“Great. Save the world. Save the game.” Jay tutted. “And you say you just found her in Jodo Canyons?”
“Ahh, kind of…” Dean had glossed over the bit about specifically rescuing her, and how she had eaten some of the blood of his friend, and how she had promised to come to his aid if ever he called. That’s not exactly the information you share with people you’re going to work with, he thought.
“Kind of. Great.” Jay shook her head. “Well – it sounds a bit above our paygrade, to be honest…”
“Jay!” a disgruntled noise from Sari.
“But I guess we’ll help you. At least until something better comes along,” Jay conceded. “And we get to double-experience as well, because we’re already on the Find-Lord-Fabrio’s-Killer story as well.”
“Two birds with one stone.” Sari nodded.
“Outstanding,” Crusher sighed, trudging back the way they had come to the ruins of the fort. “You two can be the ones to speak to the Judgment then, if you’re so eager.”
“What?” both Jay and Dean said at the same time, hurrying after the marching shape of the dwarf.
“The Judgment are elves, right? This place is at least part elvish. The Lady of Efen is elvish. It seems the next logical step to at least ask them if they’ve got any plan for stopping her!” Crusher pointed out.
Chapter 18: The Real World, with a Thump
“Do I have to do this?” Dean said with all the enthusiasm of a man who knew that what came next was going to be difficult, and quite possibly painful.
“Yes, Dean, you really do have to do this,” Marcy said with a frown. She stood on the other end of the walking frame, with his medical-grade walking stick.
Dean Winters was in physical therapy, or at the end of his physical therapy session more accurately, and now Marcy wanted him to walk down the walking frame before he could get his stick, and then go outside.
“No pain, no gain, Dean!” the nurse said cheerfully.
“Sadist,” he muttered, heaving a heavy sigh. The walking frame was little more than a frozen floor escalator, or a stilled running machine – a long bed of slightly spongy vinyl with two handle rails on either side, about six meters long. Just looking at it made Dean feel helpless.
It’s not even the width of a road – why does it fill me with dread? he thought, although he already knew the answer: because it would hurt.
“And you want me to walk down this without using my stick or the rails?” Dean said uncertainly. Just like a normal person could do, a sarcastic corner of his mind told him.
“No stick,” the nurse agreed. “And you can only grab onto the rails if you think you’re gonna fall, got it? Grab them to stop yourself getting another injury, but nothing else.” Her tone was stern, and Dean thought he could see a fragment of Mirelle the powerful elvish ranger in there somewhere.
Not that I’ve seen one iota of her in the game, he reminded himself miserably. I should apologize. I was stupid, lashing out at her like that.
But Marcy – or Mirelle – hadn’t appeared at his side in any of his stories or training sessions in Aldaron. She hadn’t even sent him a message through the game network, and in real life she kept her conversation strictly to the everyday rehabilitation of his battered and bruised body. Dean wondered if she was regretting introducing him to the game.
“Come on Dean, just six meters and you get your stick back. Think of it like XP,” she said, swishing his stick in the air like it was a sword.
Yeah, XP. Dean grimaced. “About that, actually…”
“Ah!” A warning point with the cane. “Walk and talk. No avoiding.”
“I wasn’t avoiding it…” Dean started to say and stopped, suddenly aware he sounded like a child. Okay then, maybe I was. Step, he commanded himself, moving with his good foot first and instantly feeling that tight, red ache in his shattered knee behind him.
He winced, moving the other foot to lurch to his side. Argh! He bit his lips, but didn’t say anything.
“So far, so good, huh?” Marcy beamed at him.
“Yeah.” Dean however, did not sound as though he agreed. At all.
Step he thought again, moving out with his good foot and feeling his back leg wobble under the strain. Slowly, he eased his weight forward, and swung his bad leg around to plant it with all the seriousness of a sumo wrestler as pain lanced up the muscle.
“Hss!” This time he did make a noise; a painful hissing. It was like someone was driving a spike up the center of his leg every time his bad knee took any weight.
“Don’t think about it,” Marcy said (unhelpfully, Dean thought). “Think about something else. Talk to me as you walk. What did you want to say?”
“I, uh…” Step. Ow. Why does real life have to be so painful? Dean cursed. “It’s Aldaron.”
“Uh-huh?” A flicker of emotion from Marcy’s face that could have been anger or resignation, Dean wasn’t sure.
Step. “Ow. I wanted to say sorry. For what I said earlier,” Dean said in a rush. “For shouting at you, and telling you to back off.”
“That’s okay,” Marcy said with a shrug, but he could tell his words had hit home.
“No, it’s not.” Step. Ouch! “I know you’ve only been looking out for me since I came in here, and it was mean of me. I just lashed out.” Step.
“And…?” Marcy raised an eyebrow.
Step. Dean sighed. “And I was being stupid,” he said awkwardly. Step. “I guess it’s because I’ve always got by on my own, kind of. I didn’t want to know that I needed other people so badly, in the state that I am now…” Step.
“What state is that, Dean? Look how far you’ve come!” Marcy nodded to the vinyl mat, and Dean looked down to see he had already covered just over halfway. He had been so caught up in his emotions it had taken his mind off the pain of his knee.
“Woah,” he muttered to himself.
“See? Mind over matter. Not that I’m not going to give you some clinical painkillers as well, of course,” Marcy quickly assured him. “But this is a part of your recovery process. For both your body and your panic attacks,” she said, now smiling a little more openly. “I wanted to show you that the human mind is a powerful tool. The most powerful thing we’ve got…”
Dean nodded. “You sound pretty wise, Nurse Marcy.”
“I have my moments.” She flicked her hair, in what Dean could only think of as an adorable gesture. “Now keep on walking towards me, oh great and dangerous sorcerer,” she teased, and Dean gladly swung his leg around.
Step.
“Argh!” His knee locked up in a red ball of agony that made him stagger onto the railing, clutching at it as if he were a drowning man. “Damn it!” Dean shouted, tears in his eyes.
“Oh no, I was scared that might happen.” Marcy rushed to the side of the railing. “It’s the muscles around the side of your knee. If you don’t use them, they start to atrophy and tighten, that’s why we need to get you walking as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” Dean hissed through his teeth. “I can do this,” he tried to convince not only her, but himself. “Mind over matter, right?” The pain was so great he could barely focus on the ground in front of him, but he leaned over onto his good leg, and then swung his bad leg out, which was as stiff as a board and made him look vaguely like a lurching zombie.
Step. Mind over matter.
“Argh!” This time the pain was undeniable, and, as if it was angry at being annoyed, it drove Dean once again to slide down the railing. It’s no good, he found himself thinking as the nurse’s hands seized him expertly under the armpits and hoisted him backwards down the remaining walking mat to the waiting chair.
“There you go, Dean, I’m sorry… I should have realized you weren’t ready.”
I am ready! Dean cried out in his mind, although he knew that was a lie. His mind might be ready – but his body wasn’t anywhere near ready. I failed. I’m failing. It’s useless. Dean felt his ches
t grow tight once again as it hadn’t done since that episode in the detective’s office. His vision was darkening and narrowing to a pinpoint focus as he became aware only of his heart pounding like a dance tune, and his chest aching for breath.
Why can’t I breathe? He started to panic even more. Had the stress on his body been too much? Was he about to collapse? Have a fit? Have a heart attack?
“Hey, Dean. Slow breaths, remember? Normal breath in, slow breath out…” came Marcy’s voice, distant and muffled through the fog of panic.
But I am having a heart attack. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. I should be dead. Dean’s thoughts were a confused, traumatic whirl.
“You got this, Dean. You know all about this. It’s a panic attack, brought on by stress,” Marcy was saying, as a warm hand found his cold ones, and another rubbed his chest. “Normal breath in, slow breath out…” she repeated, like a sacred mantra, and Dean’s world started to take on a bit more focus once more. Colors returned, and with them the awareness of the warm, comforting young woman kneeling right in front of him.
She’s like an angel… Dean’s woozy, slightly trippy thoughts circled, as his eyes cleared on the sight of her large green eyes searching his, worried.
“You’re beautiful,” his mouth said, unthinking.
“What? Oh…” Marcy blinked, blushing a deep crimson as she started to smile, before straightening her mouth again. “Thank you, Dean,” she said in a slightly quieter voice, before clearing her throat and straightening her nurse’s outfit. A moment’s pause between them, young man and young woman, as each was aware precisely of the other’s movements.
Oh you idiot, Dean! He was blushing too. Why did you have to go and make things awkward? “I mean, I’m sorry…” Dean tried to say again.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s a very intense process, recovery…” Marcy was standing up, looking confused for a moment, before suddenly raising his walking stick like it was a trophy and swishing it in the air. “There. Your staff, Winters,” she said with a smile, leaning it carefully against the arm of the wheelchair he was currently lounged in. “I’ll uh, I’ll get you some pain killers and muscle relaxants for your knee…”
“Thank you,” Dean said, cringing at how pathetic his voice sounded. Now I really have gone and blown my friendship with her! he was in the middle of thinking when Nurse Marcy paused by the door to the occupational rehabilitation clinic.
“I guess this means you won’t mind if I see what trouble your character is getting up to in Aldaron?” Marcy said innocently.
“What? Uhm. Yes, actually – we really need a friendly elf about now!” Dean said.
“I can do that,” Marcy said with a crooked smile, and Dean got the impression she was teasing him.
Interlude III: The MicroBit
Ramesh woke up in his room, sweating and shaking. It was gloomy in here because he still hadn’t opened the curtains, but he could tell from the distant sounds of cars and voices outside that it was late in the day.
I suppose it doesn’t matter when I wake up… Ramesh groaned, rubbing his eyes and trying to ignore that shiver of old guilt at having slept the day away. Back when he worked for Odge Entertainment, he had been expecting to be at his desk at eight-thirty, every morning, and that meant leaving his high-tech apartment in the city just past seven if he wanted to avoid rush hour.
Old habits die too easily, he thought with a grimace, knowing it didn’t matter now. He didn’t have to go into work this morning, just like he didn’t need to go into work any morning.
Not since his accident.
Slowly, clumsily, he ran through the same old motions once again as he always did, getting washed and dressed for the useless day ahead of him, and trying to keep himself out of the game. His old, jury-rigged and retro-engineered VRM visor looked at him seductively from where he had thrown it at the end of the bed. Every day now it seemed there were more wires and patches of circuit board hanging from the edges of the helmet. It didn’t much look like a virtual reality visor anymore – more like a prop from a crazy sci-fi movie.
I guess that’s because my life has become the prop of a crazy sci-fi movie! Ramesh thought, looking at himself in the mirror. He had replaced his cargo pants for chinos, and he had even found a cleanish t-shirt and one of his old sweaters to throw over it. Apart from the dirty and torn sneakers, he almost looked normal. Almost.
But I gotta get this done… Ramesh packed his things with all the care of a cat in a pet shop. He left the bed untidy, the furniture wherever it lay, instead removing every clue of his handiwork and trade: no bits of solder, no chips, no cut-off nubs of wire. This could have been the trashed hotel room of a rockstar, not of a hacker-coder.
Feeling the electric fizz run through his body, bringing with it the squeal of tinnitus, Ramesh threw some pills down his throat, and waited for their calming effect to take hold. The ringing in his ears lessened somewhat, and his limbs stopped their shaking. I’m going to be okay, he told himself. As long as I keep on running.
He left the room, carrying his duffel bag with his spare (dirty) clothes and his VRM kit, moving quickly to the elevator. He twitched nervously as it descended. The doors pinged open and he hurried across the lobby to the bright Los Angeles sunlight outside.
“Oh, Mr. Jackson?” Someone from the desk had to repeat twice before Ramesh Naipur realized that was the fake name he had used on his room. Steve Jackson, one of the earliest roleplaying games designers there was, he had a moment of self-congratulation, as he turned.
“Yes?” He tried to sound calm, and in control – rather than the quaking, aching mess he felt.
“Did you enjoy your stay? Would you care to fill out one of our customer satisfaction surveys?” the pretty blonde behind the desk was saying.
Phew. “Oh, thank you, I did enjoy my stay – but I’ve got to run, I have an appointment…” Ramesh said quickly, turning to stumble into the glare of the street outside.
*
The light of the harsh Californian sun hurt his eyes as Ramesh Naipur – or Steve Jackson – hurried to his destination. A little cyber café off Fourteenth and Alvarez which he knew didn’t have CCTV. The hacker couldn’t afford to spend too long in places with CCTV cameras.
That’s one of the ways they could track me down, he thought, casting nervous glances at the street lights and telephone masts at the intersections. Even when he was being careful, there were still a lot of surveillance cameras in Los Angeles these days.
But MicroBit was an exception to that rule; an out-of-the-way old-time cyber café and hang-out spot that barely made ends meet but attracted its own degenerate crowd of teenagers avoiding school. Ramesh quite liked it, because it reminded him of his youth, skipping out on the boring lessons like math, science, and physical education (he had already aced all of his math and science papers anyway) in order to play Dungeon or Doom.
“What’s your poison?” said the proprietor, a skinny man with shaved sides but long hair, and a t-shirt for some obscure Korean anime.
“Just computer access, please,” Ramesh said.
“Sorry bro, but there’s a compulsory purchase with every session. It’s the difference between making a break and going bankrupt for us,” the guy said with apparent disinterest. He’d probably had to explain this to customers many times before.
“Okay. Plain black Americano. Extra sugar,” Ramesh said.
“Your wish is my command,” the man said dryly. “I’ll bring it over. You get an hour, and then you either buy another coffee or pay for extra time.”
Ramesh nodded his thanks, choosing one of the sleek terminals to one side of the room – away from the laughing and shouting teenagers playing Death-Match: Overload! Instead, he picked one of the more sedate consoles. Let everyone think I’m just another harried freelancer, Ramesh thought to himself, shaking the mouse to boot up the system.
The MicroBit logo twirled and faded, leaving a desktop with only the ba
re minimum of apps. But she has internet access, thank God, Ramesh thought, opening up the window and then navigating his way to his pop3 email account.
Login successful!
Like most professional code-junkies, Ramesh had a very specific set of apps he used personally, and his mail client was no different. Hushmail encrypted all of his outgoing messages and scrubbed itself from the DNS server every time he logged in and out. It was the only way he had found to keep in touch with the people he needed to keep in touch with, and also not get caught. He navigated past the league of unread messages and notifications to the private webchat interface inside the mail client.
Electra: Contact?
Chat Initiated.
Red: Electra. We need to talk….
Ramesh waited, looking over his shoulder at the glass into the bright sunlight outside. People walked past, cars moved down the street, no cops came bursting in the door. No sirens.
Red: Electra. Are you there?
Electra: Red! Holy space-balls, it’s you? I thought they’d iced you.
Red: Not yet, E~
Electra: Word is you’ve annoyed the WRONG people, Red?
Red: Just like always. Look. This is about what we were talking about. Before.
Electra: The crystals?
Red: Yep. I got it. Or I got one, anyway, it’s—
Electra: Whaaaaaaaaaaat!!!!!!!!!
Red: —just the Green one. I need to know how to open it—
“Hey dude, here’s your coffee,” said the owner, suddenly looming behind him and making him jump.
“Oh right, yeah. Thanks,” Ramesh said hurriedly, trying to not sound completely guilty and failing, as the owner looked at him funny.
“Now, you’re not looking at anything naughty are you, mister?” The owner gave him the stink-eye. “Because we got internal server security, you know…”
Ramesh heard the rise of sniggering voices from the teenagers on the other side of the room. Great, just great. “No, nothing naughty – just my emails.”
“Right. Yeah, whatever.” The Korean anime fan shrugged and wandered back to his coffee desk, as Ramesh sighed.
Tales of the Gemsmith Page 17
