Gamerunner Page 2

  Rick yawned. ‘Are you going to tell me what you want, or can I go back to sleep?’

  ‘I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve told you what it is, yes.’

  Rick rolled his eyes. ‘I’m going to put the light on.’

  ‘No, don’t —’

  ‘Lights, please.’ He added, ‘Level one,’ as a concession, but even so Daed groaned and covered his eyes with his forearm. He didn’t sound tired, but then he never did. Rick leant back against the wall, his hands clasped round his knees, and watched him. Gods, 0315 in the morning, and Daed wanted him to run some kind of errand . . . He didn’t know much about fathers, but he was pretty sure they weren’t meant to deprive you of sleep and breathe poisonous chemicals at you. Then again, there was always the possibility that Daed wasn’t his father. He could be his uncle or his older brother or even . . . Rick remembered half overhearing someone make a joke about Daed and calling him she — but he was pretty sure that was the joke. You couldn’t be completely sure, from looking at him, but . . . Rick shut his eyes, trying not to let himself think too much about it. Daed was a mystery, even — no, especially — to Rick. Even if Daed was his father, he didn’t know who his mother was. Or if he’d had one. When he was small — smaller, anyway — he’d tried to pretend Perdita was his mother, but it didn’t really work. She wasn’t a mother kind of person, really. And Daed told him once that he’d been hatched.

  He opened his eyes, looked at Daed, and thought: Daed, my father. My father, Daed. It was the easiest way to stay sane.

  ‘Next time,’ Daed said, lowering his arm, so the fumes from his cigarette wafted upwards, ‘I’ll disable your lights as well. Why you need to see anything is completely beyond me.’ He grimaced. He was good-looking, of course — there was a rumour that he’d designed his face himself — but there was something a bit weird about his eyes, like a deliberate mistake. It got to Rick every time.

  ‘I just . . . forget it.’ Rick shrugged. ‘Lights off, please.’

  ‘Better,’ Daed said, in the dark. ‘Now listen. I want you to go into the Maze —’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now — and fight someone.’

  ‘Why — wait — sorry but lights on, please,’ Rick said, and leant forward, because he had to see Daed’s expression. ‘In the Maze? Now? Fight who? Why?’

  Daed was still blinking, but he didn’t cover his face this time. ‘There’s someone causing me problems, and I want you to sort him out.’

  ‘Can’t a gamemaster do it?’ Rick watched Daed’s fingers holding his cigarette like a pen; they were shaking. ‘If he’s doing something illegal —’

  ‘I don’t think he is.’

  ‘So . . .’ Rick paused. He remembered, for no reason, the way he’d had to stop in front of the doors to the quest, this afternoon: the way it took him five seconds to take in their sheer size. ‘So, Daed, how is he causing you problems? If it’s something technical —’

  ‘Nothing technical.’

  ‘So . . .’ He stopped. Daed’s doing this on purpose, he thought. Shutting me up, so he’ll be able to tell me in his own way and his own time. He waited.

  ‘He’s in the Roots,’ Daed said. ‘He’s doing the Roots of the Maze. He’s looking good. He’s probably using some kind of cheat, but I can’t track it. I don’t want him to complete them.’

  Rick could taste air conditioning. He realised his mouth was open. He said, ‘He’s going to complete the Roots of the Maze?’

  ‘No,’ Daed said. ‘He isn’t. Because you’re going to stop him.’

  ‘You want me to go into the Roots of the Maze?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I’ve never — it’s not —’ He didn’t know what to say first: But, Daed, it’s the hardest quest there is. People say it’s not possible. If you die in the Roots, you don’t resurrect, you have to start again, from scratch, you forfeit all your gilt, your everything . . . He licked his lips and settled for something simple. He said, ‘But it’s an instance. How can I —’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘All the solos are instances,’ Rick said. ‘That’s the point. There’s a new version for every player. You’re always on your own. You can’t interact with other players, not real ones, because every time someone runs the quest, the server creates a new version, that’s what an instance is —’

  ‘I know what “instance” means, Rick.’

  ‘But the solos — all the solos are —’ He was burbling.

  ‘The Roots aren’t. The Roots are real. Universal, I mean.’

  ‘Then . . . oh.’ He took a deep breath and formed the words carefully, like someone testing for quicksand. ‘You want me to run the Roots of the Maze. And take out the other player.’

  ‘You’re so quick to catch on, Rick. I wonder if we’re related.’

  ‘That’s illegal,’ Rick said, tripping over the words. ‘You know that. Commissioning one player to assassinate another —’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It would only be illegal if I paid you.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s a relief,’ Rick said, piling on the sarcasm, not letting himself feel the unease underneath. What the hell was going on? Why didn’t Daed just get one of the gamemasters — or even the techies, if it was a bit shady — to sort it out? He thought: What’s this got to do with me?

  ‘All right? Get up.’ Daed walked to the window and stood there, smoking, watching his reflection. ‘And you need to shave your head.’

  Rick rubbed his hand over his scalp, feeling the hair prickle against his palm. ‘Yes, I know. Daed . . .’

  ‘Now. Do it now.’

  Slowly he swung his legs over the side of the bed, trying to think. ‘This is important, right?’

  Daed didn’t bother to reply, but that was an answer in itself.

  Rick said, ‘What’re this guy’s stats? His reputation?’

  ‘His reputation’s just maxed out. Two days ago. He announced to his guilds that he was going to run the Roots.’

  ‘So . . .’ Rick said to himself: It’s OK, everyone’s reputation score maxes out when they say they’re taking on the Roots, and then it flatlines when they die . . . But the nerves in his fingertips started to tingle. ‘And his fight stats?’

  ‘There aren’t enough data to make a reliable prediction about how you’ll measure up.’

  Oh, great. Rick said, ‘You mean he always wins.’

  ‘So do you, don’t you? The surves say you do.’

  ‘Yeah, but —’

  ‘Come on, Rick. I just don’t want Paz to — I don’t want Crater to make a big deal of it. Just sort him out. It shouldn’t be too hard. It’ll be a walkover.’

  That bit was a lie, obviously. Rick dropped his gaze and flexed his wrists, testing the ache in his forearms. ‘You said he had a cheat.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’ Daed breathed out smoke, hissing through his teeth. Suddenly he spun on his heel, as if something had snapped. ‘Now. For gods’ sake! You’re wasting time. This is important.’

  How is it important, Daed? Why is it important? What the hell are you playing at? But Rick didn’t say anything at all. He slid out of bed, wishing he wasn’t naked, or that he hadn’t turned the lights back on. He could feel Daed looking at him as he went into the bathroom and started to put shaving gel on his scalp. He reached out with one bare foot and opened the cupboard behind him with his big toe, picked out a clean pair of pants, dragged them back to where he stood: he didn’t want Daed to watch him, but at the same time he hoped he was impressed. Not everyone could get dressed and shave his head at the same time; it was this kind of coordination that made him the gamerunner he was. Oh, hell. He felt a trickle of blood roll down his ear. He said casually, ‘So what do I get?’

  ‘Marks out of ten? Only a seven, I’m afraid. You’re a bit scrawny.’

  He gritted his teeth. ‘If I win this fight.’

  Daed’s voice changed, hardening. ‘When you win thi
s fight.’

  ‘All right. So what do I get?’

  ‘We’ll talk about that afterwards.’ Which meant: nothing.

  ‘Daed, come on . . .’ A pause. Rick wiped the margin of gel off his forehead. ‘You’ve commissioned me. What about taking off the bars on my account? As I’m doing this for you?’ His face looked back from the mirror, guileless.

  ‘Don’t push it, Rick.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we agree the terms before I go into the Maze?’

  ‘Yes,’ Daed’s voice said. There was a pause. Something made Rick look round, and Daed was there, in the doorway.

  Daed smiled at him in the mirror. He moved nearer, until he was right behind him, and leant forward so that Rick could smell the smoke on his hair. ‘My dear boy, you’re quite right . . .’ His voice was very, very gentle; but not loving. ‘We should agree our terms. Yes, let’s agree our terms, right now.’ His breath smelt of fire and chemicals. ‘Listen. These are our terms. They’re very simple. You do exactly, exactly what I tell you. And in return I will continue to protect you from everything you need protecting from.’

  Rick wanted to turn away, to reach for a shirt or trousers or . . . but he couldn’t move. He stared into Daed’s reflected eyes and wished he knew what was so wrong with them.

  Daed held the stare. He said, ‘Do you accept those terms?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rick said. A wave of fatigue rolled up his legs. He felt faintly sick.

  ‘Good,’ Daed said, and moved away. He opened a drawer, took out a T-shirt and trousers and dropped them casually into Rick’s arms. ‘Get dressed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rick said.

  Daed gave him an odd, lopsided smile, like he’d made a very lame joke. ‘Light of my life,’ he said. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go to my office. You can look at the blueprints before you log in. Oh, and what did you do to your face?’ He went through the doorway without waiting for an answer.

  Rick followed, still struggling into his clothes. As he logged out of his room it occurred to him, for the first time, that this was a fight he might not be able to win.

  Chapter 3

  The Roots of the Maze.

  Rick stared at Daed’s flatscreen and opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say.

  The Maze had other dungeons, but the Roots were different. They ran for miles — light-seconds — twisting, hungry, pitch-black, a labyrinth so elaborate and pitiless Rick could almost believe they’d grown on their own. They were the nest, the nebula of every monster in the Maze: the deepest, most hostile corner of a hostile world. It made Rick’s ears sing — buzzing with danger, ringing sickeningly like tinnitus after a bomb blast — just to look at the blueprints. He closed his eyes, but he could still see the design on the inside of his eyelids: endless networks of traps — clever, interconnected, trip-one-and-you-trip-another-one-five-minutes-away traps — and hungry scraps of dark, with teeth, swarms of them, too many to fight, multiplying as you ran . . . and it was a maze, of course, the only bit of the Maze that really was a maze, so even if you survived you might never make it to the end.

  Finally Rick’s breath and his mouth matched up and made a noise. He said, ‘You are joking.’

  A flicker of a smile went over Daed’s face; then faded, as if he’d realised this wasn’t the moment for professional pride. He tapped one polished fingernail against the screen. ‘It’s designed to take anything between an hour and a year. Not that anyone would last that long.’

  ‘A year?’ Rick frowned. ‘You mean it’s designed to be impossible?’

  ‘Nothing is impossible.’ Daed met his eyes. There was a tiny flicker of complicity: it was one of Crater’s slogans, the First Rule of the Maze, and they both knew it wasn’t true, or not quite. ‘It’s designed to be . . . hard.’

  ‘No one’s ever done it.’

  ‘No.’ Daed leant back, ran a hand through his hair. ‘That’s why I think this guy is cheating. Somehow. But I can’t trace the code. From this end it looks legit.’ He swallowed; Rick could see it hit him hard to have to admit that. ‘In any case . . . I’ll disable as many traps as I can — not all of them, it’d take too long, and someone might notice — and I’ll give you a map, so you can see where to go. Not to complete the quest, understand? You track this guy —’ he flipped to another frame — ‘Herkules404 — and kill him. Gods, why can’t these morons think up original names?’ He flipped back to the blueprint. ‘Repeat that back to me. You do not complete the quest.’

  ‘I don’t complete the quest,’ Rick said, automatically. ‘Why?’

  ‘You find him, kill him, and then you kill yourself.’

  Rick opened his mouth to argue. What was going on? Why did Daed even care what he did, after he’d killed Herkules-whatever-it-was? But something else occurred to him, suddenly, and he said, ‘Wait. If I kill myself in the Roots, I don’t resurrect. So —’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve found you another avatar. Apart from anything else, I don’t want anyone to trace you back to me.’ Daed’s fingers skimmed the keyboard, calling up a file. ‘Look. Tonight you’re — oh great — Athene. Athene Glaukos. Well, at least she made a bit of effort,’ he added.

  ‘She doesn’t look anything like me,’ Rick said, before he could stop himself.

  ‘Why would you want to look like you?’ Daed said, shrugging. ‘She’s fine. Same height and weight as you, so you won’t have to adjust. That’s all that matters. Oh, and she’s careless with her card details; practically anyone could have hacked her account. I’ve given her all the equipment you’re used to.’

  ‘And . . .’ Rick swallowed, realised he didn’t have anything to say. He just wanted to put off the moment when he had to go into the Roots. What if he couldn’t do it? He said, ‘Daed, what if I can’t do it?’

  ‘It’s simple,’ Daed said, without looking at him. ‘Find our little friend and take him out. You’re good. Stop worrying.’ A pause. ‘And do not, whatever you do, do not complete —’

  ‘Yes, you said,’ Rick said. ‘Don’t complete the quest. How do you complete the Roots, anyway?’

  Daed turned, his attention suddenly focused on Rick. ‘Don’t even think about it.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m sending you in because it’s important, vitally important, that no one completes this quest. I will be . . . there will be trouble, if someone does. OK? Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes, I just . . .’ Why? he wanted to say. Why is it so important?

  Daed nodded, slowly. ‘Rick . . . I’ll explain another time, all right?’ A pause. ‘You trust me, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, ’course I d—’

  ‘No, not of course. Do you trust me?’

  He couldn’t quite hold Daed’s gaze. He heard his voice again, silently. These are our terms. They’re very simple. You do exactly, exactly what I tell you. And in return I will continue to protect you from everything you need protecting from.

  I’d trust you, Rick wanted to say, if you trusted me. I’d trust you if I wasn’t just a game you played. I’d trust you, if, if . . . No, I don’t trust you. Tell me what the hell’s going on.

  He said, ‘Yes, Daed, I trust you.’

  ‘Good,’ Daed said, and if he wasn’t convinced it didn’t show. He turned back to his screen. ‘Weapons, armour, map . . . Is there anything else you need?’

  Speed. Strength. Stamina. But those all had to be real.

  ‘No, I’m OK.’

  ‘You’re ready, then?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The back of his neck tingled, then burnt, as if the enemy in range signal was already activated.

  ‘Good,’ Daed said again. ‘Better get going, then. Don’t waste any more time.’ He didn’t even look round.

  Rick stood for a second, looking at the back of Daed’s head, noticing the way his hair glinted in the light from the flatscreen: hair just long enough to announce that he’d never worn a gamecap in his life, just long enough to proclaim his disdain for the people who actually played the game he’d created. Rick’s skull felt cold, clammy, lik
e the palms of his hands. He thought: What if this is just something Daed thought up when he was bored? What if this is another crappy game?

  ‘Get a move on, Rick.’

  Gods, what had he been expecting, a goodbye kiss? Rick said, ‘Yes, Daed,’ and went. He shut the door quietly behind him.

  Chapter 4

  For the first time ever, he warms up before he signs in.

  He shuts the door of the tank and stands in the swirling blue light of the gateway screen, feeling sick. The tank’s soundproofed, naturally, but all the same he thinks he hears the patter of the rain on the window outside, slowly eating into it, etching patterns into the chemiglass. He wonders how long the panes will last before they have to be replaced. Last time it was two months; the time before that, three. Or maybe Maintenance will forget, and one day as he comes out of the tank the window will shatter in the wind, exploding inwards in a storm of fragile shards and acid, and he’ll be left standing there, drenched in corrosive rainwater. A death sentence. An elegant way for Paz to get rid of him, if she wanted to; or Daed . . .

  Stop it. He takes a deep breath, and another, trying to concentrate. He stretches his legs, shoulders, rolls his neck and back, going through the different kinds of traps in his head. Ones you duck, ones you jump, ones you crawl under . . . Come on. If he leaves it too long, it might be too late. He puts on the undercap, the ankle- and wrist-bands, the belt, then finally the cap itself. He runs his fingers over the silver mesh, trying to summon some enthusiasm, but it doesn’t work; there’s just dread. Then he logs in.

  Daed works quickly, you’ve got to give him that: at the touch of Rick’s hand the pointed feminine face of the new avatar looks back at him from the screen, already his default, as if she’s always belonged to him. He tries to catch her blinking, but the synchro’s spot on; he winks at her, just to see her mirror him. It feels weird. There’s something odd about her body language; for a second he thinks the mimic program is malfunctioning. Then he realises it’s just that she’s moving like him, like a boy. Her gaze is too direct, too aggressive.