Gamerunner Page 3
For a second he considers switching back to his own avatar. But his body is still lying, dead, on the steps outside that instance; from where it is, it might take him a couple of hours to get to the Roots, even if he knew where the entrances were. He needs Daed’s programming to get him to the right place. He’s going to have to put up with her, and the stupid way she moves. He tilts his head to one side, brushes imaginary hair away from his face, wiggles his hips. She mirrors him, awkwardly, and then shakes her head and cracks up. They laugh at each other. All right, he thinks, we share a sense of humour. That’s something.
It feels a tiny bit better, knowing she’s on his side.
OK. He takes a deep breath and says, ‘Load the Maze, please.’
Latest location was Knossos Palace, North Side. Return to latest location?
‘Yes.’ His mouth is already dry.
The tank swirls round him as it loads 3D mode. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits until the light on his eyelids is steady before he opens them again. He’s expecting huge doors, like the instance he did yesterday, but he’s staring at a whitewashed wall with a crack in it, the kind you’d never bother to look at twice. Of course: the Roots have lots of entrances, and he knows from Daed’s blueprints that the only way to last five minutes is to find one of the secret ones. So, he thinks, this is the one Daed’s chosen for me. He says, ‘Optimise equipment. Load map of the Roots of the Maze.’ A second later he sees where he is: at the entrance to one of the straighter tendrils of the Roots, with a clear run for three hundred ems before he hits the first traps. And Herkules404 isn’t too far away, moving quickly but oddly, pausing for a few moments (probably waiting for a trap, Rick thinks) and then doubling back, zigzagging, slowly closing on one of the widest tunnels. Rick waves the map away — it hovers, improbably, an em above his head, where he can still see it — and takes a deep breath: he can smell grass and sunlight. Nice touch, Daed.
He steps towards the crack in the wall, turns his body to get through.
Suddenly the world freezes. For a second he’s disorientated, dizzy, as he steps sideways and the world doesn’t adjust to his movement. What the —?
You are about to enter the Roots of the Maze. If you die while attempting this quest, your account will be closed. Are you sure you wish to proceed?
He hisses with relief, because for a moment he thought the tank had crashed. He says, ‘Yes,’ and the world comes back to life.
Now.
The blackness is sudden, absolute, sliding across his vision like a curtain as he slips sideways through the crack in the wall, from white sunlight into darkness. The smells change, too, to damp and iron. He hasn’t done anything yet, but his heartbeat is already faster.
He doesn’t bother with a light at first. He navigates by the glowing lines of the map above him, the little blue spark that shows his position. He jogs, easily, letting the exercise soften the stiffness in his legs, swinging his arms to loosen his shoulders. It’s weird, running into the dark, knowing he’s in a tank that’s only three by three. He keeps his eyes on the map, until the blue spark gets close to the red crosses that mark the traps. Then he stops. ‘Light, please,’ he says, and hears his voice echo off non-existent walls. Gods, Daed must have spent years on these effects . . .
The walls are of stone, but the floor is earth, and there are loops and webs of tree-roots hanging from the ceiling, like pillars. They could take you out, if you were running fast enough; Rick threads his way through them, swiftly, without pausing to wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t kindled his light in time. He runs carefully round the curve in the passage, then slows to a walk, assessing the traps ahead. Only blades; easy. He takes another few steps. The rhythm of the blades speeds up. After another step they’re whizzing impossibly fast — too quick to get past . . . He takes a step back. They slow down. He walks back to where the passage curves: the blades are almost languid. OK, Daed, you smart-arse, he thinks. It’s clever, but it’s not unbeatable. It’s just a question of getting the timing right. Look, you do it like this —
He runs, front-flips for speed, lands and rolls forward, on to his feet, still running. He sees the next trap ahead and keeps going, flips, runs, on and on, three blades, four, his heart pounding and his head full of nothing but yes, I can do this, easy —
Until he glances up, stumbles, staggers and stops dead, reeling and flailing for balance, his feet right on the edge of disaster. Automatically, gasping, he jumps for the bar in front of him, grabs, swings himself over the pit, drops, rolls. He says, ‘Ow, hey, ow, ow,’ laughing, because finally the fear’s gone, completely. Daed may have made the Maze, but only I — Rick thinks — only I can run it. Ha. This is my place; this is where I’m meant to be.
He runs up the vertical stone in front of him, grabs at the ledge at the top, scrambles up and feels — hey, Daed, the effects are good — actually feels it crumbling under his feet. He half drags himself, half vaults through the opening, twists and spots the ground as he drops. It’s just as well: he has enough time — a split second, a flash — to throw himself backwards, one hand reaching for his weapon-belt, gasping with shock and concentration. At the bottom of the wall there’s a nest: huge, nightmarish, a mesh of shadows that shudders and slides as his torch moves. If he’d landed in it, he’d be dead by now. He almost stands and stares; then his instinct takes over and he’s running away, glancing up at the map above his head. Thanks, Daed, you could have marked that on the map . . . although now he can see that it is on the map; he just hadn’t looked properly. Come on, concentrate . . . Something’s coming after him: he hears the whisper and rattle of pursuit. The back of his neck prickles and flares. The map flashes information at him: beware! wyrmlings’ nest! He mouths, ‘No, really, I want to be digested alive,’ and keeps running, ignoring the stats sliding over the ceiling. 3 wyrmlings in range, strength 1,200, speed 0.75 m/s . . . He can see fire-traps ahead; if he can get through them he should be safe, for a while. Wyrms don’t like fire. 4 wyrmlings in range. 5 wyrmlings in range. 6 —
Yes, thanks, I get the idea, Rick thinks. He takes one last long in-breath and holds it, puts on a final spurt of speed, his lungs stinging as if they’re already full of smoke. Come on, come on . . . He runs towards the dancing lines of fire, taking a final second to absorb the pattern, then throws himself left. Something grazes his ankle and the whole world goes gold-red, flaming into his face as if he’s running into the heart of an explosion. Damn. What the —?
He breathes out, emptying his body of air in one harsh huff. There’s no time to turn so he keeps going, finds himself on the other side, in sudden darkness, and his health bar is blinking at him pathetically like a dying animal. Your health is critical. Find a doctor as soon as you can. Your health is . . .
He gasps, sucking at the air as if he’s been underwater. If he’d inhaled the flames, he’d be dead. He leans forward, dizzy and trembling. He says, ‘Time, please,’ and he’s only been in the Roots for three minutes. Oh, gods, gods . . . He says, ‘Sorry, Daed, I’m sorry, I can’t . . .’ and then shuts up, because there’s no answer but the echo, and the sibilance of the fire-traps. When he looks back the wyrms are dancing like cobras, their tongues tasting the smell of his sweat, only kept at bay by the flames.
Gods . . . He can’t do this. It’s too hard. He could kill himself — kill Athene — now. But the target — Herkules404 — is only a few turnings away. He has to try.
You do exactly, exactly what I tell you . . .
All right, he thinks. Nothing is impossible.
He looks up at the map. There’s nothing ahead of him but a time-trap and a steep gradient: speed and stamina, that’s all he needs. Nothing he hasn’t got. A brief respite, before he goes left, right, and left again, to intercept Herkules404 in the central tunnel . . . OK. He takes a long breath, says, ‘Hide stats,’ because he can’t bear the sorrowful flicker of his health bar, and jogs up to the invisible line which triggers the next trap. Then he’s sprinting, concentrating on
his speed — because it’s simple, speed is the only thing that matters here, and it’s possible, it has to be, it is, it’s possible . . .
The floor rumbles and collapses behind him, the vibrations spreading through the soles of his runners. But it’s OK: he’s fast enough, just. He scrambles up the last section of wall, grabbing for purchase with his hands, catches something with his ankle, suddenly loses his grip, slides back . . . not far, but he loses a second, loses an em, damn, damn —
The space in front of him flashes into a waterfall of gold and crimson, pouring heat into the air, a shield of fire that would have incinerated him, if he hadn’t slipped. He thinks: Oh . . . A tripwire. How histro. Hey, that nearly —
He glances up at the map, but there’s no time to look at it properly; the ground rumbles and this time he’s careful where he puts his feet, which means he only just has time to —
He gets to the top and jumps down into a wider corridor, as he hears the roar of the passage behind him self-destructing. His knees almost buckle underneath him as he lands. If there are more traps here he’s dead, no question . . . but it’s quiet, still. There are torches burning on the walls; he turns his own light off, to save the battery. He can’t get enough air into his lungs. He looks up at the map and it looks like he’s safe, thank gods. He needs the recovery time, before he gets close to Herkules404.
And Herkules404 is only a couple of turnings away. Oh, hell, Rick thinks, I’m too tired. It must be about four in the morning. He leans forward, wrapping his arms round himself to stretch the muscles between his shoulder blades. He gives himself ten seconds of long, rasping breaths, and then looks up again at the map.
Here the Roots are straight, intersecting one another at right angles, like something man-made. If he climbs up to the hole in the wall opposite, and gets through, he’ll be in a square hall — booby-trapped, of course, and with a circling swarm of hostile red dots, but with Herkules404 only a hundred ems or so away, now. He might even be in eyeshot. Rick runs a hand over his weapon-belt, watching the ikons flash up. Sword or spear or double daggers? But it’s best to wait and see; no point choosing now.
He scrabbles at the wall for handholds, kicks his feet into it for extra purchase, gets two ems off the ground and then can’t reach any further. Great. He lets go, in spite of himself, and scrapes his face on the wall as he drops back to the ground. The friction burn glows and stings with sweat. Oh, come on . . . this isn’t high-tech, it’s not even complicated. All he has to do is get to the top of the archway, where the bricks have crumbled. He says, aloud, ‘Everything is possible.’ He’s trying to make himself believe it, but his voice comes out like Daed’s, dripping with irony. He clenches his jaw, scanning the wall for more handholds. This is possible. If he were half an em taller, it would be easy. So come on.
He tries five more times. By then he’s crying with frustration, swearing, pummelling the wall with his fists. He looks up at the map and Herkules404 is getting away. He’s going to lose this, and Daed will kill him.
On the sixth attempt he makes it. He’s so surprised he almost lets go. He fumbles gracelessly for a foothold, gasping, and drags himself through the gap in the bricks. The wall’s thicker than he expected and he has to squirm forward and drop into the hall head first, flipping before he hits the ground. He’s in a massive, high-ceilinged hall, with crumbling pillars round the outside like a cloister; but there’s no time to look. He runs straight through the storm of sucker bats, relying on the split-second delay before they register him as an enemy. Run, run, run . . . too many to fight, and even if he could he doesn’t have time. Herkules404, you loser, where are you? Come out, come out, wherever you are . . . He threads his way between pillars, in and out, the bats singing and whining round his head. Their screams echo in the vaults of the ceiling, but they haven’t touched him yet, not yet. He runs. Faster, run, for gods’ sake, Rick, your HP’s critical, one bite in the wrong place and you’re gone. And once one of them tastes blood . . . The back of his neck blazes with sudden electricity. Oh, damn. There’s nothing he can do, except go on running; but it’s hard to get enough speed, when he knows he’s going to die anyway. The bats surround him with shadow, whirling round him in a sickening vortex. How the hell did Herkules404 get past these? It’s impossible. It’s —
Nothing is impossible.
It’s not Daed’s voice; it’s not even his own. He could swear it’s Athene’s. And she spins, quick as a spark, her daggers in her hands, and he almost believes she’s moving him, that for a second he’s her avatar, not the other way round. He’s standing his ground, blades weaving so fast that they’re a shield, looping and flashing through the air around his head and torso, spraying the nearest walls with liquid dark. The bats squeak and glow reddish-orange, enraged. Great, he thinks. Impressive. But I can’t keep this up.
Nothing is impossible.
He thinks: Daed thought I could do this. But I can’t. I can’t . . .
There’s no time to think. His wrists are starting to hurt; his shoulders have been hurting for a long time. The daggers shine, never still, never hurried. The bat blood hits the floor with a noise like someone spitting. Rick thinks: What am I doing? This is a game. If I lose, it’s not the end of the world. Death by sucker bat — it could be worse . . .
It’s the thought of Athene, dying here, that makes him breathe, relaxes his wrists and neck, shifts his weight so that his spine is straight and his balance is even. There. Thanks, Athene, he thinks. That helps a bit. Now I can go on for, oh, another thirty seconds, probably . . .
Daed thought I could do this, no problem.
Yeah, well. Daed said he’d disabled the traps, and that wasn’t exactly —
Some of the traps. He said he’d disable some of the — wait. What if —?
He knows how Daed’s mind works. There should be a trap just before the great doors, the route Herkules404 took. You don’t get doors like that without something to make it harder. But there’s nothing marked on the map. So —
Please. Please. Let this work. It’s not much of a plan, but please —
He inches his way towards the doors, spinning so fast he can hardly keep his sense of direction. But he can’t lose his concentration now; not when there might — just might — be a chance, after all. The bats dance and scream, glinting like petrol and wet ink. Gouts of black blood spray around him. If this were real, he’d be covered with the stuff; as it is he can smell it. It’s a nasty, heavy scent, like tar. He keeps moving, breathless, pushing himself harder and harder. Gods, it’s like trying to keep raindrops off his face by dodging between them. He glances sideways — where are the doors? He should be there by now — and immediately there’s a flash of red in the corners of his vision, punishing him. Damn. A bat-bite; one won’t kill him, but another one might. Your HP is 3. You are dying. Find a doctor as soon as possible. You are dying. Find a —
Yes, yes, OK . . . ‘Hide the stats!’
They’ve tasted blood. Now he can’t see individual bats, only a shimmering fog of dark. And he still doesn’t know where he is. How the hell did Herkules404 get through . . . ?
He spins, his whole chest hurting now, the joints of his shoulders and wrists burning as if there’s sandpaper between the bones. No more, he thinks. No more. Five more seconds, and I’m going to let them kill me. He doesn’t know where he’s going: he takes a step back, then forward, giddy and off-balance. Sorry, Athene, you’re going to —
He steps back, and his ankle gives way, unexpectedly, throwing him down and sideways as deftly as a judo opponent. He’s on one knee, suddenly helpless; he watches in a kind of appalled slow-mo as one dagger skitters away across the floor. His kneecap suddenly flares into a blaze of pain. Something makes a noise like a portcullis dropping. Oh, for gods’ sake — there is a trap after all, he misread the map again . . . He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the silence and cold that’ll tell him he’s dead.
His heartbeat rattles in his ears. The bats are still screaming.
It’s worked.
He’s kneeling in the space where the trap should be, watching the storm of bats circle confusedly around him. They won’t touch him; they think the trap’s still there. Daed’s disabled it, but some of the code is still functioning: the sound effect, the clear space around him. He gets to his feet and stands, panting, in the pocket of safety. He’s giggling with exhaustion. Oh, thank you, thank you, Daed.
He doesn’t want to move, ever again, but he’s going to have to. He tilts his head back, wearily, and looks at the map. Herkules404 is at the opposite end of the next tunnel.
Too hard, he thinks. There’s no way I can fight someone in this state. But then Herkules404 had to do this, too; he might not be feeling any better. And Daed wants me to do it — wonderful, brilliant Daed, who disabled that trap for me . . .
He crouches, retrieves his dagger, and walks towards the doors, scuffing the floor with his runners. The bats swirl and hover, noticing him again, but they’re not quick enough to come in for the kill before he gets to the door. He pushes it open — he’s got just enough strength to do it — and slides through the gap. There’s no need to close it after him: the bats won’t desert their territory. He stands in the shadows, looking down the corridor. And there he is, running the traps at the far end of the passage.
Herkules404.
Chapter 5
Rick stands and watches him, making the most of the time before he notices he’s not alone. So, Herkules404, what’re you like? Short — even smaller than Rick — and stocky, silver-blond hair, flashy armour, faint glow of golden light . . . more gilt than sense, then. Sure, it looks good, but try a stealth assassination when you’re luminous, for gods’ sake.
And . . .
Rick squints, peering through the torch-light, wondering whether it’s safe to put his own light on. If only he could see more clearly — because there’s something . . . he can’t quite put his finger on it. Herkules’ speed is OK, just about — but the way he’s running the traps, it looks too . . . sloppy. No flips, just sprinting, a couple of leaps, a pointless cartwheel in the middle, as if he’s showing off. No precision, Rick thinks; no economy. He should be dead, running like that. Rick steadies his breathing, hissing through his teeth. That blade-trap — easy, of course, but . . . he could have sworn Herkules just ran through it. But he doesn’t falter. On to the next — and gods, he is just running through the blades. The speed’s right, but he’s not even bothering to time it properly: the blade spins right through his legs, and he should be dead, he should be dead.