The Trust (The Downlode Heroes Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  “Maybe we should call Kwan,” Stewart suggests.

  “No,” Eileen says simply. “I’ve got this covered, Stewart. We can’t involve anyone else just yet. And that includes the security team, so you’d better tell them to back off from me. I can’t have them getting in the way.”

  “I’ll brief them as soon as I can. We’ll deal with the fallout later.” Stewart gives Hank a concerned look. “And how about you? You’re OK?”

  “Fine,” Hank says. “Ready to get out of here.”

  Stewart pats him on the shoulder. “You’ve done well, Hank. I’ll see you later and we’ll talk this through. When you log off, you’ll find someone waiting with you. Call me if you need anything.” He turns to Eileen. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Right.” Eileen’s eyes lose focus. “OK, the trace is running. I’m taking us out now.”

  Hank watches their avatars fade away and vanish, then he looks down at Thomas’s unconscious figure and lets out a long breath. Maybe I should stay with him in case he comes around, he thinks. It doesn’t feel right to just leave him lying there. But Eileen told him to go outside, and if he logs off as soon as he can, there’ll be one less person for everyone to worry about.

  He wanders over to the doorway but pauses on the threshold. Grimwood’s body is still outside, lying on the ground. His avatar should’ve disappeared by now, Hank thinks. It’s like he’s still connected, still out there somewhere. And he pictures Grimwood sitting in a game chair, his face still twisted in a final grimace, his sightless eyes wide open.

  “He got what he deserved.” Hank cradles his injured hand and flexes the fingers bruised by the brutal blow from the butt of Grimwood’s rifle. “Game over, Grimwood. You lose.”

  But somehow, he can’t raise a smile, and he can’t stop staring at Grimwood. He’s gone for good, he tells himself, but a creeping sense of uncertainty takes root in his mind. Grimwood is supposed to be a genius, a cunning cybercriminal; a shot to the head is too easy an end for such a man. He would’ve protected himself, made a fallback plan, had an exit route ready.

  Hank steps outside, keeping his eyes on Grimwood. Stewart and Eileen had assumed it was all over for Grimwood—his connection severed instantaneously by the headshot—and they were too tied up with looking for Thomas to stay and check their kill. But that’s not good enough. Not for someone like Grimwood.

  Hank walks slowly over to Grimwood’s avatar, getting as close as he dares, then he bends down to examine the stricken avatar. The exit wound in the man’s temple is disgusting: an obscene mess of blood and bone the size of Hank’s fist. No one could’ve survived that, could they?

  Hank looks away from the gaping wound, and there, lying on the ground beside the body, is a distinctive dark shape: the combat knife. Grimwood must’ve dropped it as he fell. Hank steps closer and scoops the knife up by the handle, then he stands up straight, turning the weapon over in his hands. It looks ordinary enough, but Grimwood swore it had some special purpose. “I guess I should take it to Stewart,” Hank says. “He’ll know what to do with it.” And he adds it to his inventory. He’ll tell Stewart and Eileen about the knife later; no point bothering them until they’ve had a chance to look after Thomas and catch Grimwood. Let the dust settle, he thinks. And then what? Should he stay at Northridge? Will he even be allowed to stay after this epic disaster? “That really would be a kicker,” he grumbles. “All this way just to get sent home on the first full day.” He shakes his head slowly. That would be just his luck: thrown out before he’s had a chance to find his feet, before he’s even looked around the place properly.

  He steps back from the body and gazes out into the jungle. The place is just as spectacular as the first time he saw it. Every leaf looks real, every tree is unique, and every bug that crawls or squirms or flutters through the humid air is intent on its own business. There can be no other VR anywhere in the world that’s so vivid and complex, no simulated environment that can be so intensely immersive. And he has access to it. In time, if he works hard, perhaps he can help to build something like this; he could shape it, make it better, and bring it to the world. “That would be something,” he murmurs. “That would be something special.”

  He takes a breath. It wasn’t easy for him to come to Northridge. It wasn’t easy at all. But he’s here now, and if it comes to it, he’ll fight to keep his place. What happened today was a nightmarish mess, but no reasonable person could blame him for any of it. I just got thrown into this situation, he tells himself. I did my best to make it right, didn’t I?

  He runs his hand through his hair and remembers his excitement when his headset sprang to life, his satisfaction at being the first one to arrive in the jungle. He was totally unprepared for what followed, and all things considered, he managed pretty well. After all, he didn’t ask to be dragged into this disaster. Was it a coincidence that I was the only one in the class who logged in? he wonders. Or did someone fix things to put me here? He thinks back to his unique headset, and the phone that surprised even the hardware expert, Kwan.

  “I just don’t know,” Hank murmurs. “Why would anyone set me up? What would be the point?”

  He replays his conversation with Eileen, trying to unpick her role in all of this. But when he glances back toward the white building, something has changed. Grimwood’s avatar has gone; disappeared without a sound. There’s no bloodstain, no flattened vegetation to show where Grimwood fell, and perhaps that’s normal for this scenario. But even so, Hank casts his eye over the nearby undergrowth. If Grimwood somehow crawled off to hide, then he left no clue, no visible trail. Now I’m getting paranoid, Hank tells himself. Grimwood’s dead.

  Hank raises his eyes toward the sky, thinking, Is this what it’s going to be like at Northridge? Is this my life now? He lets his eyes wander across the thin gauze of pure white cloud, and an eagle glides overhead, its great wings scarcely moving as it rides the swirling currents of warm air. Hank takes a deep breath, and in that moment, a message appears in his UI:

  STATUS NORMAL

  “Is it?” Hank asks the empty jungle. “Is it really?” Then he focuses on the two words that will take him back to real life: Log off.

  CHAPTER 45

  HANK SITS VERY STILL, the last traces of dizziness twirling through his mind. I’m back! The room feels empty; rows of vacant chairs ranged out in front of him. But there’s a noise over to his right, and when he turns his head, Seb is sitting a few seats along, staring into space, his outsize headphones covering his ears. And sitting next to Seb is the young woman they met at the reception desk on the first night, her head on one side, engrossed in a book she’s reading. What was her name? It began with an A, didn’t it?

  Hank pulls his headset off, and the woman looks up with a start. Her eyes go wide and she stands up. Seb looks first at her and then swivels in his chair to look at Hank. “Hank!” he cries out, and a smile lights this face. “Oh man, you’re back!” He jumps to his feet and hurries to Hank’s side, then he throws himself down into the chair next to Hank and punches his friend on the upper arm. “Where the hell have you been, you idiot? We’ve been waiting forever.”

  Hank smiles. “Well pardon me. I didn’t mean to keep you from your highly important music studies.”

  Seb guffaws with childlike joy. “Goddammit, man! You really are a piece of work.”

  Hank stretches his legs then stands up, arching his back. How long have I been sitting in that damned chair? He rolls his shoulders and yawns, suddenly exhausted. “Man, I need a hot meal and ten hours of sleep,” he says. ”Or maybe that should be the other way around.”

  The woman joins them, standing at Seb’s side. “I’ve just called Stewart,” she says. “He says he’ll catch up with you soon. And he says I’m to tell you that they found Thomas straight away, and he’s all right.” She gives him an inquiring look. “Does he mean Thomas Bentham? That’s the only Thomas I know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hank says. “I forgot your name. I’m so tired rig
ht now, I hardly know which way is up.”

  The woman gives him a sympathetic smile. “I’m Asmita. And there’s a Thomas in the third year. Has something happened to him?”

  “I’m not sure if it’s the same guy,” Hank says. “He didn’t tell me his surname. But he’s about my height. Seemed kind of quiet.”

  “That could be him,” Asmita says. She folds her arms and looks downcast. “I hope he is OK. I was pretty hard on him the other day. I wonder what’s happened.”

  Hank purses his lips. “I don’t have any answers for you, Asmita—I wish I did. I guess we’ll find out later.”

  “Don’t worry,” Seb says. “If Stewart says this Thomas guy is OK, that’s got to be good, right?”

  Asmita nods sadly. “I hope so. I really do.”

  They stand in silence for a moment, then Hank says, “Asmita, would you do me a favor and tell Stewart I’ll talk to him tomorrow? I really need to take a rest. And to be honest, I don’t have anything much to say right now. I don’t understand even half of what just happened.”

  “Of course,” Asmita says. “I’ll tell him, but he might not like it.”

  “Thanks, Asmita,” Seb says. “It’s been kind of a weird day.”

  Hank gives him a look. “You think you had a weird day!”

  “All right, smart ass,” Seb says. “I’ll do the jokes.”

  Asmita gives them a puzzled look. “OK. Well, shall we get out of here?”

  “Sure,” Hank and Seb say together. They share a grin and then make themselves busy, stowing their gear. Hank finds the case for his headset, and when he puts the headset inside, the metal case closes automatically. I’m in no rush to put that thing back on, he thinks. Then he shoulders his backpack and heads for the door, with Seb and Asmita following close behind.

  ***

  Up in his room, Hank sits on the edge of his bed and kicks off his shoes, then he lies down and shuts his eyes. But his restless imagination just doesn’t know when to quit. His tired mind buzzes with a blur of muddled memories, vivid moments snatched from scores of scrambled recollections: travelling to Austin and logging into the jungle; the journey to England and the wild ride through the darkened landscape; the lone man creeping furtively into the moonlit garden, and the overheard argument the next day. Events and coincidences collide in Hank’s memory, disjointed and out of sequence. There ought to be a pattern, he thinks. A chain of cause and effect. But whenever he gets close to piecing everything together, new questions crowd into his mind and the slender thread of meaning slips from his grasp. The voice in the garden belonged to Thomas, he’s sure of that now. But nothing else. Nothing that makes sense.

  He opens his eyes, stares up at the ceiling and says, “This is a waste of time.” Then he sits up and his stomach lets him know that it’s a while since he ate anything. When he left Seb, his friend was heading for the cafeteria to grab some lunch, but Hank couldn’t face it. I should’ve gone with him, he thinks. But then he recalls that before they went their separate ways, Seb said there were some snacks in the rooms. Hank wasn’t really paying attention to the details, but Seb told him where to look. “Under the counter,” Hank mutters. “That’s what he said.”

  Hank pushes himself off the bed, goes over to the small counter and examines the wooden panel beneath it. There’s no visible handle, but when he takes hold of the edge and pulls, the panel swings open revealing not a cupboard, but a refrigerator, and the shelves are already stocked with a variety of drinks and snacks. He reaches out for a chocolate bar, but he spies a bottle of beer and grabs that instead. “Hey, they have Bud over here.” He keeps the bottle and closes the refrigerator, then he hunts for a drawer or anything else that might hold a bottle opener. There’s got to be something, he thinks. After all, his new hosts won’t take it too kindly if he starts using the furniture to knock off bottle caps.

  But he can find nothing useful. “To hell with it,” he grumbles. “I’ll have water instead.” But as he heads back to the refrigerator, he remembers something. He crosses the room and squats down next to his duffle bag, which is still lying where he dropped it, then he looks inside, delving in among the folded clothes until his fingers close on something smooth and hard. “Got you.”

  Hank takes out the Swiss army knife and selects the bottle opener, then he pops the cap off the beer and raises the bottle to an invisible guest. “Here’s to you, Dad,” he says. And after a long swig of cold beer, he lies down on the bed and closes his eyes.

  This place is crazy, he thinks, but you know what? I reckon I’ll fit right in.

  CHAPTER 46

  IN A ROOM WITHIN NORTHRIDGE’S MEDICAL CENTER, Stewart turns away from the window. The room is light and airy, its walls painted in a relaxing shade of pale blue, and the furniture has been chosen carefully; the place looks more like a hotel bedroom than a hospital.

  There’s a noise from the bed, a low moan from its occupant, and Stewart moves over to the bedside chair and sits down. “Good morning, Thomas. How are you doing today?”

  Thomas looks up, blinking. “Is it morning already? I only just got to sleep.”

  “Yes, they told me you’ve been having trouble sleeping. Perhaps you need something to help you.”

  “No thanks. I tried a sleeping pill—it made everything worse.” Thomas grunts then shuffles himself up into a sitting position. He takes a glass of water from his nightstand and takes a sip, then he grimaces. “That doesn’t taste so good.”

  “Let me give you something better.” Stewart picks up a plastic bottle of mineral water from the floor. “I brought you this. It’s been in the fridge.”

  Thomas smiles. “Thanks. I still think it’s kind of funny when you don’t call it a refrigerator.”

  “Ah, yes. Think of the time we save by dropping all those syllables.” Stewart opens the bottle and passes it to Thomas. “You can drink it from the bottle. I’ll bring you a fresh one later.”

  “Thanks.” Thomas takes a long drink then lets out a grateful sigh.

  Stewart sits back in the chair and stretches his legs out in front of him. He gives Thomas a relaxed smile. “Still having nightmares?”

  “No.” Thomas looks away, his lips move soundlessly for a second. He takes another drink, then he puts the bottle on the nightstand before looking at Stewart. “That wasn’t…I mean, yeah, I still get the nightmares. If that’s the right word.” He pauses and licks his lips before speaking again. “Sometimes…sometimes I think I’m still there. Or worse…I feel like…like…”

  “Like what, Thomas? It’s all right. You can tell me.”

  Thomas swallows. “It’s like he’s here. Here in the room. I hear him talking.”

  “I understand,” Stewart says. “You’ve had a big shock to your system. You’ve been under a great deal of stress and after an experience like that, it’s very common to have flashbacks. But we can work with you to get rid of those. Honestly, Thomas. I know it’s difficult, but it won’t be forever.”

  Thomas shakes his head. “How can it be a flashback? I hear him saying things he never said before.”

  “The mind is a complex thing, Thomas. It’s playing tricks on you—inventing a story as a way to make sense of your ordeal. That’s all it is—a story. It isn’t real. As far as we know, Grimwood is dead.”

  “I guess so.” Thomas digs his fingers into his hair, scratching furiously at his scalp. “A story, huh? I guess that kind of makes sense.” He shoots Stewart a look. “so…how’s Marcus doing? Is he any better today?”

  Stewart takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling for a moment before turning his attention back to Thomas. “Marcus has come to a decision. He did think about leaving the Trust, but we talked it over and he’s going to stay. However, he wants to go back to the States and continue his studies there, so as soon as he’s fit enough, we’re flying him home to visit his family. He’s very much looking forward to it.”

  Thomas heaves a sigh. “Did he say anything about me?”

  “Marcu
s never knew that you were involved, Thomas. We’ve explained to him that someone took Asmita’s avatar, but we told him that we never traced the culprit.” Stewart pauses. “You did a terrible thing, Thomas. A terrible thing. And Marcus is angry, of course he is. He’s hurt, and he’s very confused. There are times when he blames himself for being taken in, and well…you can probably guess how fragile he is right now. But we’re helping him. Marcus has had some counseling with a therapist, and we’ll support him for as long as he needs it. Physically, he gets stronger every day, but his confidence is a different matter. It will be a long time before he uses VR again, that’s for sure, but we think he’ll be OK. And things will look up for him once he gets back to the States—we’ll make certain of that. He’ll have every advantage the Trust can provide, and we’ll rebuild his confidence piece by piece, however long it takes.”

  Thomas plucks at his bottom lip with his fingers. “He couldn’t…he couldn’t find out it was me, could he?”

  “No. And he’ll be leaving Northridge very soon. We’ll let his closest friends say goodbye to him before he leaves, but that’s the only contact he’ll have with anyone here. And it’s my belief that with enough help and encouragement, he’ll be able to put his experiences aside and start afresh.”

  “Good,” Thomas says. “That’s good. I hope…I mean, I wish I could tell him I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t think that would help. It’s better this way.”

  “And what about me? Will I be sent home?”

  Stewart studies Thomas’s expression. “Is that what you want, Thomas?”

  “Yes.” He hesitates. “I don’t know. I deserve to get kicked out. After what I did, they’ve got to throw me out, haven’t they?”

  “Not necessarily,” Stewart says calmly. “There are always options to discuss. And I’m sure you’ll do your best to make amends. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Thomas looks down at his hands, and he rubs one hand over the other, over and over again. “I want to help, you know that, but I don’t know what I can do. I already told you everything I know.”