“So…” Winters coughed, clearing his throat. “What’s the deal with these crystals then? How do they help to pay back Odge?”
“Aha, I thought you’d never ask, Dean.” Red smiled wanly.
He used my real name. He knows my real name, Winters thought once more.
“The Ouroborax were supposed to be just hero-level magical items, right? But Odge realized that instead of having firewalls around their rarest files, or passwords, they already had the world’s largest random-number generator right at their fingertips: Aldaron itself. They called that code the Ouroborax,” Red said.
“Odge have split up their security code, calling it the Ouroborax Crystals, and have hidden it throughout the game of Aldaron, thinking that no one could ever hope to get their hands on all five pieces…. In those early days, I tried to hack Aldaron directly, to download the proof I need, and to send out a global message to all users to get their heads checked, but the Controllers rewrote the system on me, using these crystals to do it.”
“So, they’re like physical bits of code?” Winters looked at the Green Ouroborax in his hand.
“Well, virtual, but yeah,” Red said. “It’s ingenious, really – because they move around in the game, it means they’re changing directory and file locations all the time. They’re hidden in character inventories, or in scene descriptions, or in a monster’s loot. No hacker could hope to track them down from outside, unless they get into the game and find them virtually, in here.”
“And inside the game, the Controllers can get at them, kill them off with monsters,” Dean pointed out.
“Precisely,” the Red Hand said. “It’s like triple-layers of security. You have to know what you’re looking for, you have to come into the game to find them, you have to activate them virtually — like I did by plunging it into the lake – and then you have to unlock the code inside.”
“Great.” Crusher groaned. “So, what happens when you use all of the crystals?”
“You can’t use them all at once – I think that would kill your character!” Red laughed. “In the game, they give you almost god-level powers over each domain. So, the Green allows you to summon and control plants, right? The Red allows you to control and summon fire, and so on… But when you activate them, you also get to unlock one part of the security code keeping the entirety of Odge secure.”
“What do you mean by unlocking them?” Dean said, frowning. “Isn’t that what you did when you plunged it into the sacred lake and rebooted the game?”
Red shook his head. “No. That’s the activation. That’s the game accepting the key. Like an admin password. But in order to get at the code, you have to unlock each crystal as well. If I can crack all five – find all the crystals, that is – I’ll be able to use the Ouroborax code to get straight into the Odge mainframe and download the information we need. I’ll be able to message all the kids of Aldaron about this cover-up, even. I plan to steal every cent they’ve made from playing Odge, and I intend to return it to the families of all of the people who have died or are in comas because of them.”
“Wow,” Winters said. “That is… That is incredibly noble of you.”
“Well, that will include me as well, right?” Red joked, but even here in the game his avatar sounded tense and nervous. For a moment, Winters was suddenly pleased he wasn’t having this conversation in person.
“But seriously,” Red continued, “this is where I have to lay it all down on the line. I have a bit of my old patching and modding skills – I’ve changed my own prototype VRM visor so I can teleport in and out of the game, but every time I do anything, the Odge Controllers tighten up the security again…” He grimaced.
“Hang on a minute.” Crusher frowned. “So, this story we’re following —The Lady of Efen, the Ouroborax Crystals – is that all you?”
“I nudged you into it, but no – it’s not all me. The Lady of Efen is a legacy story, a really old one back from the early days of the game, which I have managed to revive, because it points to the crystals.”
The Lady of Efen talked to me in my personal space, Winters wanted to say, but didn’t because he was sure that would make him sound crazy. Instead, he licked his lips nervously and hesitated. “The Lady herself…. Who wrote her? What is she capable of?”
“I think she was like an Archon character, right at the start – just a wandering monster.” Red shrugged. “It’s annoying, because basically we’re after the same thing she is, and she’s powerful, but I think we can avoid her.”
Maybe you can, Winters frowned. But the Lady of Efen that I talked to in the game reboot – the one with the white eyes – she didn’t seem like a monster at all. If anything, she seemed like one of the good guys, he thought.
“But this story is the most direct way to get to the crystals. And that, Dean, is where I need you…” Red looked at him expectantly.
“Me? What can I do?” Winters took a step back.
“You’re the Gemsmith. You have the power to rework these gems. I need you to repair each one in your laboratory, unlocking it,” Red said.
“But how on earth do I do that!?” Winters burst out. “I know nothing about writing computer code!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll teach you – and it’s all in what you do, anyway. The way you work with these crystals in the game automatically repairs their code. Just with a tweak here and there, and we’ll be one key closer to wresting control of Aldaron from the Controllers, and breaking Odge wide open,” the bandit said enthusiastically. “Think of it this way: every Ouroborax we can get you to work on, we can steal back more of the game from the Controllers!”
Across from them, Jay started to smile. It was a fierce, wolfish grin. “Now that sounds more like it. Locking them out of their own game?” She nodded.
“Our game.” Red returned her grin. “That’s what Aldaron always was, remember. It was ours. Us weird kids and gamers – not theirs.”
“Yeah.” Jay nodded, and Crusher and Sari did, too.
Only the artificer-sorcerer at the back seemed out of place in his stillness. Winters was frowning deeply. This is big, he thought to himself. I only wanted to use Aldaron to get better. To get back on my feet. But now the others were asking him to take part in fighting some global digital conspiracy.
I’m just a crippled jeweler, what can I do? he thought.
“Look, guys. This is great and all – but I need to get some time out for a moment. Real life, you know…” Winters was shaking his head.
“Winters – no!” Crusher was looking at him, alarmed. “We need you. Did you hear what Red said here? He needs you – he more or less wrote you into this story!” The dwarf’s voice was urgent. “It’s like being a hero. A real hero this time, not a pretend one…”
“Yeah, sure,” Winters said uneasily, not convincing anyone as he reached up with his hand, and made the gesture that signaled he wanted to exit.
Quit Game? Y.
Chapter 23: Real Life Reboot
“To be honest Dean, that sounds amazing,” Marcy said, after Dean had finally tracked her down to one of the nurses’ rooms where she was busy reordering linen and boxes of gloves.
He had exited out of the game, half-scared that Marcy had been right and that the hospital had suffered some sort of powercut. But all he found was that it was late evening, and the hospital had turned over into its night rhythms. It was still busy, but the lights were muted, and there was a slight aura of calm in the occupational rehabilitation unit.
Gritting his teeth against the pain every step of the way, Dean hadn’t hesitated in pushing himself from his bed, and using his sticks to stagger and lurch his way out of his room to find his friend.
Luckily, Marcy wasn’t that far down the hallway, and she had made him sit down as she worked, listening to his story of everything that had happened inside the game.
“No, really, Dean – this sounds like it’s something important,” Marcy said seriously. “If we can trust this
Red Hand guy, that is…”
Winters swallowed nervously. “You think we can’t trust him?”
No, I’m not saying that. It’s clear he has some kind of Controller’s powers, from the way he just zaps in and out like that. All I’m saying is you don’t know him, yet,” Marcy pointed out. She opened her mouth to say something else but shut it again.
“What? Out with it, elf!” Dean tried a wan smile, but it turned into a yawn.
“Look, you’re asleep. You should get some rest first, and we can talk about it in the morning.” Marcy put a gentle hand on his shoulder for just a brief moment.
“But what about Red? He might not have until morning!” Winters said, feeling alarmed. He wasn’t sure if he meant inside the game or out of it, before realizing it could be both.
“I’m sure if he was at death’s door then he wouldn’t be running around the game now, would he?” Marcy’s frown deepened. She stood back and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s just … I’m worried for you, Dean, you and all the others, Crusher, even those bimbos Jay and Sari.”
Bimbos? Why would Mirelle think the explorer and the enchanter are bimbos? Dean wondered, completely puzzled.
“But I’m especially worried about you, Dean. Look at the state of you, struggling down the corridor to find me and tell me this when you should be resting. This isn’t just about Odge and some hacker, it’s also about you, Dean Winters. You need to heal up first, before you start taking on any battles for other people.”
Winters felt a flash of annoyance. How could Marcy be so selfish on his behalf? “But Marcy – this is a scandal that people have died in. Innocent people. What if there was something we could do to help them?”
“Us?” Marcy looked sadly down at her own uniform. “I don’t know if you noticed, Dean, but I’m no superhero. I’m just a nurse.”
“You’re a pretty powerful Elvish Druid, as well, from what I recall.” Dean attempted a nervous smile, even as he had to admit to having many of the same doubts as she did.
I’m just a cripple. I’m useless. I’m a nobody, the words kept going around and around in his head every time he tried to think straight. He had been a pretty good artist once, able to craft things of rare beauty in this world – but now? I lost even that. He flexed his hands on his walking stick, feeling how one of them was still stiff and ached around the knuckles.
“Maybe you’re right,” he sighed heavily, moving to stand up. “Who am I kidding, right? I’m just another homeless schmuck – not a hero.” He made to turn out of the storeroom, and behind him Marcy’s face fell in aghast realization at what her words of caution had done. Crushed the man’s spirit.
“Dean, wait…” she said quickly, catching his shoulder and making him wobble painfully. “Ah, sorry. Just leave it with me for a moment, will you? Let me make some enquiries with some of the medical people I know. See if I can uncover any truth to what this Red guy is saying about the early Odge experiments with VRM.”
“But what about the game? If I log in tomorrow, it will be straight back to the Red Hand’s hide-out with the others,” Dean said.
“Well, luckily I have some news for you, sailor,” the nurse attempted a quirky, upbeat tone, despite their serious conversation. “Tomorrow you have a date with the real world!”
Great. Dean thought, as his knee throbbed in pain.
*
The next day’s “date” with the real world wasn’t, however, anything that Dean would have called romantic, even if it was exceedingly memorable.
“This is … it?” Dean looked around the bare, one-room apartment he was standing in, beside Marcy and his real-world friend, Paul Vincetti.
“Hey, it’s better than a slap in the face,” said Paul, looking harried.
Why do you have to be so snarky? Dean frowned a little. This was the first time he had managed to shake Paul out of his life to even see him since that time when he had a panic attack. Somehow, Marcy had managed to get his number and called him to rendezvous here, Dean realized, watching as the nurse opened the doors and cupboards and started snooping around. She really is nice, he thought, feeling a flush of embarrassment. A much better friend than Paul, he had to concede.
“Well, it’s got a bed, a kitchenette, central heating, a table, bathroom…” Paul listed off the things in the apartment as if they were great treasures.
They’re not, Dean thought. Believe me, I’ve seen treasure.
“We had less back in our college days,” Paul shrugged, moving to the window to tug at the yellowing blinds. Outside, the narrow San Maria street buzzed with traffic, clearly audible even through the double-glazing. “Looks like the City came through, huh?” Paul turned around with a grin, which faltered when he saw Dean’s scowl.
The City Welfare Department had come through it seemed – offering him this basic apartment as ‘emergency housing’ whilst he was still categorized as an ‘at risk’ individual.
Which won’t be forever. Dean turned away from his friend, hiding his sense of shame and frustration. “I’ll only get this place until – what was it you said earlier, Marcy?” Dean asked the woman, who was still rooting around in the cupboards.
“Hey look – I found someone’s old bong!” Marcy laughed, pulling the glass sculpture out of where it had been concealed behind a stack of rusting pots and pans.
“Great.” Dean scowled even deeper.
“Eight points on the movement chart, and you’re at seven,” Marcy said, shoving the curious item back where she had found it. “At seven points, I get to release you out onto the unsuspecting public, but at eight, you’re no longer deemed disabled for the City Council standards.”
“And I would lose this place, and become homeless again?” Dean groaned. This whole setup is just awful. Terrible. He would be here a few months tops, and somehow he would have to find money for a deposit on an ‘official’ place in the meantime. He explained the dilemma to the pair of them, ending on a hammer of panic. “How am I going to do that?”
A moment of silence passed between his friends, before Paul broke it. “You’ll get there, bro. You’re clever. You’re skilled.”
“What, with this hand?” Dean raised the one still in its ‘therapeutic glove’ as it was called, all blue vinyl with straps and padding stretching from his wrist all the way to his fingers.
“You could do Michael Jackson impersonations,” Paul offered with his regular who-cares humor.
“Not funny, Paul,” Dean growled. “You know what I mean. I need to get my store back. Or just a workshop. I need to get my tools, my equipment, buy in more supplies…”
Dean felt his heart hammer stronger in his chest, and a roar in his ears that could have been the sea, if they were anywhere near the coast.
Blood pressure spikes. Accompanied tinnitus and headaches. Dean tried to think through the list of symptoms. All symptoms of a panic attack. Name the problem, recognize it, deal with it, he recalled from his therapy sessions.
“Dean…?” It was Marcy at his side, gently touching his elbow with her hand. “You okay?” she asked softly. “You got this, remember. You’re in control.”
“I am in control,” Dean managed to gasp, even though it felt like his chest was constricting as if a boa snake was wrapped around him. “I. Am. In. Control.”
Just breathe. Don’t think about how hopeless it all is. How useless I am, now.
“Goddamn…” he heard Paul say as if from a great distance, muted and echoing at the end of a tunnel. There was a whispered conversation between the two which Dean couldn’t hear, as he was busy trying to perform his breathing exercises. Very gradually, the world started to lose its blurry edges, and reality returned to its usual, crisp-edged state.
Somehow, Dean had managed to find himself sitting on the bed (which was lumpy) as he controlled his panic attack, and before him, the nurse and his friend continued arguing.
“This could be a long-term condition. He needs some support!
” Marcy was saying, her eyes flashing as she glared at Paul.
“I know, and I hear what you’re saying, Nurse – but I can’t have him around my kid like that! What if… I don’t know, what if…”
Oh yeah, Dean thought. Paul and his wife had a baby not so long ago.
“What if what, Mr. Vincetti? It’s just a panic attack – it’s not infectious!” Marcy hissed angrily.
Paul glared back. Dean had never known his larger, more handsome, quick-tongued friend to back down from a good fight.
“Wait, it’s okay.” Dean breathed, his voice quavering only a little. “I wouldn’t want to stress your family out by being there,” Dean heard himself say.
There goes that hope, he thought, swallowing the feeling of anger and upset. He didn’t realize how much he had been hoping Paul would offer him a place in his spare room until he got back on his feet – they were best friends, weren’t they?
But no. Dean knew he wouldn’t take it, even if it was offered. His friend had changed, and not just in the fact he was now a family man. Maybe he was always like this, Dean regarded his friend kindly, but sadly. And I was just too much of a wuss to see it.
“There you go, see – he doesn’t even want to live with us!” Paul rounded on Marcy, who just shook her head in disgust.
“I’m going to assess those stairs, see if this place is suitable at all…” she muttered, pausing at the apartment door to nod towards Dean. “You going to be okay for a minute while I do this assessment?” she asked. “If you need, I have meds in my bag…”
“No. I’m all good,” Dean said from the bed, even as he hugged his chest. It still felt tender, which he thought odd, as the thudding in his ears had gone, and the sense of suffocation had only been in his head. “Thanks.”
“It’s what I’m here for.” Marcy shot Paul a venomous look, before sweeping out of the room.
“Woah. She’s a real firebrand, ain’t she?” Paul laughed off their argument, making Dean instantly feel annoyed.
“She’s good. She cares,” Dean pointed out.
Tales of the Gemsmith Page 23
