Gamerunner

by B. R. Collins

  Daed says, ‘Rick, you are a stupid, pig-headed little oath-breaker, and I’m thoroughly disgusted with you. OK?’

  Rick laughs and nods into Daed’s shoulder. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Fair enough. OK.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Daed says, ‘that I’m such a genius. Happily for you, I can lock you out of the system without having to rely on your honesty. The iTank, you see. We identify people by their brainprints, so we can bar them for life. Clever, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rick says. He doesn’t care what Daed says, he’ll agree to anything.

  ‘Yes,’ Daed says, mocking him. ‘Yes, I thought so.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Rick says. ‘I mean . . .’ A cold idea begins to grow in his stomach, like the beginnings of nausea, but he ignores it. ‘You were — I found you in the tank, you were —’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘I —’ It seems tactless, to say it aloud.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Daed says. ‘You weren’t meant to find me. Wait —’ He narrows his eyes. ‘I told you to stay in the party . . . Oh, for gods’ sake, Rick, can’t you do anything I tell you?’

  The cold idea is icy now. It won’t be ignored. Rick thinks: He’s not real. He’s just a — not a ghost, but something pre-programmed, he’s just a, a non-player character . . . It’s like an insult, a sick joke. Daed, an NPC.

  Rick pulls out of Daed’s embrace, because it’s too much to bear. He wants the real Daed, the one who’s slumped in the tank with that obscene bare skull.

  He says, ‘You programmed yourself . . . what are you, a guide? What do you do in the Maze all day? Give out quests? Or are you a kind of automated GM?’

  The corner of Daed’s mouth quirks up; as if it’s funny that Rick doesn’t think he’s real. He says, ‘What is this, Rick? The Turing test?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Daed shrugs, as if it really doesn’t matter.

  Rick thinks: That’s the one thing NPCs don’t do. They always think you’re important.

  Rick says, ‘What’s going on, Daed? I thought . . . you’re not really here, are you? I mean . . .’

  What a stupid question. But Daed doesn’t seem to despise him for asking. He says, ‘Yes, Rick, I am. I am really here. This is me. Truly.’

  Silence.

  ‘It was Asterion, Rick. It’s a brainscan program. I’m here, I’m thinking. I’m immortal. In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Rick says. He thinks, for no reason, of an empty box, of shadows, of nothing, nothing but dust in the corners. He can’t believe it. ‘That’s Asterion? You wanted to be an NPC?’

  ‘Not —’ Daed stops. He takes a little breath, turning his eyes to the side wall. There’s light coming in from the windows. Then he says, ‘Yes, that’s right. More of less.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What’s the point? And why did Perdita say it was —’ He’s going to say: evil. But Daed interrupts him.

  ‘Never mind, Rick. Just trust me, OK? And now —’

  ‘Now —?’

  ‘Now let’s get you out of here.’

  ‘But —’ No. No, he can’t. If this is where Daed is . . . and why, Rick still doesn’t understand, there’s something wrong, something missing, Daed’s lying —

  ‘Sorry,’ Daed says. ‘But you can’t come back. It’s for your own good.’

  ‘But why — no, Daed, please, let me at least come back to see you — please, don’t bar me, please . . .’ He’s desperate. He runs towards Daed, trying to grab him. He’d drop to his knees and plead like a little kid, hanging on to Daed’s legs, if he could; but Daed cheats, and the world slides away and no matter how fast Rick runs he’s always in the same place. ‘Please, Daed, don’t do this — at least explain —’

  ‘It’s better if you don’t know —’ Daed hesitates. ‘If you don’t know the details.’ For a strange moment his voice takes on a kind of pleading tone; as if Rick’s the one in control. ‘I’ve set it all up for you, Rick. You can stay in the complex for ever. You’ll be safe, and well fed, and looked after; you’ll be important. They’ll even give you a job if you want one. Please, Rick, trust me. The Maze is your inheritance, even if you can’t run it. And I’ve sacrificed myself for it — for you. Don’t worry about Asterion. Now I’m here, it’s just . . . it’s not important. Please.’

  Rick thinks: How odd. Both of us saying please.

  And: I wonder what it is, what he’s not telling me. I wonder if I want to know.

  And: Daed, please don’t lock me out, if this is where you are, it’s not fair to lock me out, please don’t, in the real world you’re dead.

  He says, ‘Daed, please don’t lock me ou—’

  ‘Goodbye, Rick. Trust me.’

  He reaches out, desperate for another touch, desperate to stay. He wants to ask question after question: who are you? When you said you loved me, you meant it, right? And my mother — please tell me, who was my mother? If he doesn’t ask now, he’ll never know. It’s his last chance. He says, ‘Daed, please — tell me —’

  But the room disappears. Everything, the windows, the light, Daed’s new-young face — is gone. There’s only a gun-metal grey mist, wrapped round him like a curtain. A padded cell for the brain.

  And the iTank says to him, Sorry, there seems to be a problem with your account. Please contact Crater Customer Services.

  Chapter 24

  When Rick found himself again, he was staring into his own ghost-eyes, his reflection hanging in the air twenty storeys above the streets of Undone. It was still not raining; there was still a lurid tinge in the sky. Fine weather. You could survive ten minutes, out in that without a hood — or half an hour, a whole hour, maybe.

  He leant his forehead against the chemiglass, spread his hands out, pressed. Break, break . . .

  Behind him Daed’s body was hunched against the wall of the furthest iTank. Rick should call a med, or Housekeeping, or whoever dealt with corpses on the night shift. No doubt there was someone who was used to it. Customer Services, at a pinch.

  Daed was dead.

  Or, if not exactly dead, he was gone. Irrevocably and absolutely gone. Rick would never see him again. Other people will, he thought. Gamerunners. Random consumers who don’t even care, don’t even know who Daed is; but not me. Daed’s locked me out. I’m the only person in the world Daed doesn’t want to see again. And he’s made sure he won’t.

  You can stay in the complex for ever. You’ll be safe, and well fed, and looked after . . .

  Oh, gods. Please, no. I can’t do it. The rest of my life, here?

  The sky outside flickered, but it wasn’t lightning. The clouds were thinning; for a second Rick thought he saw a blazing red circle, behind the grey haze. Then it was gone. It said to him: Freedom.

  But I can’t leave. Daed’s sacrificed everything for me, to make sure I’m all right. Whatever he’s hiding, whatever he was lying about . . . I trust him that far. I think. Don’t I? He is protecting me. He always has.

  And I can’t leave anyway, even if I want to.

  So this is my life.

  He looked through the chemiglass. Outside there were kids running wild, abandoned or orphaned so young they couldn’t speak Inglish; there were gangs who’d mug you for your hood, leaving you bare-headed in the rain; there were people starving. There were people who’d sell themselves for an hour in a tank, to collect gilt, to sell it on the black. He tried to feel sorry for them. But all he could feel was envy.

  Slowly, like an old man, he turned away from the window. He made his way along the corridor, back the way he’d come, and up the stairs.

  He logged into his room, took off his clothes, dived into the pool. He wanted the cold water to come as a shock, but it felt tepid, undemanding. The shark saw him from the opposite corner, but stayed where it was, bored. He floated naked, face down, trying not to think. Lucky Daed, to be dead. It was one way to escape the complex.

  He felt something welling up in him, like he was going to be sick, like he wa
s drowning. He opened his mouth and gulped in air and water together. He floundered, struggling to find his feet. He waded to the end of the pool and put his hands on the bars of the steps, ready to haul himself out. Daed is gone, he thought. The only person I had. My father; or whatever he was. For ever, gone. He put his arms round me. He said he loved me.

  And then all Rick could do was cling on tight.

  Time had never gone so slowly. When he called for the clock digits it was only just past midnight, and the same evening as before. Downstairs the party must still have been going on. Nobody would have found Daed’s body yet.

  He was lying on his bed, looking at the ceiling. He was going to do a lot of that, in the rest of his life. While he was safe, and well fed, and looked after . . .

  What had Daed been hiding?

  Evil, Perdita’s voice said, in his head. He tried not to believe it. But . . .

  Even if it was something bad. Even if Asterion was something worse . . . if it wasn’t just Daed’s way of programming himself into the Maze . . . if it was something more, something . . . yes, something evil . . . Even if . . .

  What would you do, Perdita? But he knew, already: she’d stay here, in the complex. Wouldn’t she? She’d choose to be well fed, and safe, and . . . well, who wouldn’t? Especially if the alternative was to be dead.

  Who wants to be dead? Rick said to himself, and then wished he hadn’t. Because — yes, he thought, me. I do. If this is my life, safe and well fed and looked after. I don’t want that. On my own, in the complex, with nothing to do but eat and sleep. I’d rather be out in the streets of Undone, fighting for my life. Or dead.

  This isn’t really how I feel. I don’t mean it.

  Yes, I do. I don’t want to die. But —

  Wait —

  Oh my gods, he thought. Oh —

  The ceiling was white and blank and full of nothing and suddenly —

  Suddenly —

  He sat up, breathless, his heart pounding.

  If I —

  I can’t leave, because they’ll follow me. Customer Services will track me down. But if I were dead —

  If I were dead . . .

  It won’t work. It can’t work, he thought. It can’t. Can it?

  But if it did . . .

  He heard himself laughing, softly, delightedly, like someone who’d just thought of the best joke ever. He could feel every door in the complex swinging open, silently, invisible to everyone but him. He could feel the air and space, beyond the confines of his rooms. He could feel the sun, sliding high behind the clouds, the most precious secret in the world. For the first time in his life, he felt like Daed’s son. He knew what it would be like, to create something you were proud of.

  He got up, changed his clothes, shaking, the pit of his stomach crawling with nerves, because what if he was wrong, what if there was something he hadn’t thought of? He tried not to look at his plan head-on; but when he caught sight of it, it still seemed like it would work. He was trembling so much he could hardly dress himself. And he was still laughing.

  I’m going to do it, he thought. I’m going to escape.

  The actual leaving bit would be easy. Tonight, with all the guests leaving the complex, there’d be a way to get out through the airlocks. He trusted himself to cross that bridge when he came to it, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t being over-optimistic. It was like Daed had said: there were hundreds of ways to get out.

  He tried not to think about what would happen if someone caught him. That cell, with the one-way mirrors . . . but what was the worst that could happen? He’d go mad anyway if he stayed here, one way or another.

  What mattered was not being caught by Customer Services, after he’d got out of the complex.

  And they wouldn’t follow him if he was dead already.

  And accidents happened, didn’t they? Terrible, shattering, tragic accidents. They happened just by chance: because of a malfunction, because someone had left something in the wrong place, because something had been wired in wrong . . . The kind of accident that could destroy the hidcams, or wipe out a whole floor, so dramatic there wouldn’t be anything left except debris and ash.

  Not even a body.

  He should stop laughing, or the hidcams might pick it up. He couldn’t look happy. Soon he had to get angry — well, that should be easy — but he couldn’t look excited. Right now he should look despairing — and then convincingly furious. He had to have an adolescent tantrum. But he didn’t want anyone to notice — or care — what he was doing, before it was done. Once it was over, it wouldn’t matter.

  He’d put his favourite clothes on. He looked at his reflection in the window, and gave himself a curt nod. Then he went to the comms panel, opened his door, stood there for a second or two, and then stepped back into the room, as if he’d changed his mind. But as the door slid closed he slipped a wodge of toilet paper into the gap; the old trick, but it worked. The door almost closed, but not quite. Now it was on manual; he could drag it open with his hands, if he had to. When he had to.

  He turned his back to the nearest hidcam, and got his hood out of the wardrobe. He hovered for a moment, wondering what to do with it, and then shoved it up his top. It made him move awkwardly; but he could cope with that, and he’d need it, later.

  He would have liked to take more with him, but he didn’t want anyone to see him packing. He couldn’t look like he was planning anything. Or, at least, not what he really was planning.

  He just had to hope it would work.

  Chapter 25

  He trashed his room, carefully.

  It was harder than he’d thought it would be. Some of it was fine — the bathroom, the far side of the bedroom — but when he dragged his sheets off the bed he almost stopped to wonder where to put them, and caught himself on the brink of a pause. He threw them down, and then kicked them into the right position, punching the air with his fists. He swore loudly. The sound might not get through to the surves, but no doubt they could lip-read. Luckily he’d sobered up a bit, but not too much: they’d be ready to believe he was drunk. When he’d finished cursing, the sheets were in a long loose curve between the doorway to the studio and the arch that led to the swimming pool. He remembered suddenly that there were cold, oily chips still sitting in the delivery box. He ran to get them out and sprinkled them along the twisted length of bedclothes. All that grease. That should help, a bit. They were packed in polystyrene and a bit of histro newspaper, transparent with fat. He crumpled that and kept it in his hand, trying to look as if he’d forgotten he was holding it.

  He spread piles of clothes on the carpet, found a stash of used tissues in the bin and scattered them artlessly among the most flammable-looking garments. In the bathroom he discovered a bottle of bath oil that he’d forgotten about. That was oil, right? So it should burn . . . He wanted to cheer. He splashed it everywhere, scowling.

  Almost everything in his studio was plastic; he looked round, despairing, and almost forgot to sweep everything off the shelves on to the floor. It might burn, at a pinch, but he needed things that would catch fire easily. If only he had some books; but he’d never been much of a reader — he couldn’t be bothered with all that ancient stuff. Now he regretted that. Books would have been perfect. He just didn’t have enough stuff — nothing really existed. His music, films, games were all in the ether somewhere. He stared round, desperately. Oh, come on, there had to be something . . .

  And then he thanked Daed silently, over and over again. The posters — vintage realgame ads, from years ago, birthday presents that Rick never really wanted, that he thought were naff and boring. Daed had been into that kind of thing, not him. He’d put them up, dutifully, but only in his studio — on the wall opposite his flatscreen, where he’d never actually see them. He looked at them now and grateful water welled up in his eyes. Even the slogans seemed to speak to him: go for it, heaven is here, nothing is impossible. He reached for the nearest one, tore it down and started to roll it into a tube before he
remembered he was meant to be trashing his rooms, not building a fire. welcome to the real world.

  He chucked it down, with the greasy chip-paper, so that they fell across the half-burnt-away wire leading to the iTank. The sight of it made him nervous again: what if the wire was melted? What if it wouldn’t conduct electricity at all? What if it didn’t behave the same way, the second time? He ignored the questions and kept ripping the posters off the walls. No use wondering about that now. He had to try, that was all.

  And when he’d taken down the last poster and was dragging his arms across his desk to clear it — the flatscreen toppled, landed on its side on the floor, made a cracking noise — he was in luck: his elbow caught one of Daed’s cigarette lighters, left there months ago. He flicked at the wheel and there was a flame. Not empty, then. He threw it to the floor with a casual, contemptuous gesture that left it next to the iTank wire and the corner of the poster, exactly where he wanted it. He paused for a moment, looking round. Not bad. A convincing mess. The kind of mess that was a fire hazard in itself . . .

  And now, he thought, for the pièce de résistance.

  He went back through to his bedroom, kicking at things viciously and grabbing a pillow off the bed as he went past. He threw it into the swimming pool and watched it sink. He opened the door to the little sauna but there was nothing there he could pick up or break. He opened the hammam door, too, and the smell of steam reminded him so strongly of Daed that his throat ached. Then he turned away. He was only pretending, anyway, just so what he was about to do next didn’t look premeditated.

  Because on the other side of the pool was the filter room, with the heater and the temperature regulator. And the chemicals.

  It was hard to get the door open — so hard that he was afraid he looked too determined, wrenching at the old-fashioned handle. But it was stiff, not locked; he went in from time to time to change the thermostat. It was just the moisture that had got into the hinges; after all, that was why it wasn’t electric, like the other doors. He swore and sweated, pulling until the muscles in his back burnt with effort. Finally the door burst open, and he staggered back, almost slipping on the slick tiles. There was the smell of chlorine and chemical salts. He thought, with a strange sort of detachment: Hmmm. This might be dangerous, actually . . .