He looked down at the webbing. It would last for ten seconds — more than enough time for Carl to reach him and win the game. With his free hand, Arty fired off the last shell from his Time Whisk. Carl saw him do it and dived to his left, behind a beat-up Oldsmobile. He nearly made it too. Only the tip of his left shoe remained inside the radius of the mangled cone of time as it reverberated down Broadway.
As the cone touched his foot, Carl experienced five seconds of time in reverse. He uncurled from a ball on the floor, flew feet-first through the air, landed on the street and ran backwards, away from Arty, while the webbing dissolved. The trigger was fifty metres away, and the game was back on, sending spectators from both sides wild.
As he approached the steps, Arty wondered what Carl was up to. He could see him in his rear-view cam, but he wasn’t chasing after him and didn’t appear to have a weapon pointed in his direction. A few metres later, he discovered why. At first Arty slowed down to a jog. Then he stopped halfway up the steps and turned around, a dreamy expression on his face. His pupils were spinning and his mouth was hanging open like a cartoon dog, his tongue lolling about, spooling spit onto his chin.
The cheers from Arty’s teammates turned to gasps and boos. His arms rose either side of him as he skipped back down the street. Carl had saved the item for the very last moment, classic showman that he was. The Pipe of Hamelin could be used to lure other players toward you, for the ten seconds that its musical powers lasted.
If he didn’t act fast, it would all be over. Although he was incapacitated by the music, he could still cycle through the items in his inventory. Most of them were useless in his current state: a jar of Skidz that he wished he’d used earlier, a Sword of Sadism that was best suited to hand-to-hand combat, and a load of other items that required the use of his limbs. It was no good. Carl was going to win for the fifth year running. And he’d been so close. It would mean months of abuse in the staff canteen from The Wizballs and Carl waving the trophy at him from across the office.
Only thirty metres separated them. Arty skipped back down Broadway like a drugged-up loony, unable to change his course or snap out of his state of hypnosis. He scrolled through his inventory frantically. Aha! There was something he could actually use, an item that didn’t need to be fired or manipulated. He activated the DoppelGanger Scanner and hoped that he still had control over his eyes. It worked. The little beauty.
For the next ten seconds he glared at pedestrians, scanning them from head to foot with his eyes, turning them into cloned versions of himself. He knew the item existed — he had a vague recollection of helping to design it a few years ago — but he didn’t know its precise mechanics. It worked just as he had hoped. The cloned Artys were subjected to the lure of the Pipe in the same way he was. Within seconds he’d scanned dozens of people, all of whom now crowded round Carl with the same dopey look on their faces. Arty kept cycling through his items. He had given himself a brief respite but needed to follow it with something, and fast.
Carl became so engulfed in a sea of Artys that he stopped playing the Pipe.
“Help me identify him then, Wizballs,” he shouted. Without missing a beat, the Bomb Jacks started calling out random locations: “Behind the steam vent! Up on the fire escape!”
The confusion gave Arty just the chance he needed. He leapt forward, knocked the Pipe clean out of Carl’s hand, threw down a jar of Skidz and then sprinted back toward the trigger. Arty’s team resumed their cheers while Carl flailed around behind him. Every item he tried to use was hampered by the slippery surface — he couldn’t stay still long enough to aim properly.
Arty ran up the steps, a huge smile across his face. Keeping one eye volleyed to his rear-view cam, he kept track of Carl, slipping and sliding all over the place, and joined in the Chant of the Odds, “One, Three, Five, Seven, Send the Bomb Jacks up to Heaven!” He was about to take the 2020 Grid Runner title and be the toast of Odds throughout the company. He’d get to keep the trophy on his desk — a solid platinum latticework, along whose top edge ran a man and a woman — and be the one to tease Carl throughout the year for a change.
And he would have made it, of that, there was no doubt. He would have pulled the trigger if the SWAT team hadn’t crashed straight through the sixth storey windows at that very second, sending glass shards flying everywhere and a terrified bunch of half-drunk Spiralheads diving for cover.
***
The SWAT team entered the room from every conceivable angle, smashing through windows and buckling the doors clean off their hinges. Arty ripped his headset off in one swift movement and froze for a couple of seconds as the dark, marauding invaders swarmed toward him, his brain unable to ascertain which reality he was in: the virtual or the consensual. By the time it had computed its answer — that this was, absolutely, resolutely occurring in everyday reality, the team were already upon him, bundling him under the nearest desk, out of terror’s way.
While he lay in the foetal position, whimpering like a baby, the SWAT team made quick work of their targets — two clowns and a magician who had been due to start performing once the Grid Runner trophy had been awarded. As part of the evening’s entertainment, they had been waiting in the Settlers of Catan meeting room, applying makeup and getting into their vaudeville costumes. But also, as it turned out, securing ceramic knives in their hidden holsters — weapons that had evaded the security gates in the lobby.
Three shots were fired in quick succession. There was a flashing of handcuffs, a zipping of body bags and a lot of shouting. The whole thing was over in minutes. But it was the news they gave him afterwards that had really shaken him up. He — Artica Kronkite — had been the target of the planned assassination. Those ceramic knives had been intended to break his flesh, to spill his blood. He’d been only minutes away from certain death, and not the virtual kind.
He looked round the room and surveyed the destruction before him — the smashed windows, the upturned seats, the blood smeared down the rear wall of the meeting room — and found himself imagining his body there amongst it all. He was still in shock when the agents in dark suits asked if he would come with them to see what help he could offer with their investigation. Nodding numbly, he grabbed his jacket and noticed the figurines from the Grid Runner trophy lying in a pool of shattered glass on the floor, desolate and broken.
***
Another minute ticked by on the wonky clock above Nova’s head in the police interview room. Another sixty seconds spent there, staring at Officer Dibble’s waxed facial hair and answering his repetitive questions, rather than at Fragging Hell, where she desperately wanted to be. The events of the evening were on loop in her mind: Raymond, dressed as Batman, asking for a photo with Zhang, the critical alert from Gogmagog, that remote control cradled in his hands.
Then Burner, her best friend and the closest thing she had to a brother, appearing from out of nowhere, flying through the air like he was some kind of American football beefcake hero, and slamming Raymond into the nearest row of monitors. He‘d received the same alert as her, but deciphered its meaning sooner. Quick enough to scan the café, surge through several groups of people and make the tackle. He had saved her life.
The Holy Order had targeted Zhang, removing his secondary battery and replacing it with explosives, the same kind used in the attack that killed Sushi. From everything Nova had told the police these last few hours, it seemed most probable that the couple with the broken-down car had planted the explosives, while she and Burner had helped them start it. With the benefit of hindsight, it seemed so obvious.
Her mind kept wandering back to the furball. Had he felt heavier when the woman handed him back? Lighter even? Whatever the case, they’d used him, her little buddy. Now he was stashed away in police custody, a piece of evidence bagged and tagged like any other. Professor Plum in the Library with the Candlestick. The Holy Order in the Gaming Café with the Electropet. She felt sick thinking about him all alone in that airtight bag, locked in an evidence room
, surrounded by knives and guns.
Lots of shouting and screaming had followed the tackle. Blaring sirens. A concerned policeman escorting her and Burner to his car. And then this — four hours of uninterrupted interrogation under the harsh glare of the interview room lights. It was important, they said, literally a matter of life and death, that she tell them everything she knew. Other lives were at risk, she had been only one target among many.
She understood that it was real life, that it was more important than any game, however dear to her, however close she had come to making its final stages. Sushi would understand that she had done her best. It just seemed such a boring, inappropriate way to make an exit. Timed out. And not even while taking a stab at it. Timed out and at the police station.
But then, as the clock ticked past 11:30 p.m., Officer Dibble got up from his seat, opened the door and held out his hand, motioning for her to leave the room. Finally the interrogation was over, for now at least, after what had seemed like half a lifetime. He led her out of the stuffy room into the hectic corridor where her mum and dad received her with open arms and cries of joy. The tears that streamed down their faces reminded her of the danger she’d been in, and part of her knew that she should share their elation. She was alive, goddammit, and had come so close to being other than. Yet she felt empty, hollow almost, as if by diverting her time and attention in this manner, the Order had claimed some small victory over her anyway.
Eventually breaking from their warm embrace, she turned to face Burner, who had finished his own interview a few minutes earlier. She met his stare, paused for a moment to finds words suited to the occasion, and fought back the tears welling in her eyes.
“I don’t know what to say, mate. Nice tackle?”
“Steady on, not with your parents here.”
Mr Negrahnu reached over and gripped Burner’s shoulder. It was a firm embrace coupled with a loving smile that meant more than words could say.
“I owe you my life,” Nova said, wiping away a tear that had escaped.
“Forget that,” he said, his face lighting up all of a sudden. “Let’s just cancel the butler bet and call it quits. We don’t have our headsets with us, so we need to get you down to Fragging Hell ASAP. There’s only a few spaces left in the Final Million, and one of them’s got your name on it.”
“Ah, that. I didn’t have much chance when we first got there, but with thirty minutes until midnight? I’d say I’ve got zero chance.”
“Wrong, actually. Jono just messaged me. There have been a few — how shall I put it — developments since earlier in the evening. Various events have transpired, making your situation rather more favourable.” His cheery expression turned serious all of a sudden. “Except my car’s still in town.”
“Not to worry, folks,” Officer Dibble said, twizzling one end of his pencil thin moustache. “It sounds like a certain couple of heroes need to be somewhere, pronto.”
Nova looked at the officer, then at Burner. She shrugged her shoulders and then nodded her head, still no closer to understanding how her situation might have improved.
“Wicked,” said Burner, clicking his fingers in the air. “I’ll explain on the way.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
For the second time that evening, Nova and Burner approached Fragging Hell, this time hurtling hell for leather in a cop car, blue lights blazing. She still wasn’t sure if she believed what Burner had told her. It just didn’t seem possible. Yet every time she had called bullshit on him, he had sworn on his nan’s life that he was telling the truth. And Burner didn’t bring his nan’s life into things on a whim.
Officer Dibble palmed the café door open with one hand and saluted Nova with the other. As she and Burner entered, the place erupted into applause, cheers and the premature pulling of party poppers. She lumbered forward, trying to take it all in, returning high fives and shaking hands. Burner was in his element, lapping up the praise like a seasoned rock star. When they stopped in front of Jockey, like a bride and groom on their big day, the noise died, as quickly as it had begun. He embraced them both in one huge, heartfelt bear hug and then raised his voice so the whole crowd could hear.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it brief. I know the clock’s ticking. Your brave actions earlier this evening saved a great many lives, but also my business. Tonight you are my esteemed guests. Your food and drinks are on the house. I’m also giving each of you VIP membership — for life.”
The pair of them grinned from ear to ear, and their profile pictures appeared on the overhead monitors, stamped with the letters ‘VIP’.
Jockey turned to Nova.
“Well then, Miss Negrahnu, how do you plan to do it? There are a handful of places left in the Final Million and barely twenty-five minutes until midnight. I believe you have some time left on the deluxe gaming chairs. Do you mind if we sync your display to the overhead monitors? This should make for interesting viewing.”
Nova shrugged and felt herself blush at the same time. She had no idea how she would do it. And it sounded like she’d have the additional pressure of everyone watching. She glanced up at the monitors. One showed the death counter ticking up at an incredible rate. Thousands of lives were being lost every minute. Solos who knew they had no hope of making the Final Million were tackling the outstanding quests, eager to scalp a bounty instead.
Another screen displayed the Player’s Grid. As profile squares had turned dark during the year, remaining squares had gotten brighter, as if there was a fixed amount of light that needed to escape from behind the northern wall. Although the grid was mostly dark now, active squares like hers were like lasers in their dazzling brilliance.
Jockey led her to a ringed-off chair and then retreated to the DJ booth overlooking the room. He grasped the cross-fader, waited until all eyes were on him and then slid it across while punching the air with his other fist. Eye of the Tiger kicked into play and everyone started to cheer. Nova flipped the chair’s headset down, familiarised herself with the controls and synced her display to the overheads. If the crowd wanted to see Nova in action, the crowd were going to get Nova in action.
Her jaw dropped when she logged back in to see that her inventory had become an Aladdin's cave of items. She now had a full complement of one hundred at her disposal, some so rare she’d not heard their names before, as well as more than three thousand teleport tokens. Burner had not been shitting her.
In the aftermath of the attempted attack, he’d called Jono. They figured the police would want to speak to her and Burner to understand how they’d thwarted the attack and learn who else might be at risk. That’s when they decided to get the word out about Nova’s plight — the girl who had helped find the Holy Order’s training camp had now been targeted by that very same group and had managed to foil them once again. They explained that she’d been detained at the police station to help the authorities prevent other attacks, and was at risk of missing a place in the Final Million. They asked for help from anyone in a position to give it.
Word had spread fast. Several hundred members of Solar Soc had shared the message with their friends. Max and Maurice got the word out to thousands of people who used their software, spotting another great opportunity for PR. Before the hour was out, hundreds of thousands of players had heard about her plight, some of whom were in her situation — still in The Game, but not yet in the Final Million. A thousand or so people cared enough to respond to the plea, amending their wills to name her. And eighteen of them did die during her time at the police station, bequeathing her the humongous bounty of items she now had in her possession.
She traced the Solarversia constellation for what she hoped wouldn’t be the last time and exited a cube overlooking the Hoover Dam. The very first thing she did was search her inventory for health packs. Finding five in total, she replenished her health to full, the glowing green bar providing a much-needed psychological boost. Next she pulled up the Route Planner, more from force of habit than from necessity, already
knowing what it would advise her to do — leg it to the nearest teleport machine, haul her ass to Neptune, solve Yottanja’s puzzle, then teleport to Pluto to face Brontanja.
She glanced at the datafeed. The time was 11:38 p.m. Because it was the last day of normal play, the Grandmaster puzzles, which usually ran on the hour, had changed frequency to every five minutes. The last puzzle on all the planets except Pluto would be at 11:50 p.m. As the furthest planet from the Sun, and the location of the Portal of Promise, where players needed to end up by midnight, there was one additional slot there at five to midnight. Talk about cutting it fine.
As she started running towards the nearest teleporter, she heard a familiar high-pitched bleating sound above the mighty roar of the water pouring through the dam. It was the kind of noise a tortured lamb might make, though this was no lamb. It was an Obarian — a winged ball of teeth — and it was headed straight for her. As she sprinted along the curved lip of the dam, she could hear Burner telling the crowd to shut the hell up.
“Throw me a bone here, Burner. I faced a wave of these things in the Simulator a couple of months ago, but my mind’s gone blank. I remember it advising me to use a small shield, rather than a large one, but that’s about all I can remember.”
“We can do better than a small shield. Keep running, but search for an item called an Obarian Obliterator while you do — someone spotted one in your inventory. It looks like a baseball bat. Get ready to activate it, stop running, spin round and twat the fucker as hard as you can. Remember that it’s aiming for your neck.”
Only the vaguest of memories of training with a bat like this stirred in her mind, so when she made the perfect pitch, exploding the fanged sphere into a thousand bloody pieces, hers was the loudest cheer in the room. Cutting her celebration short, she resumed sprinting for the machine, still an agonising twenty seconds away.
Solarversia: The Year Long Game Page 31