Authors: B. R. Collins
Gamerunner (14 page)
‘Right,’ one of the men said. ‘Let’s go.’
They lifted him half off his feet and half carried, half dragged him towards the door. Rick went limp. There was no point fighting. If he didn’t fight, maybe they wouldn’t hit him again.
But they went on hitting him anyway.
He’s looking at himself.
At first he thinks it’s a dream. Or is he in the Maze, a part of the Maze he’s never seen before? It’s strange, dead silent and still. He’s in a chair, but it’s made of glass or something transparent, so it looks as if he’s sitting in mid-air. Behind him an infinite gleaming tunnel stretches away, the perspective finally squashing it to nothing. He can’t move. Even his fingers are spread out flat, rigid. He can feel them, but they won’t respond to his brain. After a while he thinks there’s something holding him down: a layer of something invisible and unyielding. He’s vacuum-packed, like a ready-meal. All he can do is blink.
He’s looking at himself.
His hair is longer than it should be. His face is damaged but healing. His expression is blank. He looks —
Dear gods, I’m
dead
, he thinks. I’m looking at myself
dead.
What if this is —
Water rises in his eyes, as he feels a wave of panic; and then relief. He’s not dead, after all. The face in front of him is wet-eyed, but the tears are here, too, blurring his vision. He’s
here
; the boy in front of him is only a reflection, a mirror —
A mirror. He’s disorientated, that’s all. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get rid of the disembodied feeling. Then he opens them again, trying to understand where he is.
He’s looking at a corridor of infinite rooms. There must be infinite Ricks, too, behind the one he can see; but the angle is so exact that they’re hidden.
His head won’t turn, but he looks as far sideways as he can. More mirrors on both sides. A cell of mirrors.
One-way mirrors, presumably. He opens his mouth — surprising himself — and says, ‘Daed? Daed, what’s going on?’
His voice is the first thing that really frightens him. It’s not his own. He can’t get enough air to make the right noise.
The sound dies, swallowed by the walls.
No one answers.
He tries to move. He can’t.
He says, ‘Daed? I know you’re there. Please talk to me. Please . . .’
After a while he says, ‘Anyone . . . ?’
Time blurs. He thinks he can see his hair growing. He’s thirsty.
He says, ‘Please . . . I need to go to the toilet. Please.’
He says, ‘I don’t know what you’re doing. Daed, please, if you’re punishing me . . . I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt that Security guard, I only wanted to get out of the complex, I’m so sorry. Please let me out. Please. Please say something. Anyone. Whoever’s there. Please, just a word. Please.’
He says, ‘Anyone. Please. Anything. I’m sorry.’
He cries.
He says, ‘Daed, please tell me you’re there, please, please, please.’ He says
please
so many times he can’t remember if it’s a word or just the only sound he can make. He swears at his reflection, shouting. Then he cries again. He apologises. He begs for someone to let him out, for five minutes, for three minutes, thirty seconds, just to go to the toilet.
He promises to do anything, if only someone will let him out.
He promises to do anything if only they’ll speak to him.
He watches his reflection wet himself. After a while the warm wetness on his skin starts to prickle and itch and go cold.
He cries. He watches himself cry. He stops crying and just stares.
The next time he needs the loo he doesn’t bother to ask.
He thinks he might have died, after all.
He counts in his head. He lists prime numbers. He fights the voice in his brain that says: No one’s going to let you out, ever.
They’ve forgotten you.
No one’s even
there
.
No one’s going to let you out,
ev
—
He thinks: Shut up. It’s a punishment. Daed’s orders, the Security men said. It can’t go on for ever. They’ll let me out soon.
But what if —
They’re there. They are. They’re just behind the mirrors.
A blank grey cushion of panic presses into his nose and mouth, making it hard for him to breathe. And he can’t move. He’s terrified. If he panics . . . If he can’t move, the only thing that can give way is his brain.
I won’t panic. I won’t. Two hundred and forty-one. Two hundred and fifty-one. Two hundred and fifty-seven.
I can’t move. I can’t move. I can’t
move
—
Two hundred and sixty-three. No, that divides by three. No, it
is
prime. Two hundred and — I can’t move,
I can’t move —
two hundred and sixty-nine. Oh gods, I can’t move,
I can’t move, I can’t, I can’t
—
Two hundred and —
Two hundred and —
If no one’s even
there
—
You can’t do this to me, Daed, please, you can’t. I thought you loved me —
His reflection opens its mouth.
Rick thinks: This is it. I’m going to scream.
But he doesn’t.
He says, ‘Daed. Daed, if you’re there . . . I heard you. What you said to Perdita. The thing you needed . . . I’ve got it. I found it. Let me out.’
Silence.
He says, ‘Get a message to Daed. Tell him I’ve got it. Tell him I was there, and I’ve got it. Tell him . . .’
He looks into his own eyes. If this doesn’t work . . .
His voice is rising. He has to fight to breathe. He says, ‘Immortality. He said he wanted immortality. Well, tell him I can give it to — tell him — I found it, I can — please, Daed —’
He waits for an answer.
Nothing.
He shuts his eyes and feels the tears rolling down his face, the air rasping and changing gears in his throat. He thought it might work, he really thought . . . but now . . . he sobs aloud.
Then he starts to scream, until his throat burns.
Until —
There’s a noise, like a door.
Daed’s voice says, ‘OK, Rick.’
And then there’s a kind of coldness on his skin, and the smell of surgical spirit, and there are hands helping him up, gentle hands, and when he opens his eyes Daed is in front of him, and Rick can’t stop crying, but now it’s only relief, and anger. And Daed touches his face gently, and says something, and Rick wants to hit him but he’s too weak, he can hardly stand up on his own, and then Daed puts his arms round him, and he’s never done that before, and Rick lets himself lean into Daed’s chest. He smells smoke and something rotten, something old; but he’s happy. He leans against Daed’s warm shirt and hugs him back. And even after everything, he thinks: It’s all right. It’s going to be all right, it’s going to be all right.
Part 3
He let Daed take him out of the door, through the grey-dark antechamber, and along corridor after corridor of silver-white. His eyes hurt. Daed put his arm around his shoulder and helped him to walk. It was like he’d been ill: everything was a little bit unreal, a little bit painful. He didn’t want to think about the cell, and the chair, and the stuff on his skin that paralysed him; but that was OK, because he couldn’t think straight anyway.
Daed said, ‘Come on, then. Walk, that’s right. Good boy.’
Rick opened his mouth and said, I’m not a kid. He said, Thank you, you rescued me, I couldn’t bear it. He said, Wait, but they said, the Security guys, they said it was you, your orders . . . But none of it came out. Just his breath, smelling foul.
The corridors went on for so long he started to be afraid that it was just another part of his punishment; or that it was a nightmare, and he hadn’t woken up. He looked at the doors as they went past and thought: If every room has someone in it . . .
Daed said, ‘OK, nearly there.’ There was a thick metal gate, a comms panel that took longer than normal to read Daed’s hand, and then they were through. Rick looked round and saw soft lighting and marble tiles and plants in pots and a twisting column of water that ran from ceiling to floor. He would have been sure he was dreaming, if he wasn’t freezing. But no, it was all real. His clothes had bloody patches on them where the Security men had hit him. His bare feet stuck to the floor and made a sucking noise every time he lifted them. He could smell his own urine.
They took the lift. Rick wanted to stand on his own, but his ankles seemed to be made of some squashy material, like the handcuffs, and he couldn’t keep upright. He held on to the wall. Daed gave him a quick look and rested a hand on his shoulder, lightly, ready to support him if he needed it.
The lift went up and up, making him feel sick. Then they were on the twentieth floor, and Daed was helping him out of the lift, like he was an old man. He wanted to cry again, because Daed had never been like this. Kind, like this. He could have told Security to take Rick back to his room; but he didn’t. He was here, himself, making sure Rick was OK. They shuffled awkwardly towards Rick’s door, out of step, and Rick felt an unlikely, ludicrous wave of gratitude. He held his hand up to the comms panel and waited to be let in.
The door opened; but Daed’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and they didn’t go in. Daed said, ‘You said you could get me Asterion.’
Rick almost said, Yes. But something made him wait, just for a second. He looked down. He saw Daed’s hand, still on his shoulder. He saw the tendons tighten, very slightly, as Daed waited for him to answer.
His stomach churned again, like it had in the lift. The happiness clicked out of existence like a light. It left a dark blot where it had been.
And he knew, clearly, without any doubt, that Daed had rescued him for that. And nothing else. For Asterion. For Perdita’s densely-written code, for immortality.
Not because I cried, he thought. Not because I couldn’t bear it. Not because I begged and wet myself. Just because . . .
He looked into Daed’s eyes, and somehow there was a part of him still screaming in that cell, twenty-five storeys below. He hadn’t escaped, after all.
He said, ‘Yes. I stole the file from Perdita’s workshop.’ His voice grated and trembled like the power supply was on the blink. But the words were recognisable, just.
‘You’re sure? Where is it? Are you
absolutely sure
?’
Rick watched the skinny, clever-fingered hand on his shoulder. It tightened again, until it hurt. The nails were shiny. They dug into Rick’s skin.
He looked through his open door. The door beyond had been left open. There was a stain on the carpet, and a long scuff-mark along the wall that he didn’t remember making; but apart from that it was familiar, it was as he’d left it. And the file was on his bed, where he’d frisbee’d it, when he’d come in, that afternoon, whenever it was . . . No one had touched it. And why should they? Only Daed knew what it was. Daed, and Perdita.
Rick said, ‘It’s there, Daed. On the bed.’
Daed’s hand released his shoulder. Rick took a step forward, but he couldn’t keep his balance, and Daed pushed past without helping him. He reeled and leant against the wall of the entry hall, feeling desperately sick. Daed ignored him. He was already standing by Rick’s bed; he flipped the file open and started to read, instantly absorbed. His face had a look like someone discovering they could fly. The moment when they took off.
He’s not dying any more, Rick thought. That’s the difference.
He thought: But —
immortality
?
Not even Daed, surely . . . ? Not even Perdita . . .
Daed glanced up, finally. He said, ‘Rick . . . you should have a shower and go to bed. And get some food sent up, OK? You look terrible.’ Then he carried on reading.
As if I had a late night, Rick thought. Or as if I’ve been a bit under the weather.
He wanted to grab the file and skim it through the archway into the swimming pool. He imagined the ink dissolving and swirling up to the surface, the pages drifting down to the bottom, blank. He said, ‘Daed — the Security guys who took me down, they said it was on your ord—’
Daed shut the file and strode past him, towards the door. ‘Get some rest, all right?’
‘It was you, they said it was —’
‘Yes,’ Daed said. ‘My orders. Although if I hadn’t, Paz would’ve done. It wasn’t just a punishment. I wanted you to be scared.’
‘I was.’ Rick wanted to laugh at the understatement.
Daed looked over his shoulder. His eyes rested on Rick’s face. He didn’t say anything.
‘The man I — the Security man that I knocked down . . . Is he —?’
‘He’ll live,’ Daed said. ‘Probably.’