Hope coursed through her body. It might have been a long shot, but it felt like her only shot. She took a deep breath and charged straight at him. Surprised at her sudden aggression, he braced himself. She smashed into him as hard as possible, then pirouetted through the air, landed and leapt as far as she could away from him, onto the patch of broken glass.
It took her a hop and a skip to clear it. Her feet were bloodied, her health had taken another hit, but she had escaped him. And more importantly, she had a plan. Behind her, Ozwald cursed, before calling after her, “You can’t run forever, little girl. Come and give the crowd what they want — your blood smeared down my axe.”
She snaked her way around the death traps toward the gap in the ground, making note of the likely route Ozwald would take on his way to her. Then she ran around the gap and positioned herself in what looked to be the optimal place. As he approached, she did her best to remain calm and tried especially hard not to look down. She started to swing her axe, like she had seen him do.
“Been practising, huh?” He followed her example. At first he matched her speed, a couple of rotations every second. Then he ramped his speed up a notch. She copied him, doing her best to keep up.
“You think that’s fast? Get a load of this.” He ramped up once more. His smile turned to a smirk. “Too quick for you, huh?”
This was her chance, she knew it. She tried to emulate his new speed and then did her best impression of fumbling it. When the axe clattered to the ground and disappeared into the gap, Nova emitted the most convincing gasp she could muster.
“Don’t worry, second place is still very admirable.” He kept swinging his axe, but now walked toward her. She fixed his gaze and clutched her shield tight to her chest.
As he stepped over the gap he came to a standstill. His smirk disappeared. He looked at Nova and then down at whatever had just clasped hold of him. A razor-sharp set of Huntropellimous claws protruded from the gap. Its pincers straddled the lower part of his body. A look of horror spread across his face. The claws snapped shut, slicing clean through his body armour. He collapsed forward, open like a banana split. The beast’s second claw appeared and started snipping at his body, cutting it into pieces small enough to pull back into its lair.
As she watched him disappear into the hole, chunk by chunk, Nova realised that she had done it. She was the winner of Solarversia, Grand Champion of The Year-Long Game. There could only be one — and she was it. She looked up to the crowd in shock, hoping their response would help her take it all in. But the crowd seemed strangely still. Looking closer, she discovered that the arena wasn’t just still, it was silent.
She turned slowly on the spot and surveyed the crowd. Everyone was frozen. Arkwal must have been halfway through a clap; it looked like he was holding an invisible football. Ludi Bioski was in the middle of turning a dial one way or the other. Except for the area within the arena, time had stopped functioning at the Colosseum. Nova gulped. What was going on?
She’d just won Solarversia. Hadn’t she?
Chapter Forty-Nine
Arty kept volleying between the cams in the Colosseum, trying to work out what had just happened. It wasn’t unheard of for a cam to freeze, especially with so many people logged in at once, but it was unusual for all of them to freeze at once. Theoretically it was impossible — the cams were programmed to automatically reboot themselves. But as he volleyed around the Colosseum, he saw the same thing from every view — the crowd frozen mid-action. He swiped the visor off his face and glanced around the Olympic Stadium in a state of panic. Next to him Hannah was speaking, words he could barely take in. In the stadium people had started to boo. He hurdled his seat and made a dash for the Command Centre.
“Carl, why has every cam frozen?” Arty held out his thumb and forefinger a centimetre apart. “Tell me you’re this close to fixing whatever has gone wrong.” Most of the screens in the room were flashing warnings of some kind or performing diagnostic checks. Some people were shouting into their headsets, others were frantically tapping away at their keyboards.
Carl looked like he was about to throw up on his desk. “The Celebratory Program should have started running the instant the person in second place died. But it didn’t. Something called the MetaMyth Program has kicked in. There’s a ReadMe text file attached. It’s from Theodore Markowsky.” He cleared his throat. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing. The clacking of keyboards hurriedly ended, leaving only the sound of catcalls emanating from the crowd outside.
“Unless you want blood on your hands, tell whoever won to remain seated and logged in. Do not try to stop MetaMyth from running. Further instructions will follow. Enjoy the different ending.”
The room remained silent as two hundred people tried to process what they’d just heard. Hands went to ashen faces, wide eyes betraying their fear. Blood on your hands? Arty’s brain fired a hundred thoughts a second: Theodore Markowsky, the MetaMyth program, a different ending.
None of it made sense.
Arty stared at Carl, his eyes narrowed. “This MetaMyth program. What do we know about it?”
“Nothing, I’ve never heard of it. I didn’t know it existed. Arty, this is not something we’ve programmed.”
One of the techs spoke up. “It doesn’t look like there’s any way to interrupt it, bar performing a hard reboot. And you know what that means. We’d lose access to everything — including the Colosseum — for about three hours while we brought Solarversia back online.”
“Find out everything you can about it: when and how it was installed. There must be a password. Liaise with the security team. Get every spare machine on it. I want an estimate of how long it would take to crack. Hannah, prepare a statement of some kind. Say something about the enormous strain of people viewing live virtual footage being too great for the servers. We’re on the case and hope to welcome people back shortly. Call MI6. Someone get Max and Maurice on the phone and bring them up to speed. See if there’s any way that Gogmagog can help. Ensure the defeated finalists are escorted inside. Get every spare security guard to surround Nova’s rig. Find out what friends and family she has in the stadium, bring them here. And get me Nova on the line.”
The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant. Those who had been too stunned to act now had a purpose. Arty flicked his headset down and ensured that one eye was focused on Nova’s avatar in the Colosseum, the other on her gaming rig in the stadium.
“Nova, this is Artica Kronkite, CEO of Spiralwerks. Can you hear me?”
“Arty, what’s going on? Everything froze when I fed Ozwald to the beastie. Was that supposed to happen?”
“Listen, we’ve got a situation here. I need you to stay in your seat until we know what’s going on, can you do that for me?”
Nova answered him quietly. “What kind of situation? I’m not … in any danger, am I?”
“We’re not entirely sure what the situation is just yet. I can assure you that we’re that taking every precaution possible. Your safety — the safety of every person in this stadium — is the highest priority. You’re surrounded by highly trained guards, Gogmagog is running on every cam in the stadium, and I’m here, on the end of the line. I’m not going to leave you. But I need you to remain seated with your headset on.”
Before she could speak again the spectators in the Colosseum burst into life as if nothing had happened. Arty saw the crowd wake up at once, as if electrified, darting, moving, speaking, yelling, clapping. Then the people in the crowd began to shush each other. Some pointed at Emperor Mandelbrot in the Royal Box. The deformed mouths dotted around his central pole began to chant as one, “All hail the mighty Magi, all hail the mighty Magi.”
***
Despite the cold February night, Nova was covered in sweat. If this was someone’s idea of a joke, she couldn’t see the funny side. Lit by the glorious Roman sunshine, the mouths dotted up and down the Emperor’s central column chanted the Order’s refrain. She stared at him, horrified t
o witness something she loved corrupted by something she despised.
An almighty thudding began to beat in time with the chant. It was coming from Banjax. He was lifting each heavy, bulbous tentacle in turn and swinging them with all his might against the side of his tank, which was already splintered with hairline fractures. It took one last thump to make the pane at the front explode outwards, spraying water and shards of glass all over the Royal Box. Awaiting nobody’s permission, the beast clambered over a dozen tiers of seating, sending spectators diving for cover, and flopped over the perimeter fence to join Nova in the arena.
As the beast crept toward her she noticed something different about it. Banjax was the same size, colour and proportion he’d always been. But now, attached to each tentacle, just above their swollen ends, was a black armband, dotted with a grid of flashing lights. She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. It all felt so very, very wrong.
“Hello, Nova. What a pleasant surprise.” She flinched to hear him address her like that. His voice was deep, dark and distorted, but had the unmistakable twang of the Deep South. “I couldn’t have asked for a more interesting victor. I hope they’ve strapped you in properly, you’re in for a rough ride.”
“Artica, it’s Theodore!” she yelled. “It’s the Holy Order.”
“Don’t worry Nova, we’re doing everything we can—”
“No, Mr Kronkite, I would strongly advise against doing anything. For a start, nobody leaves the stadium. Do you understand me? Nobody leaves without my say-so. I thought the grand finale Spiralwerks had in mind was a little … unadventurous. I’m here to liven things up, and I wouldn’t want anyone to miss out.”
He pointed a number of tentacles towards Spee-Akka. The canvas on her easel became animated with a live CCTV feed from what looked like a warehouse. Suddenly, a huge flash of white obscured the view. The smoke cleared to reveal a half-collapsed roof and several storage containers on fire. As thick, dark smoke rose from the shattered pallets, Nova wrestled against the restraints of her rig, panic now gripping her body.
“Why the moody expression? Nobody got hurt. That warehouse was unmanned. But we got sloppy with our other bombs, left them all over the place. Shopping malls, schools, an Olympic Stadium here and there. They’re wirelessly connected to MetaMyth, the program that’s taken over. It links each bomb to a puzzle — ones you’re going to have to solve. Unless you want to be responsible for hundreds of deaths, that is. If your avatar dies they’ll all detonate at once. And your friend Artica knows the same thing will happen if he pulls the plug, or lets people leave the stadium. But you love puzzles, don’t you, Nova? Of course you do. You just beat 100 million people, you’re the best in the world.”
The image on Spee-Akka’s canvas changed again. Along the top was a title that read The Puzzles of Perdition. Beneath it were four rows of three squares, numbered from one to twelve.
“We’ll start with an easy one. I’ll even allow the spectators in the Colosseum to help you, isn’t that generous?”
A scroll that listed four clues appeared in the air in front of her while a large screen above the crowd showed a timer counting down from a minute. Nova felt none of the excitement she usually associated with tackling a puzzle. Instead, she felt an intense dizziness. Her limbs felt like they might wobble themselves out of their joints.
“Arty, can you see the timer? I’ve already wasted ten seconds, I can’t do this, I feel sick. Can’t you just look up the answer and give it to me?”
“The puzzles don’t work like that. The answers are encrypted within the program. What does it say on the scroll?”
“It says, ‘My first is in enigma, but not in vintage. My second is in artificial, but not in inflicter. My third is in strength, but not in thorniest. My fourth is in divine but not in advent. I am the solution to all your problems. What am I?’ How am I supposed to work it out when I can barely focus?”
“Hang in there. We’ve got several hundred million people working on it.”
Images of death flashed before her mind. There were bombs in schools, in malls and possibly one in the stadium. She made the mistake of volleying back to the stadium for a second. It was absolute mayhem. A squad of security guards were leading people to safety, others were scrambling around her chair, shining torches, and exchanging worried looks. She volleyed straight back and resolved to stay in the virtual world until she’d been given the all-clear.
She watched the seconds tick down: thirty, twenty-five. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. The crowd had stopped cheering. Instead, they were chanting. It was hardly the time for such a thing, had they not received the memo? Fifteen seconds and the puzzle remained nothing more than a jumble of words in her mind. The crowd chanted two syllables, over and over. May-ji, May-ji. Had Theodore taken control of them too? Would she be taunted from the stands as well as the arena? Ten seconds. In the end she nearly spat the word out. “Magi! M-A-G-I. That’s the answer, stop the clock, I beg you.”
A tick mark replaced the number ‘1’ in the top left square on the canvas. Strangers hugged in the crowd, others chanted her name. So he wasn’t in control of them — that was good to know. They’d been helping her. If anything, she was annoyed at herself — she’d solved a bunch of puzzles just like it in the Simulator. She tried to calm down by concentrating on her breathing. It’s just a game. She repeated the phrase, trying to say it like she meant it, like she wasn’t suffused with the image of a cartoon time bomb under her rig.
“The second puzzle is for your friends in the crowd. While they attempt to solve it, you’ll need to fight me. If you die, a bomb goes off.”
An enormous crossword appeared on the screens around the Colosseum. Next to it a two-minute countdown had already begun. Nova’s instinct was to start reading the clues, start filling in the boxes. But he’d challenged her to fight. She checked the area around her for dangerous patches and chose a route that looked safest. But as she made a dash for it, Banjax blocked her path, swung a tentacle, and sent her flying across the arena. Her bodysuit contracted hard against her torso, knocking the wind out her.
She looked up to find him scampering toward her. Before she could move, he smacked her again, slamming her into the perimeter wall. First she doubled over and then she collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath, a faint taste of blood at the back of her throat. Her headset flashed and beeped like crazy, adding to the sheer panic she felt. Her health score was down to seven points and her heart rate was racing at 171 beats per minute.
Banjax’s twelve legs, powered from wherever Theodore was hiding out and running the show, were much faster than her two. She couldn’t fight him. It was going to come down to the crowd to avert the bomb blast. But time was running out. The crossword grid loomed into her view, half of its white squares still blank. It was hopeless.
***
Arty watched as Hannah snaked her way back to the Command Centre. Behind her, walking in single file, were two of Nova’s friends. He wondered what he would say to them. It wasn’t the kind of conversation he’d ever had before. Nova looked so alone out there. Hooked up to her rig, wearing the black bodysuit, she’d started to resemble a fly trapped in a spider’s web. It had been intended as a symbol of triumph, that the winner should be left alone in the arena, enthroned, almost. Now the only word he could think of to describe her situation was abandoned.
“Charlie. Burner.” He shook their hands in turn, and then shifted from foot to foot. “In an ideal world we would have met, about now, in rather different circumstances. I would have presented Nova with her prize, and you would have been invited to join her on the Grand Champion’s float for a victory lap of the stadium. As it stands, we’re in a predicament. It looks like Theodore Markowsky — mastermind of the Holy Order — has gained backdoor access to Solarversia’s operating system. It’s enabled him to run his own program, something called MetaMyth. Our entire tech team is investigating the program in conjunction with millions — many millions — of people around the wo
rld.”
He was blathering. Well, there was no easy way to say any of this. “The explosion he showed us really happened, so we can’t risk pulling the plug in case it triggers other bombs. Markowsky gave a list of things that would trigger the bombs in the real world: Nova leaving the virtual world, the death of her avatar, or her failure to submit any one of the puzzles within the given time limit. We’re doing everything we can to prevent those things from happening while we attempt to disable MetaMyth.”
“What if you can’t disable it?” Charlie asked.
“We’ll find a way. And until that happens, we’re brainstorming ways to exploit it. Because the program interfaces with the rest of Solarversia, it’s constrained by it in various ways. For instance, Theodore has full control over Banjax and lots of aspects of the arena, but no control outside of it. We still have control over the Emperor and the other members of his entourage. And the dead players in the virtual crowd have retained control over their actions.”
He gestured to the wall at the side of the room. A large screen was devoted to Nova. It showed her location in the Colosseum, a picture of her avatar rotating in three dimensions, and a list of her in-game vital statistics. A table displaying the list of items in her inventory was being updated with the ways in which they could be used to attack or defend against the ones in Banjax’s inventory.
The adjoining screen was devoted to Banjax in the same way. Other screens showed the action in the Colosseum from various perspectives, long lists of puzzles, steps to work out their solutions, and datafeeds from groups around the globe — people who were working together to locate the bombs and Theodore himself.
“We’re analysing their every move in the arena to see if there’s any way we can help Nova or hinder Theodore. Right now we’re speaking to people in the virtual crowd. We have an idea that might tip the scales back in her favour.”
Solarversia: The Year Long Game Page 45