‘OK,’ Rick said. He wasn’t exactly enjoying himself, but he could bear another forty-five minutes, just about.
‘Good,’ Daed said. ‘See you later.’ He paused, and then turned to leave.
‘Daed,’ Rick said. ‘Congradguladguns. Forlife’s wor. I meanid.’
Daed turned back and looked at him; and then, like something breaking, he started to laugh. He laughed until blood flecked the corners of his mouth, and then he hunched his shoulders and coughed into his hand. Finally the attack died away.
Then he pulled Rick into an awkward embrace. It seemed to last for a long time. He said, ‘Thank you, Rick. I love you.’
Rick stayed as still as he could, swaying slightly.
In the end Daed detached himself. He pushed Rick away gently and disappeared into the crowd. Rick saw him emerge on the other side, near the PR platform. Paz turned to look at him and reached out, brushing his shoulder with her fingers. It made Rick’s stomach twist; they looked like friends. Or lovers. Gods . . .
Daed leant forward and kissed Paz on the mouth.
Rick tasted acid and champagne in the back of his mouth and gulped it back, trying not to vomit. He couldn’t take his eyes off the kiss. It looked . . . painful.
And then — without waiting for Paz to react — Daed pulled away. He glanced around, and somehow Rick knew Daed was looking for him, to see if he’d seen. He ducked his head, forcing his gaze to the floor. When he lifted his eyes again Daed was making his way to the ticket gates. He was leaving.
Not fair, he thought. I have to stay for another forty-five minutes. Daed said I had to stay . . .
He looked back at Paz. She was watching Daed, too; and the expression on her face was so strange that it took Rick a moment to work out what it was.
Surprise, he thought. She’s surprised.
It was stupid; it wasn’t a big deal. There was no reason why Paz shouldn’t be surprised, occasionally. There was no reason why it should have sent a current of cold running down Rick’s back, or made him fumble and almost drop his glass. But it did. As if the dread that had been building inside him for weeks was suddenly alive, hatched, fully formed, digging its claws into his nervous system. Paz, surprised . . .
He thought: If Paz doesn’t know what’s going on . . .
He held on to the tree, pulling himself upright, narrowing his eyes. Daed was through the gates, now, making his way down the corridor towards the stairs. He was walking with his shoulders hunched, as if he was trying to be invisible — and quickly, as if he had something to do . . .
Don’t leave for another forty-five minutes.
And like something catching fire, the grey ache of dread leapt into fear. Rick heard his heart thunder in his ears, tapping the roof of his mouth like a finger. Oh, gods. What was going on? He felt cold sweat in his armpits and the small of his back. It smelt bitter.
And he couldn’t help himself. Not even though he heard Perdy’s voice, clear as black and white: Stop doing stupid things. He let go of the tree and staggered towards the gates, weaving through the people, apologising, pushing when he had to. He had to get out; he had to follow Daed. It seemed like an eternity before he got to the gates, but they let him past without a problem. And then he was in the corridor, walking as quietly as he could, trying not to stumble or wander from side to side, tracking Daed like a monster in the Maze.
Chapter 22
By the time Rick got to the last door, Daed was already gone; but Rick could hear his footsteps in the stairwell, climbing round and round above him. Rick clung to the banister, out of breath, wishing things didn’t split into two whenever he took his eyes off them. Already the fear had lost its edge; he was just being stupid, it was only a drunken panic. There was nothing to be scared of. But all the same, he started to climb the stairs.
Up and up and up, until Rick stopped being careful to tread lightly. He stopped listening for Daed’s footsteps. All he could think about was the dizziness as the stairs unwound in front of him, and the nausea as he lurched forward. Where was Daed going? Maybe Rick would finally find out where his rooms were. Up and up, and gods he was sick of —
The door he’d just passed had been open.
He staggered backwards, and then leant on the wall, staring. It was closed now, of course; there was no way of knowing whether it really had been open or whether he’d imagined it, that centi-em-wide gap . . . He looked at the comms panel, wondering if the trace of moisture on it was condensation from the air or the mark of a hand. If he’d been sober, he’d have trusted his instincts. Now, though . . .
But there was nothing else to do, was there? Except keep going up the stairs, and right now he’d almost rather be wrong.
He pressed his hand on the panel and nearly fell through the door when it opened. Why hadn’t someone told him there was absinthe in the champagne — whatever absinthe was?
And in front of him there was nothing but an empty corridor. It looked familiar, but then all the corridors looked the same.
He wondered how many of the forty-five minutes had elapsed; he said, ‘Time, please,’ but the numbers on the wall didn’t mean anything. He ought to have looked at the time when Daed said it. Slowly he made his way down the corridor, trying not to make too much noise, in case Daed was only just ahead, beyond the next fire-door. He eased it open with his shoulder, and peered through the gap. Nothing, no one. But there was a faint smell — was there? — of cigarette smoke and unhealthy sweat.
He looked to one side, then to the other, and chose at random. He trod softly, trailing his hand along the wall beside him, breathing deeply. But that elusive smell of smoke and sickness wafted past him and disappeared, until he wasn’t sure whether he’d imagined it or not. He wasn’t scared, any more. This was all stupid. He wanted to sit down on the floor and go to sleep.
He got to the end of the corridor, the last corner, and realised where he was.
The twentieth floor. Where the tanks were. Only now they’d been replaced, and there was a line of iTanks, glinting clinical white, stylish and unexpected against the petrol-grey light from the window. He thought: That was quick. And then: But I can’t go into the Maze yet. Not until Daed said it’s OK. I promised.
But he took a step forward, drawn towards the tanks in spite of himself. One of them — the furthest away, where his favourite tank had been — was shimmering, ripples of green and blue and purple running under the white like paint in milk. It meant someone was inside, playing already. It was beautiful. Rick could happily have stayed and watched, hypnotised. But he tore his eyes away and turned on his heel. Daed must have gone in the other direction; and now Rick had lost him. Damn.
He ran back the way he’d come, sacrificing stealth for speed. When he’d run the Maze every day he could sprint silently, but he’d lost his condition now. There was no need to be quiet, anyway; even if Daed heard him, there was nowhere for him to hide.
Rick got to the end of the corridor. No one. He stared at the blank walls, the window, and thought: He’s disappeared. Into thin air. Where —?
The forty-five minutes must be nearly over. If something’s going to happen . . .
Daed must have gone to his office, Rick thought. I must have imagined the door closing, the handprint on the comms panel. Because —
The toilets.
He’d been past them so many times he hadn’t even remembered they were there.
He shook his head, half laughing at himself. Daed was on his way up to his office, because the party had got too much, and then urgently needed the toilet . . . OK.
He retraced his steps, pushed open the door — no comms panel, which was either democratic or just sensible, depending on how you looked at it — and walked in. The row of closed cubicles looked back at him, deadpan. He said, ‘Daed?’ and then felt himself blush because, well, honestly . . . But no one said anything. Not even: Gods, Rick, what is the matter with you? Did you follow me to the loo?
He said it again, a little louder, but still no answe
r. There was a tap trickling water, and the noise filled the silence as if it was trying to tell him something. Automatically, he moved to the sink and turned it off. The porcelain was dirty, smeared with foamy soap and hair and something that could have been blood. He looked down at it, wrinkling his nose, cleared his throat ready to call Housekeeping. And then stopped. Wondering . . .
Someone had shaved their head. Someone who had had longish hair, to start with; some of the strands clinging to the sink were the length of Rick’s thumb. And the blood . . . Either they’d been in a hurry, or they hadn’t had much practice. Not a regular gamerunner. Someone trying the iTank for the first time.
Rick looked down at the mess. There was a safety razor on the side of the sink, the triple blade shining redly. The same kind he used.
He said again, ‘Daed?’
And then he started to run again: past the cubicles, past the showers, and through the other set of doors, out into the other branch of the corridor. Daed could have come this way, without Rick seeing him. He hurried round the corner. He saw a glimmer of his reflection in the nearest iTank, like a ghost behind a white fog. The two nearest iTanks were still dormant, like white marble. The only colour he could see was from the furthest iTank; but it wasn’t swirling blue-green any more. It was winking red.
There has been a malfunction. Please tell Crater about this problem.
He threw himself against the door of the iTank, but nothing happened. He said, ‘Manual, manual, open the door, activate emergency procedures,’ and the door clicked and buzzed slowly open. As soon as there was a big enough gap he caught it with his hand and pulled, trying to accelerate the movement.
The door finally slid aside. Rick stood in the doorway and looked. There was someone inside.
He was sitting against the wall, knees up, feet splayed, head and arms hanging forward. He had a bare, whitish skull, with tufts of badly shaved stubble and a caked dribble of blood where his spine started. The skin had a pale, obscene look, like something naked. You couldn’t see his face.
Now that the door was open, the iTank stopped flashing. The white shell went opaque again; only the places where Rick was touching it stayed silver, glimmering under his fingertips like water.
He knelt down in the tank, in front of the sagging body. Suddenly, strongly, he could smell faeces. He gagged, tried to get up, stumbled. He found himself on the floor, retching. He put his hands over his mouth and breathed shallowly until he was sure he wasn’t going to be sick.
Then he reached out, past those dangling hands, and lifted the head to see the face.
It was so heavy he could hardly manage it. The skull was slick and prickly under his palms. He felt a shiver of revulsion go down his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and made himself do it. He’d looted bodies in the Maze; why should this be so different?
Then Rick opened his eyes, and it was Daed.
And Daed was dead.
Chapter 23
It was the eyes that told him. The eyes stared. They looked straight through Rick, already cloudy, like stagnant water, already with specks of dust clinging to the membrane over the eyeball. They didn’t look weird any more, or too old; they just looked dead. They fitted the rest of his face. For the first time, Daed looked like a normal person — just, a normal person who happened to be dead.
Daed, thought Rick, is dead. Is dead, is Daed, is dead.
He can’t be.
This is a game. This is the endgame. Log out, log out.
But . . .
What happened? He thought: It’s important, I have to know what happened. It’s really important. If I know what’s happened, I can undo it. Think. What happened?
(He can’t really be dead. This can’t be happening. I must have got something wrong. He can’t be . . .)
Rick rocked a little on his heels, feeling the blood fizz and settle again in his thighs. I’m imagining it. He’s not really dead.
Only . . . he is.
What happened?
Rick thought: He wanted me safely downstairs for forty-five minutes. He didn’t want me to find him before it was too late. He knew. But —
Something cracked neatly in Rick’s brain, like a fortune cookie, and said: Suicide.
He did it on purpose. He even said goodbye.
But Daed . . . Rick couldn’t believe it. Yes, he thought, he’s dead. He knew it was going to happen. He didn’t want me to stop him . . . but suicide? Daed? It doesn’t make sense. Daed, who wanted immortality, who would never —
And what about Asterion?
Rick put his hands over his eyes and pressed. There was too much light, even behind his eyelids, splurging and whirling in splodges of purple and orange. He couldn’t think straight. He kept his hands there until he realised he could smell sweat and the tang of nicotine, from where he’d touched Daed’s skull. He took them away from his face and wiped them on his trousers. He was shaking; he hadn’t noticed.
Asterion was meant to make Daed immortal. Wasn’t it?
So what went wrong?
Rick thought: He’ll never fix the malfunction, now. He’ll never tell me the Maze is safe. I’ll never run the Maze again . . .
He heard himself gulp, as if someone had hit him in the stomach. The world wavered wetly, and then overflowed. Is that how much I loved him, then? he thought. So much that it’s that that makes me cry?
He looked at Daed’s body. He took in the details, as if he was going to draw it. The stubble on his scalp, the slick of saliva on his chin, the pale, receding gums above his perfect teeth. Daed was already decaying, as if he couldn’t wait to be gone. Rick understood how he felt. He knew a moment of the purest, most absolute despair he’d ever felt. Nothing, he thought, will ever be any good again. Nothing is worth the effort. I wish I could die, too.
There was a malfunction in the Maze. That was what had killed Daed. So he could die, too, if he really wanted to. If he meant it. Easily.
He lifted his head and stared into the middle distance, meeting his own imagined gaze. Do I mean it? Do I really want to die?
The answer came as instinctively as his next breath: No. Of course not. But . . .
Can I imagine life without Daed?
He waited.
Well? Can I?
And I can’t leave the complex; they won’t let me go, not even now. Daed said that, and I believe him. Twenty-four hours, and Customer Services would find me. Like Paz said: people are dispensable.
Oh, gods.
He was drowning in greyness. He couldn’t bear to think; couldn’t bear to keep his eyes open. If only he could just — stop . . .
And if he went into the Maze now — well, at least he’d be doing something.
There used to be a welcome screen, while the tank booted up; now he’s in a quiet, old-fashioned room, with a wooden floor and high windows. He stands still, waiting for the door to appear in the opposite wall. It takes a long time to load. After a while he walks forward, but the wall recedes in front of him, and when he looks behind he’s still in the centre of the room. Of course, he can’t interact with anything. There’s nothing to do but wait.
The tank says to him, Hello, Rick. Welcome to the new iTank, and a new, expanded version of the Maze — but don’t worry, you don’t have to start again from scratch! I’m just transferring your details now. Please wait for a moment while I upgrade your account. A pause.
And then there’s the door — a neat, white-painted door, simple and unthreatening — and suddenly he can move towards it.
Would you like to return to your last location?
He frowns. His last location? The garden at the end of the Roots? No, that was Athene . . . His last location was . . . gods, the gate outside the solo he was running, all those weeks ago. He remembers his corpse, slumped on the steps, and feels sick, because that isn’t what a real corpse looks like. He knows that, now. He says, hastily, ‘No.’
Please choose another available location.
He says, ‘Alpha O
mega Guildhall,’ and somewhere in the back of his head he’s shocked at how unfamiliar the words feel on his tongue, when he used to live there, practically. ‘Please.’
Thank you. Please wait for a moment —
And then the door opens, and someone comes into the room.
Rick recoils, stepping back instinctively. No one comes into the loading space. Nothing happens here; that’s what it’s designed for. He doesn’t understand.
The figure stays where it is, a few ems away, watching him.
And —
Oh gods, oh gods, no —
It’s Daed.
Or . . . almost Daed. There’s something wrong with him; he’s hard to look at, as if Rick’s eyes don’t match up with what he’s seeing. The image is there, steady and solid, but there’s still something flickery about him, something blurry. As if Rick’s idea of Daed and the computer’s aren’t the same.
Rick lets his breath out, concentrates to stay upright. He wants to say something — but what? Daed, I thought you were dead. Daed, you are dead. What are you doing in a place like this? This isn’t the afterlife, is it?
The waiting-room silence goes on, until Rick thinks the tank’s crashed.
Daed laughs. Something about the tone of it — soft, faintly lost — makes Rick think, stupidly: Oh. So this is the afterlife . . .
Then Daed says, ‘You promised, Rick. You shouldn’t be here.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You promised,’ Daed says again. ‘Honestly. You’re useless.’
‘I know,’ Rick says. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted —’ but he doesn’t know what he wanted. He’s scared to step forward, in case Daed retreats; but he reaches out with his hand, lets it hover a micro-em from Daed’s sleeve. He says, ‘Daed . . . what happened? Why are you here? Please . . .’
Daed smiles, a little. He steps forward and puts his arms round Rick, and there’s warmth and solidness and for the first time a smell that isn’t nicotine and something rotting but a smell like — like clean clothes, or bread, or green tea, something healthy . . . Rick swallows and holds on, and this is real, he thinks, the other was only a nightmare. Oh thank you, thank gods, thank you.
Gamerunner Page 17
