Gamerunner

by B. R. Collins

  He stared at the panel. He said, aloud, ‘Hey, Rick, you didn’t want to run the Maze in this state, anyway, did you? What’s the big deal? It’s just a glitch.’ His voice sounded reedy, like a bad-quality recording. ‘Bound to be. An error. Isn’t it.’

  No one answered.

  They’d closed his account.

  He shut his eyes. He felt sick and unreal. For no reason he thought of the skull Daed had on a shelf in his office: empty eyes and unchanging grimace, balanced on a pile of dusty old flatgames. Rick knew it must have been a person, once, but it had never seemed real. It was only now, standing in front of the locked tanks, that he thought he might be starting to understand.

  Daed. The thought went straight to his heart, sending a shot of heat through his veins. He didn’t know if it was anger or something else; but in any case it helped him to move.

  OK. It was too far to the lifts; he went up the emergency steps. Now that he had somewhere to go it was easier to ignore the pain. He found himself almost on all fours, helping himself up the stairs with his hands, but the floor felt reassuringly solid. He heard his own breathing and he was shocked — a little bit — at how much he sounded like an old man.

  He said to himself, Daed. Daed will be in his office. He can’t do this to me. He’s my —

  Whatever he is. He can’t — he won’t —

  It’s going to be OK, Rick thought. I trust Daed. It’s going to be OK.

  And this time he believed it.

  Chapter 8

  The door to Daed’s office was closed and Rick didn’t even stop to take a breath before he slapped the comms panel so hard he felt the shock resonate all the way up to his shoulder and between his teeth. He said, ‘Let me in. Let me in. I need to talk to you.’

  A ripple of petrol-lustre blue went over the screen: the panel was working, but no one was answering. He said, ‘Daed. Please. Please, come on, I need to talk to you. Now.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Please. Come on, Daed, I know you’re there, please, stop being such a —’ He caught himself. ‘Please. I’m sorry, OK, I’m sorry! But they’ve — you’ve — someone’s closed my account, and I just need to talk to you, for gods’ sake, please, please.’ He took a deep breath, waited. ‘Daed. Daed, come on.’ He was running out of self-control: he could feel it evaporating off his skin. Any second now he’d start crying. ‘Daed, please don’t do this to me. I —’ And there it went, his voice: cracking like glass in the rain. He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I don’t know what to do. Daed, please don’t —’

  The door slid open. A voice he didn’t recognise said, ‘All right, Rick, you can come in if you promise to shut up.’

  He stumbled through. The light was silvery-blue, and the corners of everything glinted at him like eyes. He felt overwhelmingly sick. For a minute all he could do was grab hold of something and resist the urge to throw up again.

  When the world was back to steady he opened his eyes. The voice said, ‘Sit down.’ Rick didn’t like obeying people he didn’t know, but he couldn’t deny that it was good advice. He let his knees go and there was a chair there, waiting for him. He was impressed, in spite of himself: whoever the voice was, they were as good as Daed.

  He said, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I thought I told you to shut up?’

  Rick started to say, ‘I was being poli—’ and then his larynx cut out, because the voice was Daed. He blinked, because the face was almost as unrecognisable as the voice. It was only the two of them together that told him that it was Daed, standing there.

  He was grey.

  Rick knew he was staring, but he couldn’t stop. How could someone change so much in a day, in two days? He could already see the death’s head behind Daed’s face, just waiting for the rest to rot away. Only the eyes were the same: and now he knew exactly what was wrong with them. They were too old. They always had been. But before the face didn’t match, and now it did.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but the mechanism of lungs and voicebox and mouth wasn’t working.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Daed said. ‘I would be surprised if you had anything to say. Anything worth saying, that is.’

  He was right. Finally Rick heard himself say, ‘You hit me.’

  There was a pause, but not a long one. Daed said, ‘Yes. And?’

  Rick looked at him.

  ‘Yes,’ Daed said again. ‘I did. You deserved it. I think we can agree on that. Am I right?’ He asked as if he didn’t know the answer; so it was surprise as much as anything that made Rick respond.

  ‘Yes, Daed.’ In spite of himself he meant it.

  ‘Good,’ Daed said, but he didn’t sound pleased. He didn’t sound anything, come to that. ‘Was that all?’

  Rick stared into his face, wondering — not for the first time — who Daed was, how old he was, where he’d come from. He swallowed. He didn’t want to think like that; he was happier when he tried not to think at all, when he told himself Daed was just Daed, always snide, always right. He wanted to burst into tears. He wanted to tell Daed what it was like to wake up ill and alone in his bed, to ask for meds and food and get turned down, to be locked out of the Maze. Somehow he thought that — after all — Daed might understand. But he didn’t want Daed to understand. He said, ‘No. Do you have any food?’

  Daed made a strange sound, like a laugh. He turned away and sat down at his desk. He was running his fingers over his flatscreen, creating a mesh of lines, a glowing hypnotic pattern. After five seconds he said, without looking up, ‘On the shelf. If you’re that hungry.’

  Rick looked over his shoulder and there was a tall plastic cup, full of something viscous and brown: a P&V shake, like the one they’d given Rick. There was a drinking straw stuck in it, like an insult. Rick’s stomach heaved. He said, ‘I’m not drinking that. I want green tea and proper food.’ Silence. Finally he said, ‘Please.’

  Daed didn’t react. His fingers traced shapes on the flatscreen, weaving filaments of light together. He dragged everything sideways, started again with an empty frame.

  Rick said, ‘Why did you order that?’

  ‘Basic rations,’ Daed said. His hands were building another pattern, fluently. ‘That’s what everyone eats, Rick. In the real world we’d be lucky to get that.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s disgusting —’

  ‘I didn’t order it,’ Daed said, and the mesh on his flatscreen grew and grew. ‘I’ve had my food credits withdrawn. As have you, I imagine.’

  ‘You . . . ?’

  Daed didn’t say anything else. His pattern spread and flowered, and Rick realised that it was exactly the same as the last one. Daed dragged it sideways and started again.

  Rick said, ‘You’ve had your food credits withdrawn.’

  ‘I have access to basic rations,’ Daed said, as if it didn’t interest him much. ‘We won’t starve. Yet.’

  ‘But —’ Rick stopped, waited for Daed to interrupt him. But Daed didn’t look up; he just went on constructing the same pattern over and over on his flatscreen. Rick stared at the glimmering blue lines, willing Daed to come up with something new. But he didn’t.

  Rick licked his lips and tasted dryness. He said, concentrating on the consonants, ‘Why have they taken away your food credits?’

  ‘You know what Paz is like when she’s annoyed about something,’ Daed said, as if this happened every day, as if it was no big deal. It was only his fingers, flickering uselessly over the screen, that gave him away.

  Rick took a deep breath; there was a grey, blank panic threatening to take him over. He looked up at the lights in the ceiling, but even the silver-blue neon didn’t help. It was like he was seeing everything through a fog. He didn’t want to move, or speak. He wished he could just . . . disperse.

  ‘Daed,’ he said, and let the silence stretch until Daed looked up. His eyes were blank and ancient.

  ‘Daed,’ Rick said again, hanging on to the word like a handhold. ‘What’s going on? What did I do?’

&
nbsp; For a second the Daed he recognised was there, looking back at him with a glint of disdain. Then the old man resurfaced. He said, softly, ‘You did exactly, precisely the worst thing you could have done.’

  ‘I’m sorry —’

  Daed raised one shoulder, shrugging the words away. ‘Irrelevant,’ he said, without rancour. ‘I should have known. You’re a kid. Kids like to win.’

  ‘I only —’

  ‘Only?’ Daed said, and his voice made the word silver-sharp, so Rick could almost see it catch the light. ‘No. Only? No.’

  ‘Then . . .’ Rick swallowed. The grey fog of fear had got into his bones, aching. ‘I just . . . it didn’t seem important. I did what you told me to do, and —’

  Daed stood up. He walked around his desk to where Rick was sitting, and crouched in front of him, so that his face was on a level with Rick’s. Rick stayed absolutely, perfectly still. And if he’d thought he was afraid before he was wrong, because now —

  Daed said, ‘You did what I told you to do? Oh, no. No, you didn’t.’

  If Rick could have spoken, he would. But there was nothing to say.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Daed said again, very softly. ‘No, no, no. I think you must have misunderstood. I told you what you had to do, and you chose the exact opposite. You know that, don’t you?’ He looked into Rick’s eyes. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rick said. In the Maze there were serpents that could turn you into stone with a glance. Now he thought he knew what that would feel like.

  ‘Good boy,’ Daed said. ‘At least you can admit it.’

  He leant forward and took Rick’s head in his hands. His touch was light and firm and even if Rick had tried to get away he couldn’t. Daed held him like that for a second — two, five, ten. Rick stared back, until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

  Then Daed kissed his forehead, embraced him, and let him go. He stood up, took a deep breath as if he’d put down a heavy weight, and went back to his desk. Rick could still feel the warmth of Daed’s mouth, as if he’d left the print of his lips on Rick’s skin.

  Rick said, ‘Tell me what I did.’

  Daed glanced over his shoulder and away again. He wiped his hand across his eyes. He said, ‘It’ll be OK. I can deal with it.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘It’s OK, Rick. I promise. It’ll be all right. Go and put something on your face. You look appalling.’

  He hated it, this new voice, this softness. It scared him. He didn’t want Daed to reassure him; he wanted Daed to tell him what a stupid little git he was. He said, ‘Please, Daed —’

  But he didn’t know what he was going to say, and he never found out, because Daed’s comms panel lit up and Paz’s voice said, ‘I’m coming in.’

  Daed looked at him, then. ‘Go away, Rick.’

  ‘I . . .’ He wanted to stay. He didn’t want to be on his own.

  ‘Get out.’

  Paz opened the door — no need to wait for Daed to let her in, naturally — and paused in the doorway as if she was posing for a screenshot. She said, ‘Rick. What a surprise. Run away and play.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Rick said. ‘Someone’s closed my account.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, and smiled at him. It was the same smile that you saw on the tygers in the Maze, just before they ate you. He thought: Daed must have done that on purpose.

  Paz turned her head, dismissing him. She said to Daed, ‘I suppose you already know what I’ve got to say. Don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose you’d better say it anyway,’ Daed said.

  ‘Then get rid of your dependant, please. I don’t want to give him nightmares.’

  She turned away and stood looking out at the towers of Undone, waiting for him to leave. Rick looked from her to Daed and back again. He never wanted to leave them alone together; normally it was jealousy, but now he felt . . . protective. But Daed caught his eye and jerked his head at the door.

  ‘OK, I’m going,’ Rick said. ‘Can I take your P&V shake, please?’

  Daed frowned, but he nodded.

  Paz turned and leant against the glass, her hands spread on either side of her. She watched Rick as he went to Daed’s shelf and picked up the cup of brown sludge. He heard her lick her lips; then she said, ‘I hear they’re very good for you. Of course I’ve never tried one, myself . . .’

  ‘I love them,’ Rick said, before he could stop himself. He went to the door, tapped precisely on the panel and stepped through the moment the gap was wide enough. He heard Daed clear his throat as he walked round the corner, out of sight.

  But it wasn’t the shake he wanted: it was the straw.

  He dragged it out, sucked the shake off the end, and he was on his stomach and waiting for the door to close before he even had time to grimace at the taste. Then the door slid shut, and he slipped the straw into the gap and upwards. It stuck just below the electrolatch. The door paused, confused, leaving a micro-em of space.

  Rick smiled, and checked the comms panel. Nothing.

  Safety mechanisms, he thought. All that technology and you can keep a door open with a drinking straw. Honestly.

  But the flash of triumph didn’t last. How could it, when he could hear Paz’s voice, faint but clear? She said, ‘We don’t like people who break their promises, Daed.’

  ‘I don’t recall ever promising you —’

  ‘Oh, but you did. Don’t you remember? The perfect product. A game that would never be obsolete.’

  ‘It isn’t obsolete!’ The response came too quickly, too fiercely. ‘All right, I promised you that — but it’s still true. It is the perfect product. There’s no reason why —’

  ‘A game no one could win, you said. Always another quest to run, always something more. Our unique selling point, I think you said. As well as the RPG elements — real, classic gameplay — that would never be completed. Tell the world they can win it, and keep the end just out of reach.’ Rick heard a faint rasp, and realised that it was Paz’s stockings, as she moved. ‘I hope some of this is ringing a bell?’

  ‘There was a cheat. The avatar who got through the Roots was cheating. You can’t hold me responsible for —’

  ‘If he cheats and gets away with it, I certainly can.’

  A pause. Rick wished he knew what they were doing; but there was only silence. The gun-grey metal in front of his face blurred and came back into focus.

  Paz said something else, too low to catch, as if she was standing right next to Daed. Rick imagined her touching him — his face, or his arm — and shivered. There was an answering murmur, and Paz laughed.

  ‘Let me recap,’ she said, her voice quiet but so precise Rick could have been reading the words. ‘You promised us infinity. You promised us a game which would never be won. You said that no matter how long our customers spent in the Maze, no matter how hard they worked, there would always be something they couldn’t do. You promised us a game without an endgame.’

  Daed said, ‘No one could win against the Roots without cheating.’

  There was a noise like something cracking. A split second later Daed laughed, or gasped, Rick didn’t know which. Something heavy fell off a table.

  ‘I don’t care if they were cheating,’ Paz said. Rick heard her sigh. ‘Oh, Daed . . . The Roots were your masterpiece, weren’t they? Constructed to show us how good you were. We gained hundreds of new accounts, because the best players couldn’t resist, and the Roots couldn’t be beaten. Perfect. But now — I’m sorry, Daed, did I hurt you? — now we can see that your masterpiece is flawed. Or, put simply . . .’ She paused. ‘Would you mind? My shoes were rather expensive, and Housekeeping have such problems with blood . . . I do apologise, I forgot I was wearing a ring. No, as I was saying, Daed, the problem now is that your work has turned out to be worthless.’

  ‘Hardly worthless.’ Daed’s voice was indistinct, as if there was something in his mouth.

  ‘Well . . . certainly not adequate. We’ll have to consider very carefully whether to renew your contr
act.’

  Silence. Rick closed his eyes. He thought: This is only a new bit of the Maze. If I say log out, I can stop it all. Please . . .

  Daed said, ‘There is no way you won’t renew my contract, and you know it.’

  Rick tensed, waiting. Then, unexpectedly, he heard them both laughing: not like friends, but like opponents, taking pleasure in the game.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Paz said. ‘But on the other hand you have nowhere else to go. So this is the deal. I’m putting you on probation.’

  ‘Gods,’ Daed said. ‘What kind of bull—’

  ‘You’re lucky, in a way. I’ve just had news of the release date for the new gametank. The iTank.’ For a moment he can hear her smile. ‘Good title, don’t you think? So classic, so seductively simple, so — sleek . . . We would naturally release a new version of the Maze at the same time, for the new platform. So you have a month to come up with a new expansion.’

  ‘A month.’

  ‘Oh, I’m being kind to you, Daed. A new expansion, I said. So twenty-first century, don’t you think? So flatgame? But I’ve learnt my lesson, you see. You’re human. I don’t expect anything spectacular. Just enough to keep the best players at bay for a year or so . . .’

  ‘You’re not asking for infinity, you mean?’

  ‘Naturally not. It wouldn’t be fair. I see that now. You’re only human; just a person, like any other Creative . . .’ A tap, like a polished fingernail on a smooth surface. ‘But . . . the thing about people, Daed, is that they’re . . . dispensable. I like people, as long as they’re useful. It’s just a pity that sometimes . . . they stop being useful. And then — well, Crater is a business. Were you — for example — to stop being useful, I couldn’t guarantee your contract.’

  No answer. Rick heard a tiny rustle and a click and didn’t know what it was until he smelt the smoke.

  Paz said, ‘Incidentally, cigarettes kill you, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Daed said, and it was because there were only two people in the room that Rick knew it was his voice. ‘Yes. Funny you should mention that. As it happens, I do know.’