Gamerunner

by B. R. Collins

  A human. Not a robot, or a recorded voice; because humans were useful, and cheap. Rick stayed on his feet, breathing. Suddenly he could hear again; whoever was there must have some kind of portable device, an audio-enabler or something. He struggled against the warm, rubbery things on his wrists. It didn’t help. He turned round, slowly.

  There was a small, under-designed man in a Security uniform. He said, ‘What can I help you with today, sir?’

  ‘You can take off these handcuffs and let me out of the door,’ Rick said.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. If you give me the name of your account admini—’

  Rick smashed his forehead into the Security man’s nose.

  In the Maze an enemy wouldn’t have missed a beat; but the Security man swore and bled and reeled. It surprised Rick, and he faltered, looking at the blood. It was real . . . And Rick wasn’t used to feeling the impact, either; his skull hurt. It slowed down his reflexes. He only just had time to dodge the man’s retaliatory punch, drop to a crouch and sweep his leg round. It was hard to balance, with his hands behind his back. But the kick worked; the Security man yelped and fell to the ground. His hands flailed at the air for a split second and then his head smacked on to the stone floor.

  Rick flipped to his feet, poised on the balls of his feet, waiting for him to get up. You could kick enemies when they were down, but it wasn’t great for your reputation. If his guild saw him —

  But he wasn’t in the Maze.

  And the man didn’t get up.

  Rick stared at him, and then prodded him, not gently, with his foot. The fight couldn’t be over that quickly. No one’s health bar was that small . . .

  The man made a noise like a broken air-con unit. He didn’t move.

  Rick looked down at him. He didn’t know what to do. In the Maze he’d loot the body. Was that what he should do now? Somehow it didn’t seem . . . right.

  But he needed to get these cuffs off. So he crouched, twisting to go through the man’s uniform with his joined hands. In the end he had to lie down to get the right angle, navigating the contents of the pockets by touch. He felt the porto-panel, finally, and scrabbled it out with his fingers. Then he pressed the man’s limp hand against it — which was harder than it should have been — and held his wrists in the force-field to unlock the handcuffs. They loosened and retracted. He put them in his own pocket and rolled his shoulders.

  The Security man made another noise, and his ribcage spasmed.

  Rick thought: He must be important. He’s got a gun.

  He must be important. And important people can go outside . . .

  All I need is his prints, to log in, and the comms panel will let me through . . .

  But Rick didn’t move immediately. The thought of doing that made him feel odd. He thought: All I need to do is drag him over to the comms panel, and lift him up so I can put his hand on the screen. It’s not hard.

  I don’t even know if he’s alive.

  There were footsteps, coming towards him from behind his left shoulder. They got faster and faster until they stopped.

  At his back someone — someone he knew — drew her breath in, sharply. He didn’t want to look at her; but he glanced down and sideways, and he saw her shoes. They were dirty and flat-soled — histro, but not chic like Paz’s — and they’d paused mid-step. She said, ‘Rick, what have you done?’

  He felt a sudden hot lump in his throat, because of the way she said his name. He clenched his jaw and thought: Thank you, thank you, because of all the people in the complex — Daed, Paz, people he didn’t know — the gods sent him Perdita. It could have been so much worse.

  She said again, ‘Rick . . .’

  He looked at her, in spite of himself.

  Her face was pale and strained. Her eyes flicked from one security camera to the next and the next, until she was staring past the staircase; and she was afraid.

  He started to say, ‘I just wanted to get out —’

  ‘Come with me.’

  She took hold of him, grabbing his arm sharply and pulling him away. It hurt. Rick looked down, half expecting to see his feet on the edge of an abyss. But there was only the Security man.

  ‘Rick,’ she said, ‘come with me. Don’t argue, don’t procrastinate, don’t ask. Come with me. Now.’

  He took one last look at the glass wall. The smear of blood had dried to a kind of rust colour. Beyond that wall was the outside world. If he gave up now —

  But . . . the expression he’d seen on Perdita’s face.

  He turned away and followed her.

  Chapter 10

  The moment her workshop door had closed behind him, Perdita said, ‘Advance warning on, please,’ and the watchdog ikon flashed up on the comms panel. Rick stood where he was and watched it, not wanting to look at her. The ikon had three heads, for some reason. Three sets of teeth snarled and dripped saliva. Yeah, right, he thought. The watchdog could tell you if someone was coming, that was all; it couldn’t actually keep anyone out.

  She said, ‘Do you want to tell me what you were doing?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘OK.’ She went over to one of the workbenches, and he heard her fiddling with some bit of ancient techno. He heard the sound of running water, and she said, ‘Tea?’

  He stared at the watchdog’s six hostile eyes. Please, don’t be nice to me, he thought. Anything but that.

  ‘He didn’t look in good shape, that Security guy,’ she said. ‘That . . . was you, I take it?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him,’ Rick said, and couldn’t help turning to look at her. ‘He just . . . I mean, I thought he’d . . . in the Maze —’

  She looked at him. She nodded.

  ‘I was trying to get out,’ Rick said. ‘The comms panel wouldn’t let me out — and the atrium was making me feel weird, and then he came up and put handcuffs on me —’

  ‘The Nucleus,’ she says. ‘The atrium, that’s what it’s called. Yes, I know. It’s creepy. Meant to be.’

  ‘But I wanted to get out —’

  She laughed. ‘No kidding.’

  Something in her voice stopped him saying anything else. He watched her as she poured steaming water out of a plastic jug into two bowls. She prodded the contents with a spoon and then passed one of the bowls to him, carefully. He smelt something acid, like lemon.

  Perdita took a sip from her own bowl and sat down. She looked around for an empty space on the workbench, but there wasn’t any room, even for a bowl. In the end she kept it in her hands, holding it like it was a ceremony. She seemed to have forgotten that Rick was there. He was glad. He looked around, comforted by how little her workshop had changed since he’d last seen it. It was so like Daed’s office; and so different. There were pictures nailed up on the walls, overlapping one another, and bulging boxes piled against the window. There were shelves and shelves of bits of things, junked prototypes, wires and antique toys, even a couple of books. The benches were covered with components and old mechanisms and coloured wire. The room was full of things that wanted to be touched. Rick thought: She does with her hands what Daed does with his mind. I think I like it better.

  She still hadn’t said anything else, so he took a sip of his tea, finally, and the taste surprised him. It wasn’t bad. The warmth ran down his throat and past his heart.

  Perdita frowned at the sleeve of her overall, folding the fabric into lines. Rick watched her hand, short-nailed and sinewy, and then looked at her face. She was ugly. She must have chosen to be ugly. She was a Creative, after all, she must have got a decent wage. But she’d still got a flat-ish nose and plump cheeks, she’d still got nothing-coloured eyes. Rick wondered why anyone would choose to be ugly. But somehow he was glad Perdita had. He liked the way she looked.

  She caught his eye, while he was staring. She said, ‘You could be in really big trouble, Rick.’

  He felt his eyes narrow. He said, ‘Why, are you going to tell Paz?’

  She shook her head. ‘
It’s all on hidcam, Rick. Whatever you did to that poor . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t have to tell Paz anything. Not that I would.’

  He stared at her, hostile, until she looked away. Then he stood up and said, ‘I’d better go. Thanks.’

  And then he started to cry.

  At first he thought he was ill. He knew what crying was, but he’d never done it before — not that he could remember, not like this. It was like vomiting, he couldn’t control it. In the Maze the non-player characters sometimes had water trickling from their eyes when they asked for help; but not like this. They always wiped it away and carried on speaking. No one ever covered their face with their hands. No one ever lost the power of speech. He didn’t know it could happen like this.

  But he wasn’t in the Maze.

  In the Maze the Security man would have got up after Rick hit him.

  Perdita said, ‘Sit down. Breathe.’

  He did. (He might as well do what he was told. He’d made a real mess of not doing what he was told.) And it helped.

  Perdita waited. Finally she said, more gently this time, ‘Rick . . . you know there are cameras. There’s no way Paz won’t hear about what you did. With any luck she’ll be decent about it. But the way things are now . . . with Daed in troub—’

  She stopped.

  He looked through his fingers, at the bench. He said, through snot, ‘In trouble. You know about that, do you?’

  ‘Everyone does,’ she said, because she was the same as Daed, like that, she didn’t believe in white lies.

  ‘He’s working on the expansion, isn’t he? That’s going OK, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. But her tone wasn’t agreeing.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Rick said.

  ‘Nothing. With the expansion. But . . .’ She looked at him, and he saw her consider whether to go on, and decide that she might as well, now. Maybe that’s the point of her face, Rick thought. It lets you see what she’s thinking. It’s not a mask, like Daed’s. ‘It’s just that expansions are so . . .’

  She searched for the word. But she didn’t need to; Rick could remember what Paz had said. He said, ‘So flatgame?’

  ‘Yes.’ She shrugged. ‘Honestly. Daed, designing an expansion? It’s like Aeschylus, writing an episode of Undoners.’

  He didn’t know who Aeschylus was — a genius, presumably, like Daed — but he got the gist. He said, ‘But . . . his contract’s OK, right, he’s still . . . important —?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, slowly. ‘It’s just that now . . . well, it’s not the best time for you to attract attention. When that gamerunner won in the Roots, everything went . . . Things changed. Daed’s having a difficult time.’

  He looked at the bench, and prayed. Please let that not have been pity in her voice. Please — oh, gods, if she pities Daed —

  He wanted to ask another question. Anything. What relation are you to Daed, anyway? Did he ever say anything about my mother? Do you think he really cares about m—

  Too late. The comms panel growled. Perdita glanced past him and said, ‘Oh, hell.’

  He followed her gaze.

  The comms panel said, Daedalus will be here in 15 seconds. He has full entry rights. Daedalus will be here in 14 seconds. He has —

  Perdita said, ‘Oh well. Looks like he’ll be finding out that you’re here, then.’

  ‘He can’t.’ Rick saw the grey veil of panic drop over the world. ‘Please — Perdy, he can’t see me here, I don’t want him to know —’

  ‘He’ll find out anyway,’ she said. ‘You weren’t exactly subtle.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to find out like this — please, he’ll kill me —’ Rick knew Daed wouldn’t kill him; but somehow that was worse. ‘Can’t I — Perdy, if I hide, just don’t tell him I’m here, and later on I can explain to him, properly.’

  Daedalus will be here in 5 seconds. He has —

  She looked at him, and he knew she was only giving in because she was so much older than him, and she felt sorry for him and Daed both, and she was nice, the kind of person who’d be ugly just because that was how she was born. She grabbed him and pushed him backwards. He didn’t mean to resist, but he didn’t know where he was going, so he tripped. His head hit something and hurt. He saw Perdita shutting a door in front of him. Then everything was pitch-black.

  Oh, gods. He didn’t like small spaces. Especially not in the dark.

  He shouldn’t have asked to hide, then, should he?

  He reached out slowly and touched something on either side of him. Long vertical strips of something . . . warmish, not metal, a texture that he associated with the Maze. He concentrated. Vellum. In the Maze they’d have been quest scrolls. But here, in the real world, they must be something else. Paper. No, the other one. Cardboard.

  He was in a cupboard, with lots of . . . books?

  The smell was funny, too. He breathed in, wondering how long he could stay in here before his nerve went.

  Then he heard Daed’s voice, and he leant forward, forgetting where he was.

  Chapter 11

  Daed said, ‘Hello. Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course,’ Perdita said. ‘You don’t have to ask.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Daed said, and then there was nothing.

  Rick waited, wondering what was going on. Perdita said, ‘Is there something . . . ?’

  ‘Just checking on your progress,’ Daed said. ‘The iTank all on target, is it?’

  ‘Time yes, budget no,’ Perdita said, ‘as always. Don’t tell me you walked all the way down here to ask that?’

  A pause. ‘No,’ Daed said. ‘No.’

  ‘Tea? I’ll put the boiler on.’

  ‘Kettle,’ Daed said. ‘A boiler was something else. No, thank you.’ There was a rustle, as if he was getting something out of his pocket, and a little crackle, like foil. ‘A glass of water would be nice, though.’

  Water running, footsteps. Perdita said, ‘Headache?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Daed swallowed and coughed. A chair grated on the floor. ‘May I?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Daed,’ Perdita said. ‘Why are you being so polite? We’re friends, aren’t we?’

  Daed laughed, a little. He said, ‘OK.’

  ‘So,’ Perdita said. ‘You didn’t want to vidcall whatever it is, so . . .’

  ‘You’ve disabled your bugs, presumably?’

  ‘I’m a Creative, Daed. I disable bugs as a hobby.’ A moment of silence. Then she added, ‘But —’ and Rick knew she’d remembered, suddenly, that he was listening.

  ‘But what?’ Daed said.

  ‘But . . . Maintenance were in here a few days ago, and I haven’t swept since then.’ She was lying, and she was rubbish.

  ‘Never mind,’ Daed said, and laughed. The laugh was breathy and voiceless, like his lungs weren’t working properly. ‘Who cares? I came to pick your brains, that’s all.’

  ‘About the iTank? The technology hasn’t advanced much since my report. If you talk to —’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of the technology, exactly.’

  Silence. Rick heard water bubbling in the kettle, and footsteps. Then it clicked off, and he imagined Perdita at the workbench, mashing the teabag with a spoon, her back to Daed. She said, ‘Since when did you need my brain for anything else?’

  ‘Since Rick ran the Roots and screwed up my masterplan,’ Daed said.

  Another pause. Rick imagined Perdita staying still, where she was; but when she spoke, her voice was clearer, like she’d turned round. ‘Rick ran the Roots?’ she said.

  Daed laughed again; as if he knew he was the only one to see the joke. He said, ‘Oh, yes. A minor irony.’

  ‘And Paz sent Customer Services out to pick up some poor innocent gamerunner who never hurt anyone? Gods, Daed. You make me sick.’

  ‘Yes, all right. I don’t like it any more than you. But it’s just a detail. What matters —’

  ‘And — wait. You told me that, about Rick, when I’ve just told you I might be bugged? Ar
e you mad?’ She said it calmly, like a med asking for symptoms.

  ‘I didn’t believe you,’ Daed said. ‘I thought you just didn’t feel like talking to me.’

  ‘Well,’ Perdita said. ‘OK. You were right. As it happens. But — Daed . . .’

  For a horrible moment Rick was sure she was pointing at the cupboard and miming that he was there. But Perdita was decent; she wouldn’t betray him like that.

  Daed said, ‘What?’

  ‘If it’s not urgent,’ Perdita said. ‘I’ve got a deadline for tomorrow —’

  ‘It is urgent. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Daed —’

  ‘Please,’ he said. Daed never said please.

  ‘I don’t have time —’

  ‘I need your help, Perdy. Please help me.’

  Rick stared blindly into the dark. He was gripping the corner of one of the cardboard squares; he didn’t remember taking hold of it, but now it was hurting his hand.

  Perdita cleared her throat; but it seemed like an eternity before she said anything. Even then, when she spoke, it was only, ‘Daed . . .’

  ‘Do you want me to beg?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ Rick heard her turn on her heel and stride across to the window. She took a deep breath. ‘Daed, you don’t need my help. You’ve never needed anyone’s help.’

  ‘I do now.’

  ‘Just because they’ve changed the terms of your contract —’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘Not just because.’

  Silence.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

  More silence. Rick squeezed the cardboard between his fingers until it was damp and soft. Daed, saying please . . . He never said please, even to Paz.

  Daed said, ‘I want you to give me Asterion.’

  There was a little noise, as if Perdita had opened her mouth and shut it again; and then silence. Rick wondered why this silence was different from the ones before it. There was no logic to it. But it was different.

  He wondered who Asterion was; and why he mattered so much.