Gamerunner (5 page)

Daed thought I could do this, no problem.

Yeah, well. Daed said he’d disabled the traps, and
that
wasn’t exactly —

Some of the traps. He said he’d disable
some
of the — wait. What if —?

He knows how Daed’s mind works. There should be a trap just before the great doors, the route Herkules404 took. You don’t get doors like that without
something
to make it harder. But there’s nothing marked on the map. So —

Please.
Please
. Let this work. It’s not much of a plan, but
please
—

He inches his way towards the doors, spinning so fast he can hardly keep his sense of direction. But he can’t lose his concentration now; not when there might — just might — be a chance, after all. The bats dance and scream, glinting like petrol and wet ink. Gouts of black blood spray around him. If this were real, he’d be covered with the stuff; as it is he can smell it. It’s a nasty, heavy scent, like tar. He keeps moving, breathless, pushing himself harder and harder. Gods, it’s like trying to keep raindrops off his face by dodging between them. He glances sideways — where are the doors? He should be there by now — and immediately there’s a flash of red in the corners of his vision, punishing him.
Damn
. A bat-bite; one won’t kill him, but another one might.
Your HP is 3.
You are dying. Find a doctor as soon as possible. You are dying.
Find a
—

Yes, yes, OK . . . ‘Hide the stats!’

They’ve tasted blood. Now he can’t see individual bats, only a shimmering fog of dark. And he
still
doesn’t know where he is. How the hell did Herkules404 get through . . . ?

He spins, his whole chest hurting now, the joints of his shoulders and wrists burning as if there’s sandpaper between the bones. No more, he thinks. No more. Five more seconds, and I’m going to let them kill me. He doesn’t know where he’s going: he takes a step back, then forward, giddy and off-balance. Sorry, Athene, you’re going to —

He steps back, and his ankle gives way, unexpectedly, throwing him down and sideways as deftly as a judo opponent. He’s on one knee, suddenly helpless; he watches in a kind of appalled slow-mo as one dagger skitters away across the floor. His kneecap suddenly flares into a blaze of pain. Something makes a noise like a portcullis dropping. Oh, for gods’ sake — there is a trap after all, he misread the map again . . . He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the silence and cold that’ll tell him he’s dead.

His heartbeat rattles in his ears. The bats are still screaming.

Slowly he opens his eyes again.

It’s worked.

He’s kneeling in the space where the trap should be, watching the storm of bats circle confusedly around him. They won’t touch him; they think the trap’s still there. Daed’s disabled it, but some of the code is still functioning: the sound effect, the clear space around him. He gets to his feet and stands, panting, in the pocket of safety. He’s giggling with exhaustion. Oh, thank you, thank you, Daed.

He doesn’t want to move, ever again, but he’s going to have to. He tilts his head back, wearily, and looks at the map. Herkules404 is at the opposite end of the next tunnel.

Too hard, he thinks. There’s no way I can fight someone in this state. But then Herkules404 had to do this, too; he might not be feeling any better. And Daed wants me to do it — wonderful, brilliant Daed, who disabled that trap for me . . .

He crouches, retrieves his dagger, and walks towards the doors, scuffing the floor with his runners. The bats swirl and hover, noticing him again, but they’re not quick enough to come in for the kill before he gets to the door. He pushes it open — he’s got just enough strength to do it — and slides through the gap. There’s no need to close it after him: the bats won’t desert their territory. He stands in the shadows, looking down the corridor. And there he is, running the traps at the far end of the passage.

Herkules404.

Chapter 5

Rick stands and watches him, making the most of the time before he notices he’s not alone. So, Herkules404, what’re you like? Short — even smaller than Rick — and stocky, silver-blond hair, flashy armour, faint glow of golden light . . . more gilt than sense, then. Sure, it looks good, but try a stealth assassination when you’re
luminous
, for gods’ sake.

And . . .

Rick squints, peering through the torch-light, wondering whether it’s safe to put his own light on. If only he could see more clearly — because there’s something . . . he can’t quite put his finger on it. Herkules’ speed is OK, just about — but the way he’s running the traps, it looks too . . . sloppy. No flips, just sprinting, a couple of leaps, a pointless cartwheel in the middle, as if he’s showing off. No precision, Rick thinks; no economy. He should be
dead
, running like that. Rick steadies his breathing, hissing through his teeth. That blade-trap — easy, of course, but . . . he could have sworn Herkules just ran
through
it. But he doesn’t falter. On to the next — and gods, he
is
just running through the blades. The speed’s right, but he’s not even bothering to time it properly: the blade spins right through his legs, and he should be dead, he should be
dead
.

‘Enable PvP,’ Rick says. If he can see Herkules’ health bar, that should tell him —

Player versus player mode enabled. All speech will be relayed into the arena.
There’s a pause.
No live players in range.

Oh, my gods, Rick thinks.

Herkules404 is
dead
. He’s a ghost.

So what the hell is he doing here?

He starts to run, pauses before he gets to the nearest trap, and calls, ‘Hey! Herkules!’

Herkules looks round. His mouth moves and there’s a tiny silence before he says, ‘What do you want?’

Foreign, then, Rick thinks: that’s the translation program causing the delay. He says, ‘What’re you doing? You’re dead. You can’t complete a quest when you’re dead.’

‘None of your business.’ He’s standing on top of a pressure switch: a claw is swiping at him, passing harmlessly through his chest and resetting itself, over and over.

‘You’re spying out the Roots, aren’t you?’ Rick feels a rush of relief: he won’t have to fight this guy, after all. He’s not going to complete the Roots: he’s just come in for a recce. ‘You think you’ll come back when you’re alive, and you’ll know where to go. Look, mate, it’s not worth it, honestly. No one can complete the Roots. You’re wasting your time.’

‘Go away.’

Rick’s pretty sure that wasn’t an accurate translation. He says, ‘I’m just giving you some friendly advice.’

‘I’m not doing anything wrong. So muck off and stop bothering me, you skinny little girl.’

Rick clenches his fists. Of course, he’s Athene. He’s a girl . . . He says, ‘If you’re working for a tankshop, it’s illegal.’ But he knows it’s a long shot: Herkules
might
be spying out the Roots for a tankshop, but then again, he might not. And he’s spent money on his avatar: with that look, he’s probably some rich eastern kid, not a tankshopper.

‘You think I’m doing something illegal? So call a GM. Report me.’

Rick shrugs. ‘I’m just trying to help.’

‘What do you want, a big kiss?’ Herkules leers at him. ‘What guilds do you belong to, anyway?’

Oh, hell. He doesn’t know. His own are the Assassins, the Heroes, the Alpha Omega, the Silver Shield — but Athene’s? He says, ‘The Alpha Omega,’ and tries to look like he believes it.

‘The Alpha —? Oh, yeah, right. Sure you do. If I were alive, I’d
love
to take you on. You’d be on your knees . . .’ Herkules pouts at him and flutters his eyelashes.

Gods, who does this cretin think he is? Rick says, ‘Up yours,’ and wonders how it’ll translate.

‘Sorry, sweetheart. Not now. I’ve got things to do. Now run away and play with your dolls.’

‘Oh, whatever,’ Rick says. It’s not much of an exit line, but he’s knackered. He leans against the wall and slides down until he’s sitting with his knees up. That’s it for you and me, Athene, he thinks. We didn’t even need to be here. What a waste of time. I am going to
kill
Daed.

He watches Herkules, idly, as he runs the barrage of claws and blades and darts. Why is he running? He doesn’t have to run, if he’s a ghost . . . He must be running for the surves’ benefit, Rick thinks, so that they don’t notice there’s a ghost in the Roots. He’s trying not to draw attention to himself. Because . . .

I’m not doing anything wrong
. . . So what
is
he doing?

Rick’s too tired to get a complete grasp on his own thoughts; but his body is suddenly buzzing again. A hunch, that’s all: like a pinprick in the wall of his stomach, hardly noticeable at first, until he feels the unease slowly starting to leak out. He levers himself to his feet, pressing his hand against the wall for balance.

It’s mad, of course. Now he knows that Herkules is dead, he’s not sure if it’s even possible to follow him. But he should try, at least; he knows he should. Rick thinks: Wait. Daed didn’t know he was a ghost, did he? Daed thought he was alive, and I could kill him. So he’s not showing up as a ghost, on the survey computers. It’s not just that they haven’t noticed, it’s that the server thinks he’s alive . . . So there’s definitely something dodgy, he must be cheating, somehow. And you have to be alive to run a quest, to complete it . . . He must be doing something, he must have a plan, he
must
be cheating. I have to go after him. I need to do something . . .

Like . . . Like
what
? I can’t fight him . . .

For some reason it’s the thought of Daed — not how he normally is, but how he was tonight, shielding his eyes from the light — that makes up Rick’s mind for him, finally. He’ll do everything he can, for Daed.

He sets off after Herkules. He’s lucky he’s used to spending hours in the Maze: he can flick his concentration on and off, like a switch. He imagines the traps as part of him: their rhythm is his rhythm, the volume they take up is an extension of his own body. It’s a trick, but it works: he can judge the spaces perfectly, the split-second opportunities for him to move.
He
doesn’t need to be a ghost. He feels the confidence running through him like water, but he stays careful, not too tense, not too relaxed, because the smallest mistake and he’ll be dead. He tumbles, rolls, skids, goes round a treacherous corner — thank gods, a line of disabled traps, so he can run for a few seconds without thinking — and Herkules is there, jogging up a long slope, towards a blank wall.

Rick glances at his map. Yep, it
is
a blank wall. Nothing special about it: just a dead end. So why doesn’t Herkules turn round and come back?

Herkules slows to a walk, then stops, rolls his shoulders. He reaches down between his shoulder blades with one hand, pushing his elbow back with the other. He stands easily, facing the wall, rocking from foot to foot. Suddenly the pretence of tension has gone out of his movements: he looks like someone stretching after a fight, taking his time before he loots his enemy’s corpse.
No need to rush
, his body says. Whatever he was trying to do, he’s done it.

And there
is
a corpse. Rick sees it before he understands what it means. A corpse; a short, slumped shape, half sitting, half lying against that blank, impassive wall. A vaguely person-shaped, glittering mound of jewelled armour and blond hair, glowing faintly golden.

Rick didn’t think he could run any faster: but it’s as if Athene adds her strength to his, and together they’re sprinting, kicking up against the wall to get the height to vault a spindle-trap, dropping, rolling, the air whistling as the next trap activates in a cascade of razor-sharp scales like a dragon’s back. Rick’s mind is blank: he’s a camera, a machine, nothing but eyes and muscles, dancing his way through the last ems of danger. He has to get to Herkules; now he understands what’s happening, no, he
will
understand, as soon as he’s got time to think . . .

He opens his mouth to shout, but he hasn’t got any breath; and when he surfaces from the next roll something stops him trying again. It’s like Athene whispering in his ear:
No, Rick. Not yet. Wait.

He staggers to his feet, dragging the air into his lungs, scans the space in front of him and sags with relief. A line of plate-traps glints dully, deactivated. Thank you, Daed. He moves forward — soggy and trembling, you couldn’t call it a run — until he’s only a few ems away from Herkules and his corpse. He’s not particularly quiet, but Herkules is staring up into thin air, and doesn’t seem to hear him. Rick thinks, with an irrational pang of shock:
He
’s got a map, too. Where the hell is he getting these cheats from? When this is over, someone has to tell Crater . . .

Herkules rubs his eyes, wipes sweat off his forehead, and nods. His lips move, but there’s no sound. Then he takes a step towards his corpse, checks the map one last time, and kneels to touch his body.