Gamerunner (2 page)

‘Good session, Rick?’

Paz’s voice made him jump about an em in the air. He wished she wouldn’t
do
that. He scrubbed frantically at his sweaty forehead and then turned, dropping his hand, trying to look cool. ‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Looks like it.’ Paz looked him up and down, smiling.

Another rush of sweat broke out on his forehead, like his body wringing him out from inside. He looked down and scuffed the toe of his runner on the floor. He could still feel her watching him, amused, faintly disgusted, noting the dark continents of wetness on his T-shirt, the way it clung to his breastbone and under his arms. He knew exactly what she was seeing: a sinewy, sweaty kid. What did she care if he could run the Maze better than anyone else in the complex? He was Daed’s son. That was all that mattered.

‘Any bugs? Glitches? Anything we should know about?’

Ah, he thought. Research.
That’s
why she’s talking to me. He forced himself to meet her eyes. ‘Don’t think so.’

‘Well, tell your — tell Daed, if you find anything.’

‘I always do.’

‘Good.’ Another little smile, like a reward. Then she walked away, and finally he had the space to look at her without her looking back. He hated the way he
had
to look, but he couldn’t help it. He stared at her back, taking in her shape, her histro clothes, the long seams of her stockings, her high heels. She was so . . . but
beautiful
wasn’t the right word. He didn’t
like
her, he just . . . She wasn’t like Perdita, say — the kind of person you could talk to, who you
enjoyed
talking to. Sometimes he tried to imagine Paz with Perdita’s personality, but it didn’t work. Perdita couldn’t be anything but ugly, and Paz couldn’t be anything but . . . whatever the word was. Overwhelming. Irresistible. He took a mental screenshot and stored it away for later.

He got the rest of his stuff out of his locker and closed the door. He tipped forward and gazed at the window, leaning on his bruised jaw, cupping his hand over the locker’s click-wheel so he didn’t reset it by mistake. A design fault . . . He stared past the petrol-lustre of the chemiglass and the swirling grey on the other side. When he blinked and focused, his reflection had been watching him for a long time; it looked faintly surprised that he’d finally noticed. Behind it the sky had started to flicker. Storms tonight. That would be good — he got bored in the long hours between 2100 and 0500, when he was locked out of the Maze — but there was always the danger of a power surge. Once the tanks had gone down for twenty-three hours and he’d thought he’d go mad. The Maze itself couldn’t go down, of course, but that made it even worse, knowing other people were running it, taking all the gilt and the best loot . . . Crater — the company who owned the Maze — lost billions of new dollars, too, because the survey team couldn’t get in either. That put Paz in a bad mood. And when Paz was in a bad mood it spread through the whole complex like a demic. Even Perdita had been terse and uncommunicative — and Daed . . . Rick grimaced: he could still remember what Daed was like, that week.

He shook his head suddenly, and the grimace turned into a grin. Gods, what kind of world did he live in? It was crazy. He couldn’t remember what it was like, before he and Daed came to Crater, he was too young; but he’d heard the stories, seen the occasional report on his computer. Out there, in the streets of Undone, where he’d been born, there were kids running wild, abandoned or orphaned so young they couldn’t speak Inglish; there were gangs who’d mug you for your hood, leaving you bare-headed in the corrosive rain; there were people starving. That could have been him. It
would
have been him, if Daed hadn’t . . . Not that he knew exactly what Daed
had
done, to end up with Crater. Except been a genius, he thought. That probably helped.

He imagined them walking in — a younger Daed, with Rick just a hooded bundle in his arms — through a great golden gate, with Paz there to greet them with open arms, kissing Daed on both cheeks, calling for warm milk for little Rick. Ha ha. No, it would have been more like hours of automated security clearance, Daed sitting calmly on the floor, ignoring Rick’s screams, and Paz nowhere to be found — Paz in an office somewhere, making deals with the Inglish government. He could imagine her, driving a hard bargain: OK, we’ll keep our complex in Undone in spite of the pollution and security risks, and in return you run all your decisions past me . . .

You had to hand it to Daed, though. Getting a job with the last corporation left in Ingland? However he did it, it couldn’t have been easy. And without him, Rick would have been one of those Undone kids. Here, now, he ran the Maze for fun. But for them . . . The Maze kept them alive. It was an opportunity to scavenge gilt that they could sell on the black — and there was always the chance that they’d find something
really
valuable. A special sword, a potion, something unique: and then they could sell it and make their fortune, get enough real money to start a new life . . . There were people who’d sell themselves for an hour in a tank. Even if it was illegal, even if it was
dangerous
, because their tanks were botched and shoddily built and might malfunction at any moment. Rick thought: And here I am, worrying about whether Daed’s in a decent temper.

Paz had said to him once — back in the first few years of the Maze, when she was so pleased with Daed she was almost talkative — that there were two kinds of people in the world. The people who would sell their gilt for good new dollars: and the others, the proper Mazers, who would pay real money for a purse of gilt at the right time.
They’re our kind of people. Our demographic
, she’d said.
You’re one of them
. At the time he’d thought it was a compliment.

A cat-o’-nine-tails of lightning arched out across the sky, and he shivered, abruptly aware of the sweat on his skin. It was always like this — after he got out of the Maze he was useless, slack and dreamy, good for nothing. If he could get a heads-up display on himself right now, his power bar would be down to 1. He grabbed his stuff and made for the shower.

‘Rick.
Rick
.’

For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He turned over, opening his eyes, sleepily registering the new aches in his shoulder blades. The pillow was wet and he was clutching the sheet in both his fists. He must have been dreaming. But it was still night; he could see the flickers of lightning through the half-darkened chemiglass. He caught himself sliding one hand down towards his belt before he realised this wasn’t the Maze and he wasn’t armed.

‘For gods’ sake, Rick. Wake up.’

Daed. Of course: who else? There were other people who could override the lock on his door — Paz, for example, or anyone in Marketing, or even Perdita, although she wouldn’t come in without knocking — but he couldn’t imagine why they’d bother. Rick sat up, wincing. He really shouldn’t have left the tank without cooling down. He said, ‘Time, please,’ and watched the digits flash up on the top corner of the window.
0315
.

‘Don’t turn the light on.’

‘What are you
doing
in my rooms at — never mind.’ He drew his knees up to his chest, covered himself with the sheet, and waited.

There was a metallic scratching sound and Daed’s face was suddenly hovering a few ems away, gold-red and flickering. He was holding a flame between his fingers, raising it to his lips. Then there was only a little red glow and the bitter, archaic smell of a cigarette. Rick looked away. He liked seeing fire — he was like a kid, he still got excited — but there was something shameful about seeing Daed smoke. It was so Last World; like he was only doing it to make everyone feel uncomfortable. ‘Did you disable the fire alarm?’

‘Naturally.’ He turned and coughed the smoke to the side. Rick narrowed his eyes. Daed’s cough was as much a part of him as his mind: but tonight it sounded thicker, frothier, a full-fat kind of cough. Rick waited, but the cough died to silence and Daed didn’t say anything else.

Rick yawned. ‘Are you going to tell me what you want, or can I go back to sleep?’

‘I need you to do something for me.’

‘
Now?
’

‘As soon as I’ve told you what it is, yes.’

Rick rolled his eyes. ‘I’m going to put the light on.’

‘No, don’t —’

‘Lights, please.’ He added, ‘Level one,’ as a concession, but even so Daed groaned and covered his eyes with his forearm. He didn’t sound tired, but then he never did. Rick leant back against the wall, his hands clasped round his knees, and watched him. Gods,
0315
in the morning, and Daed wanted him to run some kind of errand . . . He didn’t know much about fathers, but he was pretty sure they weren’t meant to deprive you of sleep and breathe poisonous chemicals at you. Then again, there was always the possibility that Daed wasn’t his father. He could be his uncle or his older brother or even . . . Rick remembered half overhearing someone make a joke about Daed and calling him
she
— but he was pretty sure that was the joke. You couldn’t be completely sure, from looking at him, but . . . Rick shut his eyes, trying not to let himself think too much about it. Daed was a mystery, even — no, especially — to Rick. Even if Daed was his father, he didn’t know who his mother was. Or if he’d had one. When he was small — smaller, anyway — he’d tried to pretend Perdita was his mother, but it didn’t really work. She wasn’t a mother kind of person, really. And Daed told him once that he’d been hatched.

He opened his eyes, looked at Daed, and thought: Daed, my father. My father, Daed. It was the easiest way to stay sane.

‘Next time,’ Daed said, lowering his arm, so the fumes from his cigarette wafted upwards, ‘I’ll disable your lights as well. Why you need to
see
anything is completely beyond me.’ He grimaced. He was good-looking, of course — there was a rumour that he’d designed his face himself — but there was something a bit weird about his eyes, like a deliberate mistake. It got to Rick every time.

‘I just . . . forget it.’ Rick shrugged. ‘Lights off, please.’

‘Better,’ Daed said, in the dark. ‘Now listen. I want you to go into the Maze —’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now — and fight someone.’

‘Why — wait — sorry but lights on, please,’ Rick said, and leant forward, because he had to see Daed’s expression. ‘In the Maze? Now? Fight who? Why?’

Daed was still blinking, but he didn’t cover his face this time. ‘There’s someone causing me problems, and I want you to sort him out.’

‘Can’t a gamemaster do it?’ Rick watched Daed’s fingers holding his cigarette like a pen; they were shaking. ‘If he’s doing something illegal —’

‘I don’t think he is.’

‘So . . .’ Rick paused. He remembered, for no reason, the way he’d had to stop in front of the doors to the quest, this afternoon: the way it took him five seconds to take in their sheer size. ‘So, Daed, how is he causing you problems? If it’s something technical —’

‘Nothing technical.’

‘So . . .’ He stopped. Daed’s doing this on purpose, he thought. Shutting me up, so he’ll be able to tell me in his own way and his own time. He waited.

‘He’s in the Roots,’ Daed said. ‘He’s doing the Roots of the Maze. He’s looking good. He’s probably using some kind of cheat, but I can’t track it. I don’t want him to complete them.’

Rick could taste air conditioning. He realised his mouth was open. He said, ‘He’s going to complete the Roots of the Maze?’

‘No,’ Daed said. ‘He isn’t. Because you’re going to stop him.’

‘You want me to go into the Roots of the Maze?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I’ve never — it’s not —’ He didn’t know what to say first: But, Daed, it’s the hardest quest there is. People say it’s not possible. If you die in the Roots, you don’t resurrect, you have to start again, from scratch, you forfeit all your gilt, your
everything
. . . He licked his lips and settled for something simple. He said, ‘But it’s an instance. How can I —’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘All the solos are instances,’ Rick said. ‘That’s the point. There’s a new version for every player. You’re always on your own. You can’t interact with other players, not real ones, because every time someone runs the quest, the server creates a new version, that’s what an instance
is
—’

‘I know what “instance” means, Rick.’

‘But the solos — all the solos are —’ He was burbling.

‘The Roots aren’t. The Roots are real. Universal, I mean.’

‘Then . . . oh.’ He took a deep breath and formed the words carefully, like someone testing for quicksand. ‘You want me to run the Roots of the Maze. And take out the other player.’

‘You’re so quick to catch on, Rick. I wonder if we’re related.’

‘That’s
illegal
,’ Rick said, tripping over the words. ‘You know that. Commissioning one player to assassinate another —’

‘No, it isn’t. It would only be illegal if I paid you.’

‘Oh well, that’s a relief,’ Rick said, piling on the sarcasm, not letting himself feel the unease underneath. What the hell was going on? Why didn’t Daed just get one of the gamemasters — or even the techies, if it was a bit shady — to sort it out? He thought: What’s this got to do with
me
?