Authors: B. R. Collins
Gamerunner (26 page)
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.
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 . . .
He pulled at the nearest canister, and as he tried to get hold of it the metal slid under his hands and the labels came into view. Corrosive, poisonous, highly inflammable. Excellent. He picked it up, and heard the salts shifting about inside. This one had already been opened, so he took it into the studio and tipped the salts out on to the floor, making sure he scattered it around a bit. That should help the fire get going.
He piled the other canisters in his bedroom, a few ems from the studio doorway. He was afraid it looked a bit calculated, so he kicked them, afterwards, and found a few more bits and pieces to chuck into the pool. The shark had seen the pillow and was nosing at the glass, as high as it could go. When it saw Rick’s shirt sinking to the bottom, the arms waving, it flicked its tail and moved towards it. It looked purposeful, hungry; Rick had to remind himself that it wasn’t real. He crouched and wiped his face with some of the pool water, trying to get the sting of chemicals out of his nostrils. It was worse than the smell of rain. Tears ran down his face and dripped into the pool, and every time he blinked his eyes felt full of pepper. Gods, he’d better be careful, when he started the fire . . .
It was dark outside; he hadn’t noticed, but suddenly there was a clear, white light shining in through the window. He looked up, and there was a disc of silver slipping sideways through a gap in the clouds. At first he thought it was some kind of ship. Then he thought: The moon.
Had he ever seen moonlight before? Real moonlight, not in the Maze? He didn’t know. He’d never noticed, never cared. It wasn’t like sunlight; it didn’t make his spirits lift. But it made him feel cool, sure, fatalistic. Now, somehow, he wasn’t afraid of anything.
It was like a code word.
Moonlight
.
Let’s go.
He got up, letting his shoulders sag, like he was tired, finally defeated, like he was wondering how the hell he was going to explain
this
to Housekeeping tomorrow. He made sure he didn’t glance at the hidcams.
He slouched past his bed, dragging his feet. He looked for a long time at the bare mattress; then rubbed his forehead, and made his way through the doorway to the studio. It all felt stupid, so exaggerated he could hardly believe they hadn’t come to interrogate him already. But no one came.
And there was the iTank; innocent, going silver under his touch, like a pet wanting to be stroked. And when he opened the door and went in, it said to him,
Hello, Rick
.
Thank gods it wasn’t connected to the Maze; he wasn’t barred. He could still use the demo.
He took a deep breath. Was everything ready, outside? He ran through it in his mind, trusting that there weren’t any hidcams in here — or that if there were, no one would think it was odd for him to stop and close his eyes. The greasy paper and the poster, where the flame should start; and the cigarette lighter, ready to melt and catch fire, ready to explode and spit burning lighter fluid everywhere. The sheets, draped in a loose curve, to give the flames room to breathe . . . the scattered chemical salts, the scented bath oil. He thought: Well, at least it should smell nice.
And I need to be in the tank long enough for the wires to overheat. Until it malfunctions. The same as last time.
Just the
idea
of the malfunction made his skin crawl. But it wasn’t the same malfunction that had killed Daed: it was only the wiring on this iTank, just the wiring. Nowhere near as bad . . . Anyway, he’d survived it before, and there was no reason why it should be any worse this time. Except that he’d be expecting it, of course — but that might make it easier. You never knew.
Oh, gods . . .
But it was too late to change his mind now. Just stay logged in, he thought. Just until it overheats. Then you leave the tank, you pretend not to notice the flames, you collapse on the bed like you’re feeling ill — and you wait. Got it?
Of course I’ve got it, you prat, I
thought
of it. Stop talking to me like I’m thick.
He opened his eyes, half grinning, in spite of himself.
He said, ‘Open demo, please.’
Night, in the ruins.
Rick stands where he is and looks round, wondering if he’ll ever see it again. The moonlight glints off pen-and-ink trees, shines through the gaps in the walls. The thin flags of clouds in the west are blazing at the upper edges, silvery and soft below. The rest of the sky is deep uncompromising black, sprinkled with stars. The ruins are silhouettes.
Rick thinks: It’s as though someone took death and made it beautiful, made it a place you could live in.
Daed understood death, then.
How could they think that the party decorations even came
close
?
But then, that’s the point, isn’t it? That’s what they do. They take real life and make a shoddy version of it, an easier version, to suck you in.
Not that this
is
real life, of course.
He realises, suddenly, that he must still be a bit drunk. It’s not the most reassuring thought he’s ever had.
And the sky soars above him, the clouds low and long, the stars cold and fiery. It’s freezing; Rick shivers.
Come on. Pull yourself together. Remember why you’re here.
So the demo environment does change in real time, then. He tries to be interested in that, but it’s not easy.
He waits.
He takes a few steps forward, a few steps back, trying to get rid of the cramping feeling that’s started to come into his forehead. Any moment now . . . but the malfunction doesn’t come.
He thinks: If it doesn’t come, at all, ever . . . oh damn, I
will
have to explain the mess to Housekeeping tomorrow. He giggles, weakly.
But he needs the malfunction. He’s dreading it; but if it
doesn’t
come . . .
What did I do before? he thinks. Setting fire to things. Flying. He doesn’t have the heart for that, now. He runs his hands over his scalp, feeling the prickle of growing hair. Moonlight and ruins, he thinks. The last leaves, clinging to the branches. Silver. Oh, for gods’ sake, I don’t
care
, just get on with it . . .
He sets his gaze on the tree that’s growing out of the wall. He likes it. It’s the nicest tree he’s ever seen.
He thinks: Burn, burn,
burn
. He imagines gold and red bursting into this black-and-white world. Fire; the fire that will be his way out. Go on, please. Burn. Fire that will translate into real fire, somewhere.
He closes his eyes; but it isn’t the tree he sees, it’s the wire. He sees plastic — melting, bubbling a little — and a tiny cushion of flame inflating around the copper. He tries to think of the tree, but he can’t. Just the wire. It has to catch fire, it
has
to. Please.
He smells smoke. When he opens his eyes the little hanging tree is blazing. He laughs, watching it. And then looks at the other trees, focuses on them, and sets them alight too. Magic. He’s going to miss this.
And then —
The malfunction —
Black and shining, like a bullet in the head —
No — please no this is worse this shouldn’t be as —
Gods —
This is no this
no
black not black dark like fire burning the inside a brain sucked out through — hole in the universe this is — how Daed died like this is it — please please log out log out log —
‘Log out — log out — log
out —
’
And thank gods he’s said it. Thank gods.
It’s stopped. He’s back. He takes a deep breath.
The iTank is white and flashing red. He can’t stand straight.