’s brain?’

  Jake rolled his eyes. ‘There’s already a link. How do you think we render smells? Or taste? There’s already sense input from a game tank direct to your brain, that’s how we adjust the details, that’s why the Maze is as good as it is. That’s what the cap’s for . . . But now there’s feedback in the other direction.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So —’ Jake rubbed his finger over the screen, as if he really wished he was rubbing the skin off Rick’s face. ‘Imagine the power of the human brain, collaborating with what’s already programmed into the iTank. Imagine the wealth of details that your subconscious would come up with, without your even knowing it . . . more than we could program in years. Or imagine there’s a problem with the synchro, or a bug — as soon as the player realises there’s something not quite right, the game knows and rectifies the error. Imagine a game that’s created by your own brain as you play it — responding to your thoughts, tailoring itself to you so quickly you don’t even notice. But it’s still a multi-player game — it’s still created by us, regulated by us . . . We give the stimulus — and it’ll still be the complex, sophisticated programming that we already have in the Maze — but the player’s own brain adds depth and believability. You won’t even know you’re playing a game . . . Imagine —’

  ‘You sound like someone from Marketing.’

  Jake’s eyes unglazed, a little. ‘No, but seriously. Seriously! You’ll see, when you play in the iTank — my gods, you’ll know the difference.’

  ‘Right.’ Rick stretched out his hand. Against the white of the sofa it looked dark, almost black. Imagine. He was trying not to be impressed. But if it was true, what Jake was saying . . .

  ‘The two-way feedback was what we’ve been after for years. Sense input is easy, you just isolate the right synapses and stimulate them — but reading someone’s mind . . . you have no idea how complicated that is.’ Jake’s voice was dreamy, now, and his finger drew a graceful, hair-thin arc on the screen. ‘It’s like . . . if you had a computer and a calculator, say, and the calculator could only count up to one . . . The calculator could say zero or one to the computer, no problem, but if the computer tried to say three or seven or nine back, the calculator wouldn’t be able to read the figures . . . The simpler system can input into the more complicated one, but it can’t receive. For real communication, you need a computer that’s as sophisticated as a human brain — or nearly.’

  Rick thought: He’s right. It’s amazing.

  And suddenly he missed his old life so hard it hurt. He’d lived in the Maze, desperate to win, to get gilt and reputation, to be the best. He’d never thought about anything else. Life was simple. Nothing was impossible.

  I could go back to my room, he thought, and forget about Perdita. I was happy before. I could be happy again. I could run the new improved Maze all day and eat what I want and it’d be fine, it’d go on for ever because now Daed’s immortal —

  (Jake was talking again, but none of the words got through.)

>   — now he’s got Asterion and everyone’s happy again . . . I don’t have to escape. It’d be so much easier to stay here . . .

  Rick shut his eyes, because the walls were too blank, like they were waiting for someone to write on them. He could see Athene. It was stupid; she wasn’t even real. He didn’t know why she was haunting him like this.

  Or why he heard Paz’s voice, from a long way away: the thing about people is that they’re . . . dispensable.

  Jake said, ‘Let me know if I’m boring you, won’t you?’

  ‘Sorry. I was just . . .’

  He wanted to stay — no, he wanted to want to stay; but he couldn’t. He had to get out. This wasn’t his world any more.

  ‘I’d let you have a go, only the prototypes are being used — you know how it is, there’s only twenty-one days left before the launch.’

  Part of him lit up at the word prototype. Part of him would have given anything to try it — would have begged and threatened and bribed Jake until he gave in. But that part wasn’t very strong, any more. The rest of Rick said: You’re wasting time. If Perdita comes back to her office while you’re in here, and you miss her . . .

  ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘Listen . . . thanks for the coffee and everything, but actually Daed sent me to get something from Perdita’s workshop, only the system doesn’t seem to have updated my entry privileges, so . . . I was wondering if you could get me in.’

  ‘Er . . .’ Jake looked round helplessly, as if there was an autocue hidden somewhere and he’d forgotten where. ‘Well, look, maybe you should ask someone from Security, no one here has entry privileges for Perdita’s workshop, it’s only Daed and Marketing and all that lot. I mean, no other Creatives are . . . she’s more senior than everyone else, so . . .’

  ‘Daed wanted me to go through her stuff before the room was reallocated,’ Rick said. ‘Check for sensitive material. There must have been a glitch in the system . . . but surely there’s someone who can let me in.’

  ‘Reallocated?’

  ‘Now that she’s leaving.’

  ‘Perdita’s —?’

  ‘Yep,’ Rick said, almost enjoying the look on Jake’s face. It said: Gods, if Perdita’s going, who’s next? It could be me.

  ‘I didn’t know she was —’

  ‘The decision was only made this morning,’ Rick said. He wiped his mind as blank as the wall opposite him and imagined he was talking about the weather. ‘Unavoidable. We regretted having to ask her to leave, of course, but she was being a little bit obstructive, and teamwork is so important here.’ His tone was greasy, sticky, like an oil-spill. ‘There’s so much pressure on all our departments, especially at a time like this, and even the smallest lack of cooperation can be crucial.’

  Jake stared at him.

  Rick shrugged, wishing his shoulders weren’t so tight. He said again, ‘Even the smallest lack of cooperation . . .’

  Jake went on looking at him for a long moment, then took a big gulp of coffee. His throat bulged as if he was having difficulty swallowing. He seemed to be waiting for Rick to finish his sentence. Rick let him wait.

  And it worked.

  ‘But there’s — we’re not allowed to fiddle the comms panels,’ Jake said, at last, ‘they’re an essential part of Crater’s inter-departmental security —’

  Good, Rick thought. He’s going to do it.

  ‘I mean, listen, I’d love to help out, but I need — it would be great if — maybe you could get Daed to confirm that he wanted . . . ?’

  ‘Sure,’ Rick said. ‘Why don’t you call his office and ask him?’

  A silence. The air in the Ideas Space smelt stale. The coffee machine spat, suddenly, like someone who’d been winded.

  Jake said, ‘Well . . . he’s notoriously . . . I know he doesn’t like being disturbed . . . so maybe, could you . . . ? No, I guess not. Well. OK. Right. But — look, I can probably fiddle the door for you, but it’s absolutely forbidden, so maybe if you didn’t mention that it was me? If we just . . . you know, if we both forgot about it?’ The question marks hung in the air like hooks.

  Rick said, ‘That would probably be OK.’

  ‘Great.’ Jake breathed out, and put his coffee on the nearest doodle screen. The plastic bent, almost imperceptibly, and started to warp in the heat.

  Jake stood up, and Rick followed him. Jake’s office was tiny, glass-walled, cramped even for a desk and flatscreen. As soon as the door was shut Jake flipped the glass to mirror-mode, and Rick stared into his own noncommittal eyes while Jake hunched at the computer and hissed through his teeth. It only took thirteen minutes, but by the end of it Jake’s forehead was covered with tiny beads of sweat. He said, ‘Look — if someone finds out that I’ve hacked into the entry privilege system, I’ll be chucked out, you understand?’ He said chucked out like it meant killed. Then again, it probably did.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Rick said. ‘My lips are sealed. So it’s all set up, then? I just press my hand against the panel, like normal?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all set up.’

  ‘Great. Thanks. I really appreciate it. Hope the iTank goes well . . .’

  Jake’s eyes narrowed, and he twisted round in his chair, looking up at Rick. His mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. There was a funny look on his face.

  Rick thought: Oh, gods.

  He wasn’t sure what it was — saying thank you, maybe, just being too friendly — but he’d given himself away. Jake knew that he’d been lying. And he was shocked, and furious. And absolutely terrified.

  Rick wanted to tell him it was OK — don’t worry, you won’t be found out, I’m not going to do anything stupid — but he wasn’t sure Jake would believe him. He said, ‘Look, thanks, sorry for taking up your time . . .’

  ‘You’d better go.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rick said. ‘OK. Thanks.’

  And he left. All the way down the corridor he could feel Jake’s look — horrified, afraid, accusatory, the way Athene would have looked at him, if she’d known — and he rolled his shoulders, trying to shake it off. He’d never had so many enemies. He’d never deserved so many enemies.

  But the comms panel let him into Perdita’s workshop; and, after all, he told himself, that was what counted.

  Chapter 17

  Perdita had cleared up the mess. Everything looked a little bit emptier than it had before; as though she’d had to throw a lot of things away. But there were broken bits and pieces lined up neatly on the workbench, ready for her to mend. Rick looked at them and wished he could fix them all, now, so that they wouldn’t be left waiting like that for ever.

  He sat down. He would have made himself a drink, except that he didn’t know how to work the kettle. There were diagrams pinned up on the wall opposite him, but not of anything he understood. The cupboard where he’d hidden was open and bare.

  He waited. Outside it was still not raining. A glint of platinum sunlight caught a tangle of wires on a shelf, making them shine for a few seconds, and Rick watched it, trying not to breathe. Then it was gone.

  He stood up and peered at the little crippled bits of techno. He touched a few with his fingertips, very gently. Then he turned to the other shelves, ran his hands over the backs of books, fiddled with the old prototypes, bounced a ball against the ceiling. He wondered whether it would hurt Perdita, having to leave this stuff behind. He thought of his own room, and couldn’t think of anything worth regretting.

  He waited. He thought: Thanks, Jake. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have been sitting outside in the corridor.

  He waited and waited. She didn’t come. She was making the most of her twelve hours. He sat down again, stood up again. He opened drawers and filing cabinets, the ones that weren’t locked. There wasn’t anything very interesting. He went through to her tiny bathroom and wondered how she managed. He went to the loo. He went back into the workshop and noticed her hood hanging on the back of the door. He got it down and put it on the workbench, to save time later. He checked that t
he breathing panel looked OK.

  What was she doing?

  For an odd, vertiginous moment he wondered if she could possibly have persuaded Daed not to use Asterion, after all. But —

  He picked up the ball again and thumped it at the wall, trying to get as close as possible to the comms panel without actually hitting it. He imagined her in Daed’s office. Suppose she won the argument, or Daed did; suppose they made up. He could see them laughing, drinking, trying out ideas for the new expansion. He threw the ball too hard and had to flinch as it bounced back, straight at his eyes.

  Come on, Perdy. Come on. Let’s go.

  He’d have been less impatient if he wasn’t scared, too. He wanted to get it over. He wanted to walk out through the Nucleus and the glass airlock, for it to be done and irrevocable. He hated this waiting.

  He sat down. This time he sat against the wall, next to the door. He leant his head back and shut his eyes. He breathed deeply, trying not to think about anything except his lungs and the air in them.

  After a long time he heard the rain start again. The sound was so familiar it was soothing, like the pulse in his ears. He went to sleep.

  When he woke up, nothing had changed.

  It took him a second to work out what was wrong; at first it was just a feeling, like something was missing. Spot the deliberate mistake.

  Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet. His back ached, and when he tried to turn his neck to the left the muscles twinged sharply.

  He said, ‘Time, please,’ and the clock flashed up on the glassed-out rain-clouds. 0742.

  0742. But Perdita had only had twelve hours; she should have been out by 0530.

  She must have come and gone. No. He would’ve woken up; he was right next to the door. She must’ve just gone, without even bothering to come back to her workshop first. Oh, damn.

  He imagined her, alone, in the rain, walking the streets of Undone, looking for somewhere to stay. He imagined a small, anonymous figure in black out-clothes and hood, too ordinary for the cameras to follow. He thought he ought to pity her; but all he could feel was a cold, half-relieved stab of envy. She was outside the complex. She’d escaped.