The Leveller (4 page)

Mom shakes her head. “It's his son . . . Mr. Salvador's only son has gone missing in the MEEP.”

So I'm not busted. I shrug as the relief washes over me. “Tell them to send in the MEEP-O Men,” I say. “Kid's probably
hiding out in some virtual tiki hut surrounded by topless hula dancers. They'll find him soon enough.”

Dad frowns. “It's not that simple, Nix. Apparently they've been trying to reach Wyn for days, but he's managed to barricade himself in.”

“Well, that was asinine,” I say. “But he'll surface soon. His real body's gotta be pretty hungry by now.”

My parents exchange a grim look.

“That's just it, sweetie,” says Mom. She takes my hands and kneels beside me. “He left behind a suicide note.”

DIEGO SALVADOR'S PRIVATE JET IS SO SWANK I KEEP REACHING INTO
my pocket for my phone. I'm dying to take a photo of myself reclining in the leather lounge chair, sipping ginger ale from a crystal glass, so Chang and Moose can see what they're missing. But then I remember that this is all supposed to be TOP SECRET, like we're on some James Bond spy mission to Russia. All that's missing is an exotic-looking woman with a bountiful rack named Anita Shelferdeez and we'll be set.

Unfortunately, I'm not able to share these thoughts with anyone else on this fancy tin can because I'm surrounded by furrowed brows: Dad, who's next to me, squinting into his laptop, and Kora Lee, who's across from us, grimacing at her phone. Kora is Diego Salvador's personal assistant, sent to
collect us at the heinous hour of six this morning at the small airfield outside of town.

After my parents broke the news to me yesterday about Salvador's missing son, things went a little crazy. Chang and Moose were shuffled out the door with Tupperwared leftovers, my mom answering their puzzled faces with nondescript murmurs: “Family emergency, nothing to worry about, Great-Aunt Martha . . .”

Once they were gone, Dad dialed up Diego Salvador on his laptop, while I combed my fingers through my hair and grumbled a bit. Here we were, about to videoconference with the richest, most powerful man on the planet, and I was wearing an old Zelda T-shirt with a fresh gravy stain on the chest.

I don't think Mr. Salvador noticed. When his face popped on the screen, it looked just like it had on the cover of
Time
magazine last year when he was declared Man of the Year: tan, handsome, slightly graying hair, a jaw that meant business. He greeted us tersely, managing a polite nod of the head for my mom, but clearly in no mood for small talk.

“Phoenix,” he said, turning his attention to me.

I grabbed Hodee, who was curled up underneath my feet, and tried to cover the gravy stain with him.

“Your parents tell me you're quite a creative beta player,” he continued.

I shrugged, unsure of what to say. Did he know about the levelling? That could be bad.

“In fact, they say you have a talent for finding players in MeaParadisus, whether they want to be found or not.”

Yup. He knew. I glanced at Jill then and she nodded slightly, which I took to mean:
The jig is up; go ahead and speak freely
.

I cleared my throat. “Well, I don't know that I can find
anybody
, but I haven't failed yet. I'm pretty familiar with the various MEEP templates, which helps.”

“Yes, my usage admin shared your stats with me. You've spent nearly as much time in the MEEP as my full-time developers . . . lots of late-night hours you've racked up over the past year.”

At that point, both my parents whipped their heads around to look at me. I kept my gaze on the laptop screen and avoided all eye contact with them, glaring instead at Salvador. How many ways could I be ratted out in one day? First, my parents tattle on my levelling business, then Salvador tattles on my nighttime usage? Did personal privacy mean nothing anymore?

“I'd like your help, Phoenix, on a very challenging retrieval mission,” Salvador continued, completely unfazed by my I-can't-believe-you-people gaze. “May I count on you?” he asked.

“How much does it pay?” I replied without blinking. Jill gave a little gasp beside me while Vic did a slow-motion face palm. I'd obviously just embarrassed the hot heck out of them, but I figured it was time for payback in that department.

Diego Salvador's eyebrows raised the slightest fraction of a
millimeter, but otherwise he matched my poker face steel for steel. “Interesting question. I suppose I should ask how much you charge your other clients when you engage in levelling . . . in direct violation of the beta agreement, may I add.”

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Salvador put up a hand to stop me. “No need to worry, Phoenix. As I told your parents earlier, I understand that all business enterprises of a grand scope like MeaParadisus will naturally produce an intrepid subclass of entrepreneurs such as yourself. Which is exactly the kind of guts and initiative I need. Will five thousand dollars plus expenses suffice?”

I pretended to think this over while my mother gave me a swift kick underneath videocamera range. Ah, maternal love. “Fine, but I'd like a five-K bonus if I get him back in an hour,” I said.
What the heck?
I figured.
He's a billionaire; ten thousand dollars is chump change to him. I have college tuition to think about.

“Done,” he said. “I'll send my plane for you first thing in the morning. I prefer to discuss the details in person.”

So that's how Vic and I ended up here, swigging ginger ale and winging our way to Salvador's place in the Florida Keys. After some discussion, it was decided that Dad would accompany me for tech support, while Mom and Hodee would stay home and hold down the fort. Of course, then Jill had to give me the whole eight-hours-of-sleep lecture and threaten to lock
down my MEEP device at night if I couldn't control myself in the future. To be fair, though, she was a champ this morning, getting up at five o'clock to make coffee and drive us to the airfield.

A little bell dings in the plane, and Kora, who's said very little to us so far except to take our drink orders, unbuckles herself from her seat and leans forward. “Mr. Salvador has instructed me to fill you in on some of the details before we arrive, to save time once we get there,” she says, removing a digital tablet from an expensive-looking leather briefcase.

Kora Lee is dressed in a white silk blouse, a red pencil skirt, and black pointy heels that say “sexy” and “don't even think about it” at the same time. Her long black hair is parted perfectly down the middle, her makeup so immaculate she almost looks airbrushed. I wonder how she does it, how she achieves this perfection, given that she and the pilot left Florida in the middle of the night to arrive in Illinois by six. I suppose when your boss is Man of the Year, there's no such thing as “weekend casual” or flying in your jammy pants.

“Three days ago, while his father was in California to launch Christmas in the MEEP,” Kora begins, in the precise, clipped voice of a newscaster, “Wyn Salvador entered a custom MEEP world of his own creation. Later that day, when his grandmother, Betina Oviedo, or Mama Beti as she is called, summoned him for Thanksgiving dinner, he was still in a state of MEEP sleep. Though surprised her grandson would skip a
holiday dinner, Mama Beti was accustomed to Wyn spending much of his time in the MEEP, so she had no cause for alarm at that point. She had a dinner tray sent to his bedroom in case he woke up hungry, then she herself went to bed.”

My dad and I exchange a guilty glance. We've both done the exact same thing before—gamed through dinner, only to wake up later and find a sandwich next to us with an attached note from Jill saying “Eat this, knucklehead.” It's easy to lose time in the MEEP, especially if you aren't hampered by the automatic shutoff.

Kora continues. “When Mama Beti went to check on him the next morning, Wyn was still MEEP sleeping, his ear trans still active, his food cold and untouched. She immediately called her son in California. Mr. Salvador dispatched a programmer to enter Wyn's MEEP world and bring his son back.”

I nod and throw back a little more ginger ale. So far this is the same story I've heard a hundred times before, ever since I started levelling: kid escapes to fantasy world until his parents get fed up and drag him back to reality. Although given that Wyn's dad is a flipping billionaire, how bad can Wyn's reality be, I wonder. A mansion in Key West, servants, private plane? I shake my head. Rich kids, so spoiled.

“The programmer made it to the Landing with no problem,” says Kora, “but trouble began as soon as he entered Wyn's custom MEEP, a maze of sorts.”

My ears perk up. “A maze?” I ask.

“Yes. It seems Wyn built a series of rooms and corridors, a labyrinth, outside the Landing. Each room presents a different challenge to the player.”

My dad and I exchange another glance, eyebrows raised, a glint in our eyes. I know he's thinking the same thing I am: sounds like fun. But then just as quickly, Dad's face transforms back to Serious-Father look. “So where does the suicide note come into play, Miss Lee?” he asks, reminding me that I mustn't appear too jaunty on this trip.

“It's not a suicide note per se, rather a message contained in the first room. According to the various programmers who've entered—there have been several in the past few days—the room is completely white. Once you step into the center of the room, words appear on the walls. Here, I'll read them to you.”

While Kora scrolls down on her tablet, my dad and I lean forward, eager to hear the first piece of the puzzle.

“Now begins the great adventure,” Kora reads. “Though I leave behind a body, my soul will live forever in the MEEP.”

Oh for the love of God and sprinkled donuts. What a drama queen.
I try not to roll my eyes, but I obviously don't succeed because my dad frowns back at me. “
My soul will live forever in the MEEP
?” I repeat. “Didn't anyone explain to him that the MEEP is a
game
, not an afterlife?”

“Ease up, Nixy, it's not for us to judge his thoughts or beliefs,”
Dad says. “Clearly, he was—
is
—a distraught young man.”

I shrug, but let it go. Wyn's message doesn't sound very distraught to me; more like some eager cult member who just drank the MEEP Kool-Aid.

“So what happens after that?” I ask Kora. “After the message appears?”

Kora hesitates and furrows her flawless brow. “The floor opens and drops you into a shark tank.”

My heart stops for a moment. “
Fy fæn
,” I mutter under my breath. A shark tank? What kind of a sadistic
rasshøl
was
Wyn Salvador? Like I said, even though you can't feel pain in the MEEP, you can still feel terror and horror and paralyzing fear. And sharks happen to be my
worst
fear, which is why I'm perfectly happy living in Illinois: plenty of land mass between me and those beady-eyed eating machines.

“That's just evil,” I say with a shiver, really feeling for the programmer who first made the awful discovery. I'd rather be burned to a crisp by a fire-breathing dragon—and I
have
—than be the next victim of
Jaws
's toothy shredder.

My dad is frowning big-time now. He knows how I feel about sharks. “So Wyn was allowed access to all the in-house prototypes?” asks Dad, with more than a hint of anger in his voice. “A shark tank would be impossible to create with the currently released modules.”

“Mr. Salvador gives his son full access to the database,” Kora
replies in her clipped voice. “Wyn likes to experiment with the newer modules and he provides valuable feedback. His father trusts him implicitly.”

“Sounds like that was a mistake,” grumbles Dad.

Kora purses her lips. “I believe your daughter has access to some beta modules as well?”

“Yes, but she doesn't abuse it,” says Dad, which is technically not true, but I do my best to play the part and look innocent.

Kora casts a skeptical eye in my direction, then nods curtly at Dad and continues to scroll through her tablet.

“What happens after the sharks?” I ask, after a moment of awkward silence.

“Anaconda,” Kora says matter-of-factly and, unless I am imagining it, with a bit of pleasure at my expense.

“Nice,” I murmur.

“I believe there are carnivorous plants in that room as well,” she adds.

“Wow, this Wyn sounds like a real nature lover,” I say, feeling myself loathe the guy more and more with each passing moment.

“The programmers who've entered the maze have made a diagram of their findings,” Kora says, pressing an icon on her tablet and passing it to me. “You should use the rest of the flight to familiarize yourself with it.”

I take the tablet from her and Dad leans in to look over my
shoulder. After a few moments, he lets out a long whistle. “Looks like Wyn thought of everything, didn't he?” he asks.

“And this may just be the beginning,” Kora replies.

I look at her in question.

“None of the programmers made it to the end of the maze,” she explains. “No one made it past the fourth room.”

“So what, they just quit? Or are they still working on it?” I ask.

Kora turns her eyes from me. “As of yet, none of them wish to reenter the maze. Some of them are physically exhausted and are recuperating in one of Mr. Salvador's medical facilities. Others are . . . compromised.”

“Compromised?” my dad asks, frowning again at Kora.

Kora shifts uncomfortably in her leather seat. “The doctors think perhaps a slight case of PTSD, though that has yet to be verified.”

“They went crazy?” I ask, my voice louder than I mean it to be, while Vic snorts at Kora's soft-pedal.

“Perhaps it's more accurate to say they went into shock,” replies Kora. “In any case, they're all currently under the care and supervision of the world's best doctors. I'm sure they will be fine after a short rest.”

“And you expect me to send my only daughter into some monstrous playground that scared the living daylights out of grown men?” Dad asks.

Kora bristles. “Not all the programmers were men, Mr. Bauer.”

Now it's Dad's turn to shift uncomfortably and I can't help it—I grin behind my hand. I mean, Kora does have a point, even if she's using it to change the subject.

“My apologies,” Dad says, then clears his throat. “I didn't mean to imply, of course, that—”

“But back to the maze,” I say, trying to save my dad from any more potential embarrassment. “So no one knows how it ends. And we can only assume that Wyn saved his best defense for last.”