Authors: B. R. Collins
Gamerunner (3 page)
‘All right? Get up.’ Daed walked to the window and stood there, smoking, watching his reflection. ‘And you need to shave your head.’
Rick rubbed his hand over his scalp, feeling the hair prickle against his palm. ‘Yes, I know. Daed . . .’
‘Now. Do it now.’
Slowly he swung his legs over the side of the bed, trying to think. ‘This is important, right?’
Daed didn’t bother to reply, but that was an answer in itself.
Rick said, ‘What’re this guy’s stats? His reputation?’
‘His reputation’s just maxed out. Two days ago. He announced to his guilds that he was going to run the Roots.’
‘So . . .’ Rick said to himself: It’s OK,
everyone
’s reputation score maxes out when they say they’re taking on the Roots, and then it flatlines when they die . . . But the nerves in his fingertips started to tingle. ‘And his fight stats?’
‘There aren’t enough data to make a reliable prediction about how you’ll measure up.’
Oh, great. Rick said, ‘You mean he always wins.’
‘So do you, don’t you? The surves say you do.’
‘Yeah, but —’
‘Come on, Rick. I just don’t want Paz to — I don’t want Crater to make a big deal of it. Just sort him out. It shouldn’t be too hard. It’ll be a walkover.’
That bit was a lie, obviously. Rick dropped his gaze and flexed his wrists, testing the ache in his forearms. ‘You said he had a cheat.’
‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’ Daed breathed out smoke, hissing through his teeth. Suddenly he spun on his heel, as if something had snapped. ‘
Now
. For gods’ sake! You’re wasting time. This is important.’
How
is it important, Daed?
Why
is it important? What the hell are you playing at? But Rick didn’t say anything at all. He slid out of bed, wishing he wasn’t naked, or that he hadn’t turned the lights back on. He could feel Daed looking at him as he went into the bathroom and started to put shaving gel on his scalp. He reached out with one bare foot and opened the cupboard behind him with his big toe, picked out a clean pair of pants, dragged them back to where he stood: he didn’t want Daed to watch him, but at the same time he hoped he was impressed. Not everyone could get dressed and shave his head at the same time; it was this kind of coordination that made him the gamerunner he was. Oh, hell. He felt a trickle of blood roll down his ear. He said casually, ‘So what do I get?’
‘Marks out of ten? Only a seven, I’m afraid. You’re a bit scrawny.’
He gritted his teeth. ‘If I win this fight.’
Daed’s voice changed, hardening. ‘
When
you win this fight.’
‘All right. So what do I get?’
‘We’ll talk about that afterwards.’ Which meant: nothing.
‘Daed, come on . . .’ A pause. Rick wiped the margin of gel off his forehead. ‘You’ve
commissioned
me. What about taking off the bars on my account? As I’m doing this for
you
?’ His face looked back from the mirror, guileless.
‘Don’t push it, Rick.’
‘Shouldn’t we agree the terms before I go into the Maze?’
‘Yes,’ Daed’s voice said. There was a pause. Something made Rick look round, and Daed was there, in the doorway.
Daed smiled at him in the mirror. He moved nearer, until he was right behind him, and leant forward so that Rick could smell the smoke on his hair. ‘My dear boy, you’re quite right . . .’ His voice was very, very gentle; but not loving. ‘We
should
agree our terms. Yes, let’s agree our terms, right now.’ His breath smelt of fire and chemicals. ‘Listen. These are our terms. They’re very simple. You do exactly,
exactly
what I tell you. And in return I will continue to protect you from everything you need protecting from.’
Rick wanted to turn away, to reach for a shirt or trousers or . . . but he couldn’t move. He stared into Daed’s reflected eyes and wished he knew what was so wrong with them.
Daed held the stare. He said, ‘Do you accept those terms?’
‘Yes,’ Rick said. A wave of fatigue rolled up his legs. He felt faintly sick.
‘Good,’ Daed said, and moved away. He opened a drawer, took out a T-shirt and trousers and dropped them casually into Rick’s arms. ‘Get dressed.’
‘Yes,’ Rick said.
Daed gave him an odd, lopsided smile, like he’d made a very lame joke. ‘Light of my life,’ he said. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go to my office. You can look at the blueprints before you log in. Oh, and what did you do to your face?’ He went through the doorway without waiting for an answer.
Rick followed, still struggling into his clothes. As he logged out of his room it occurred to him, for the first time, that this was a fight he might not be able to win.
The Roots of the Maze.
Rick stared at Daed’s flatscreen and opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say.
The Maze had other dungeons, but the Roots were different. They ran for miles — light-seconds — twisting, hungry, pitch-black, a labyrinth so elaborate and pitiless Rick could almost believe they’d grown on their own. They were the nest, the nebula of every monster in the Maze: the deepest, most hostile corner of a hostile world. It made Rick’s ears sing — buzzing with danger, ringing sickeningly like tinnitus after a bomb blast — just to look at the blueprints. He closed his eyes, but he could still see the design on the inside of his eyelids: endless networks of traps — clever, interconnected, trip-one-and-you-trip-another-one-five-minutes-away traps — and hungry scraps of dark, with teeth, swarms of them, too many to fight, multiplying as you ran . . . and it was a maze, of course, the only bit of the Maze that really
was
a maze, so even if you survived you might never make it to the end.
Finally Rick’s breath and his mouth matched up and made a noise. He said, ‘You are
joking
.’
A flicker of a smile went over Daed’s face; then faded, as if he’d realised this wasn’t the moment for professional pride. He tapped one polished fingernail against the screen. ‘It’s designed to take anything between an hour and a year. Not that anyone would last that long.’
‘A
year
?’ Rick frowned. ‘You mean it’s designed to be impossible?’
‘Nothing is impossible.’ Daed met his eyes. There was a tiny flicker of complicity: it was one of Crater’s slogans, the First Rule of the Maze, and they both knew it wasn’t true, or not quite. ‘It’s designed to be . . . hard.’
‘No one’s ever done it.’
‘No.’ Daed leant back, ran a hand through his hair. ‘That’s why I think this guy is cheating. Somehow. But I can’t trace the code. From this end it looks legit.’ He swallowed; Rick could see it hit him hard to have to admit that. ‘In any case . . . I’ll disable as many traps as I can — not all of them, it’d take too long, and someone might notice — and I’ll give you a map, so you can see where to go. Not to complete the quest, understand? You track this guy —’ he flipped to another frame — ‘Herkules404 — and kill him. Gods, why can’t these morons think up original names?’ He flipped back to the blueprint. ‘Repeat that back to me. You
do not complete the quest
.’
‘I don’t complete the quest,’ Rick said, automatically. ‘Why?’
‘You find him, kill him, and then you kill yourself.’
Rick opened his mouth to argue. What was going on? Why did Daed even
care
what he did, after he’d killed Herkules-whatever-it-was? But something else occurred to him, suddenly, and he said, ‘Wait. If I kill myself in the Roots, I don’t resurrect. So —’
‘It’s all right, I’ve found you another avatar. Apart from anything else, I don’t want anyone to trace you back to me.’ Daed’s fingers skimmed the keyboard, calling up a file. ‘Look. Tonight you’re — oh great — Athene. Athene Glaukos. Well, at least she made a
bit
of effort,’ he added.
‘She doesn’t look anything like me,’ Rick said, before he could stop himself.
‘Why would you want to look like you?’ Daed said, shrugging. ‘She’s fine. Same height and weight as you, so you won’t have to adjust. That’s all that matters. Oh, and she’s careless with her card details; practically anyone could have hacked her account. I’ve given her all the equipment you’re used to.’
‘And . . .’ Rick swallowed, realised he didn’t have anything to say. He just wanted to put off the moment when he had to go into the Roots. What if he couldn’t do it? He said, ‘Daed, what if I can’t do it?’
‘It’s simple,’ Daed said, without looking at him. ‘Find our little friend and take him out. You’re good. Stop worrying.’ A pause. ‘And
do not
, whatever you do,
do not complete
—’
‘Yes, you said,’ Rick said. ‘Don’t complete the quest. How
do
you complete the Roots, anyway?’
Daed turned, his attention suddenly focused on Rick. ‘Don’t even
think
about it.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m sending you in because it’s important,
vitally
important, that
no one completes this quest
. I will be . . . there will be trouble, if someone does. OK? Have you got that?’
‘Yes, I just . . .’
Why?
he wanted to say. Why is it so important?
Daed nodded, slowly. ‘Rick . . . I’ll explain another time, all right?’ A pause. ‘You trust me, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, ’course I d—’
‘No, not
of course
. Do you trust me?’
He couldn’t quite hold Daed’s gaze. He heard his voice again, silently.
These are our terms. They’re very simple. You do exactly,
exactly
what I tell you. And in return I will continue to protect you from everything you need protecting from.
I’d trust you, Rick wanted to say, if you trusted me. I’d trust you if I wasn’t just a game you played. I’d trust you, if, if . . . No, I don’t trust you. Tell me what the hell’s going on.
He said, ‘Yes, Daed, I trust you.’
‘Good,’ Daed said, and if he wasn’t convinced it didn’t show. He turned back to his screen. ‘Weapons, armour, map . . . Is there anything else you need?’
Speed. Strength. Stamina. But those all had to be real.
‘No, I’m OK.’
‘You’re ready, then?’
‘Yeah.’ The back of his neck tingled, then burnt, as if the
enemy in range
signal was already activated.
‘Good,’ Daed said again. ‘Better get going, then. Don’t waste any more time.’ He didn’t even look round.
Rick stood for a second, looking at the back of Daed’s head, noticing the way his hair glinted in the light from the flatscreen: hair just long enough to announce that he’d never worn a gamecap in his life, just long enough to proclaim his disdain for the people who actually
played
the game he’d created. Rick’s skull felt cold, clammy, like the palms of his hands. He thought: What if this is just something Daed thought up when he was bored? What if this is another crappy game?
‘Get a move on, Rick.’
Gods, what had he been expecting, a goodbye kiss? Rick said, ‘Yes, Daed,’ and went. He shut the door quietly behind him.
For the first time ever, he warms up before he signs in.
He shuts the door of the tank and stands in the swirling blue light of the gateway screen, feeling sick. The tank’s soundproofed, naturally, but all the same he thinks he hears the patter of the rain on the window outside, slowly eating into it, etching patterns into the chemiglass. He wonders how long the panes will last before they have to be replaced. Last time it was two months; the time before that, three. Or maybe Maintenance will forget, and one day as he comes out of the tank the window will shatter in the wind, exploding inwards in a storm of fragile shards and acid, and he’ll be left standing there, drenched in corrosive rainwater. A death sentence. An elegant way for Paz to get rid of him, if she wanted to; or Daed . . .
Stop it. He takes a deep breath, and another, trying to concentrate. He stretches his legs, shoulders, rolls his neck and back, going through the different kinds of traps in his head. Ones you duck, ones you jump, ones you crawl under . . . Come on. If he leaves it too long, it might be too late. He puts on the undercap, the ankle- and wrist-bands, the belt, then finally the cap itself. He runs his fingers over the silver mesh, trying to summon some enthusiasm, but it doesn’t work; there’s just dread. Then he logs in.
Daed works quickly, you’ve got to give him that: at the touch of Rick’s hand the pointed feminine face of the new avatar looks back at him from the screen, already his default, as if she’s always belonged to him. He tries to catch her blinking, but the synchro’s spot on; he winks at her, just to see her mirror him. It feels weird. There’s something odd about her body language; for a second he thinks the mimic program is malfunctioning. Then he realises it’s just that she’s moving like him, like a boy. Her gaze is too direct, too aggressive.
For a second he considers switching back to his own avatar. But his body is still lying, dead, on the steps outside that instance; from where it is, it might take him a couple of hours to get to the Roots, even if he knew where the entrances were. He needs Daed’s programming to get him to the right place. He’s going to have to put up with her, and the stupid way she moves. He tilts his head to one side, brushes imaginary hair away from his face, wiggles his hips. She mirrors him, awkwardly, and then shakes her head and cracks up. They laugh at each other. All right, he thinks, we share a sense of humour. That’s something.