Gamerunner (17 page)

The words sent a trickle of excitement down Rick’s back, even if he wasn’t sure he knew exactly what they meant. ‘You mean there’s a direct link between the iTank and the player’s brain?’

Jake rolled his eyes. ‘There’s already a
link
. How do you think we render smells? Or taste? There’s already sense input from a game tank direct to your brain, that’s how we adjust the details, that’s why the Maze is as good as it is. That’s what the cap’s for . . . But now there’s feedback
in the other direction
.’

‘So what?’

‘So —’ Jake rubbed his finger over the screen, as if he really wished he was rubbing the skin off Rick’s face. ‘Imagine the power of the human brain, collaborating with what’s already programmed into the iTank. Imagine the wealth of details that your subconscious would come up with, without your even
knowing
it . . . more than we could program in years. Or imagine there’s a problem with the synchro, or a bug — as soon as the player realises there’s something not quite right, the game knows and rectifies the error. Imagine a game that’s created by your own brain
as you play it
— responding to your thoughts, tailoring itself to you so quickly you don’t even notice. But it’s still a multi-player game — it’s still created by us, regulated by us . . . We give the stimulus — and it’ll still be the complex, sophisticated programming that we already have in the Maze — but the player’s own brain adds depth and believability. You won’t even know you’re playing a game . . . Imagine —’

‘You sound like someone from Marketing.’

Jake’s eyes unglazed, a little. ‘No, but seriously. Seriously! You’ll see, when you play in the iTank — my gods, you’ll know the difference.’

‘Right.’ Rick stretched out his hand. Against the white of the sofa it looked dark, almost black.
Imagine
. He was trying not to be impressed. But if it was true, what Jake was saying . . .

‘The two-way feedback was what we’ve been after for
years
. Sense input is easy, you just isolate the right synapses and stimulate them — but reading someone’s mind . . . you have no idea how complicated that is.’ Jake’s voice was dreamy, now, and his finger drew a graceful, hair-thin arc on the screen. ‘It’s like . . . if you had a computer and a calculator, say, and the calculator could only count up to one . . . The calculator could say zero or one to the computer, no problem, but if the computer tried to say three or seven or nine back, the calculator wouldn’t be able to read the figures . . . The simpler system can input into the more complicated one, but it can’t receive. For real
communication
, you need a computer that’s as sophisticated as a human brain — or nearly.’

Rick thought: He’s right. It’s amazing.

And suddenly he missed his old life so hard it hurt. He’d
lived
in the Maze, desperate to win, to get gilt and reputation, to be the best. He’d never thought about anything else. Life was simple. Nothing was impossible.

I could go back to my room, he thought, and forget about Perdita. I was happy before. I could be happy again. I could run the new improved Maze all day and eat what I want and it’d be fine, it’d go on for ever because now Daed’s immortal —

(Jake was talking again, but none of the words got through.)

— now he’s got Asterion and everyone’s happy again . . . I don’t have to escape. It’d be so much easier to stay here . . .

Rick shut his eyes, because the walls were too blank, like they were waiting for someone to write on them. He could see Athene. It was stupid; she wasn’t even
real
. He didn’t know why she was haunting him like this.

Or why he heard Paz’s voice, from a long way away:
the thing about people is that they’re . . . dispensable.

Jake said, ‘Let me know if I’m boring you, won’t you?’

‘Sorry. I was just . . .’

He wanted to stay — no, he wanted to
want
to stay; but he couldn’t. He had to get out. This wasn’t his world any more.

‘I’d let you have a go, only the prototypes are being used — you know how it is, there’s only twenty-one days left before the launch.’

Part of him lit up at the word
prototype
. Part of him would have given anything to try it — would have begged and threatened and bribed Jake until he gave in. But that part wasn’t very strong, any more. The rest of Rick said: You’re wasting time. If Perdita comes back to her office while you’re in here, and you miss her . . .

‘No worries,’ he said. ‘Listen . . . thanks for the coffee and everything, but actually Daed sent me to get something from Perdita’s workshop, only the system doesn’t seem to have updated my entry privileges, so . . . I was wondering if you could get me in.’

‘Er . . .’ Jake looked round helplessly, as if there was an autocue hidden somewhere and he’d forgotten where. ‘Well, look, maybe you should ask someone from Security, no one here has entry privileges for Perdita’s workshop, it’s only Daed and Marketing and all that lot. I mean, no other Creatives are . . . she’s more senior than everyone else, so . . .’

‘Daed wanted me to go through her stuff before the room was reallocated,’ Rick said. ‘Check for sensitive material. There must have been a glitch in the system . . . but surely there’s someone who can let me in.’

‘Reallocated?’

‘Now that she’s leaving.’

‘Perdita’s —?’

‘Yep,’ Rick said, almost enjoying the look on Jake’s face. It said: Gods, if Perdita’s going, who’s next? It could be
me
.

‘I didn’t know she was —’

‘The decision was only made this morning,’ Rick said. He wiped his mind as blank as the wall opposite him and imagined he was talking about the weather. ‘Unavoidable. We regretted having to ask her to leave, of course, but she was being a little bit obstructive, and teamwork is so important here.’ His tone was greasy, sticky, like an oil-spill. ‘There’s so much pressure on all our departments, especially at a time like this, and even the smallest lack of cooperation can be crucial.’

Jake stared at him.

Rick shrugged, wishing his shoulders weren’t so tight. He said again, ‘Even the smallest lack of cooperation . . .’

Jake went on looking at him for a long moment, then took a big gulp of coffee. His throat bulged as if he was having difficulty swallowing. He seemed to be waiting for Rick to finish his sentence. Rick let him wait.

And it worked.

‘But there’s — we’re not allowed to fiddle the comms panels,’ Jake said, at last, ‘they’re an essential part of Crater’s inter-departmental security —’

Good, Rick thought. He’s going to do it.

‘I mean, listen, I’d love to help out, but I need — it would be great if — maybe you could get Daed to confirm that he wanted . . . ?’

‘Sure,’ Rick said. ‘Why don’t you call his office and ask him?’

A silence. The air in the Ideas Space smelt stale. The coffee machine spat, suddenly, like someone who’d been winded.

Jake said, ‘Well . . . he’s notoriously . . . I know he doesn’t like being disturbed . . . so maybe, could
you
. . . ? No, I guess not. Well. OK. Right. But — look, I can probably fiddle the door for you, but it’s absolutely forbidden, so maybe if you didn’t mention that it was me? If we just . . . you know, if we both forgot about it?’ The question marks hung in the air like hooks.

Rick said, ‘That would probably be OK.’

‘Great.’ Jake breathed out, and put his coffee on the nearest doodle screen. The plastic bent, almost imperceptibly, and started to warp in the heat.

Jake stood up, and Rick followed him. Jake’s office was tiny, glass-walled, cramped even for a desk and flatscreen. As soon as the door was shut Jake flipped the glass to mirror-mode, and Rick stared into his own noncommittal eyes while Jake hunched at the computer and hissed through his teeth. It only took thirteen minutes, but by the end of it Jake’s forehead was covered with tiny beads of sweat. He said, ‘Look — if someone finds out that I’ve hacked into the entry privilege system, I’ll be chucked out, you understand?’ He said
chucked out
like it meant
killed
. Then again, it probably did.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rick said. ‘My lips are sealed. So it’s all set up, then? I just press my hand against the panel, like normal?’

‘Yes. It’s all set up.’

‘Great. Thanks. I really appreciate it. Hope the iTank goes well . . .’

Jake’s eyes narrowed, and he twisted round in his chair, looking up at Rick. His mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. There was a funny look on his face.

Rick thought: Oh, gods.

He wasn’t sure what it was — saying thank you, maybe, just being too friendly — but he’d given himself away. Jake knew that he’d been lying. And he was shocked, and furious. And absolutely terrified.

Rick wanted to tell him it was OK — don’t worry, you won’t be found out, I’m not going to do anything stupid — but he wasn’t sure Jake would believe him. He said, ‘Look, thanks, sorry for taking up your time . . .’

‘You’d better go.’

‘Yeah,’ Rick said. ‘OK. Thanks.’

And he left. All the way down the corridor he could feel Jake’s look — horrified, afraid, accusatory, the way Athene would have looked at him, if she’d known — and he rolled his shoulders, trying to shake it off. He’d never had so many enemies. He’d never
deserved
so many enemies.

But the comms panel let him into Perdita’s workshop; and, after all, he told himself, that was what counted.

Chapter 17

Perdita had cleared up the mess. Everything looked a little bit emptier than it had before; as though she’d had to throw a lot of things away. But there were broken bits and pieces lined up neatly on the workbench, ready for her to mend. Rick looked at them and wished he could fix them all, now, so that they wouldn’t be left waiting like that for ever.

He sat down. He would have made himself a drink, except that he didn’t know how to work the kettle. There were diagrams pinned up on the wall opposite him, but not of anything he understood. The cupboard where he’d hidden was open and bare.

He waited. Outside it was still not raining. A glint of platinum sunlight caught a tangle of wires on a shelf, making them shine for a few seconds, and Rick watched it, trying not to breathe. Then it was gone.

He stood up and peered at the little crippled bits of techno. He touched a few with his fingertips, very gently. Then he turned to the other shelves, ran his hands over the backs of books, fiddled with the old prototypes, bounced a ball against the ceiling. He wondered whether it would hurt Perdita, having to leave this stuff behind. He thought of his own room, and couldn’t think of anything worth regretting.

He waited. He thought: Thanks, Jake. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have been sitting outside in the corridor.

He waited and waited. She didn’t come. She was making the most of her twelve hours. He sat down again, stood up again. He opened drawers and filing cabinets, the ones that weren’t locked. There wasn’t anything very interesting. He went through to her tiny bathroom and wondered how she managed. He went to the loo. He went back into the workshop and noticed her hood hanging on the back of the door. He got it down and put it on the workbench, to save time later. He checked that the breathing panel looked OK.

What was she
doing
?

For an odd, vertiginous moment he wondered if she could possibly have persuaded Daed not to use Asterion, after all. But —

He picked up the ball again and thumped it at the wall, trying to get as close as possible to the comms panel without actually hitting it. He imagined her in Daed’s office. Suppose she won the argument, or Daed did; suppose they made up. He could see them laughing, drinking, trying out ideas for the new expansion. He threw the ball too hard and had to flinch as it bounced back, straight at his eyes.

Come on, Perdy. Come on. Let’s go.

He’d have been less impatient if he wasn’t scared, too. He wanted to get it over. He wanted to walk out through the Nucleus and the glass airlock, for it to be done and irrevocable. He hated this waiting.

He sat down. This time he sat against the wall, next to the door. He leant his head back and shut his eyes. He breathed deeply, trying not to think about anything except his lungs and the air in them.

After a long time he heard the rain start again. The sound was so familiar it was soothing, like the pulse in his ears. He went to sleep.

When he woke up, nothing had changed.

It took him a second to work out what was wrong; at first it was just a feeling, like something was missing. Spot the deliberate mistake.

Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet. His back ached, and when he tried to turn his neck to the left the muscles twinged sharply.

He said, ‘Time, please,’ and the clock flashed up on the glassed-out rain-clouds.
0742
.

0742. But Perdita had only had twelve hours; she should have been out by 0530.