Gamers Con: The First Zak Steepleman Novel (14 page)

Now it seemed like I’d finally get some answers.

31

BEFORE WE HEADED ONWARDS, to the next stage of the tournament, there was another announcement—that, from now on, now the field had been narrowed down so thinly, we would each be accompanied throughout the convention by an invigilator.

That we would
not
be permitted any other form of contact with other gamers still in the competition till the conclusion of the tournament that evening.

So, I guessed that put paid to me and the others meeting up in Kate’s room again and trying to bust open this whole
Halls of Hallow
thing.

There wasn’t any other comment about this, but I got the impression that it was because of suggestions of some gamer receiving tips from outside.

Maybe someone had complained.

I
would have.

Whether or not the Gamers Con officials—Steve and Harold—had noticed what had gone on yesterday, what with me and the other three—
four
with Alan?—getting fed button combinations wasn’t mentioned.

But I had my own thoughts about it.

The invigilator assigned to me was Steve.

And I was glad.

In a way, I was hoping, if somebody tried to feed me button presses again, that I would get caught . . . maybe I’d even
turn myself in
. . . that would’ve been the honest thing to do.

Maybe it was the prospect of my parents’ divorce, wheedling its way through my head that had me messed up, didn’t really allow me to sit back and think straight.

Because, after all, there was
no doubt
what the moral thing to do would be.

To tell the truth.

But, the way I saw it so far, I knew at least the other four had cheated in some way, that they’d got the same button presses I’d got, so it felt like a somewhat level playing field.

Or maybe I wanted the Grand Tournament Trophy so badly that I was determined to do just about anything to get my hands on it.

As me and Alan were filed along to the plastic pods where they kept the game consoles, I flashed a glance up to my dad—to where he sat in the spectator seats—and he gave me a wave, and one of those sturdy,
man-to-man
smiles . . . one of those ones he always puts on whenever there’s a ‘serious’ subject like school, or chess, to blab about.

I eyed the monitor up ahead, saw that we would be playing just a standard game—not another curveball like throwing us into play shooting games with gun peripherals had been.

However we’d managed to get here, I knew for certain that this was the meat of the competition.

And I was prepared to do all that was necessary to win.

I noticed that Harold was hot on Alan’s heels, and I guessed that he had been assigned to keep an eye on him, while Steve was already puffing away on my own heels.

Apparently
already
out of breath.

When I picked up the gamepad, I felt just a sliver of that pain from the day before.

That morning, when I’d woken up, all bleary-eyed having only had about three hours’ sleep at most, I’d spent a good half an hour running my wrist under the cold tap.

The welt was now under control, though.

And I only really felt pain when I jerked from one side to the other too swiftly.

As I eyed the game coming up, I recognised it right away:

Harbours of Pain

I gave a slight smile.

Thought about how I wouldn’t need to flex my wrist.

Pretty much the whole game was played out with the right hand—with the hand that tapped away at the plastic buttons of the controller.

Guess I lucked out.

It was also one of my
favourite
games.

With Steve staring over my shoulder, and Harold looking over Alan’s, I thought to myself that Harold had better keep his eye on Alan the best he could since—from everything I’d talked about with the others—Alan seemed the one most likely to win this whole tournament: to have it all fixed in his favour.

As for me, I was determined just to
enjoy
it.

The screen faded up from black, and those crystal-clear, blue waters all twinkled into view—in the bleached sunshine.

I couldn’t help but allow myself a smile.

For me,
Harbours of Pain
has always been one of those comfort games.

One of those games, what with its flawless blue skies, and insanely clear waters, that you can just stick into the Sirocco and escape with for a little while.

Oh, sure, there’s battle to be had, too.

That’s where the
Pain
comes from.

But it’s mainly a free-roaming sailing title.

The way it works is that you have a boat—which starts out as a dinghy, but gets more and more impressive as you go—and then you basically navigate the waters of the globe.

You only really get into battles if you truly want to have them . . . most of the time, when I fire up
Harbours of Pain
, it’s just to sail—and keep sailing—right out into the distance, sail for the horizon.

Kind of a relaxation thing I’ve got going.

However, in this case, since we were facing off for a place in the final of the Grand Tournament of Gamers Con, I knew that I couldn’t afford to allow my brain to float away.

So I snapped right back to the task at hand.

Readied the cannons.

Watched the timer tick down.

3 . . . 2 . . .

32

. . . 1 . . . GO!

All at the same time, I mashed my palm down on all the buttons.

Fired everything I had right at Alan.

And him, being a savvy gamer, did just the same.

I watched as our cloud of cannonballs rubbed against one another in mid-air, observed as we did our best—on the split screen—to avoid the incoming fire.

When the dust had settled, with me and Alan getting into the battle, I noticed that I’d got the better of our opening exchanges, that I’d managed to take the most damage off him.

We sparred on for a little while, neither one of us wanting to make a near-suicidal attempt at swinging our boats towards one another and going all out to win the matchup.

I knew that it would come down to me, though.

Because I was the one who had taken the lowest damage in my meter.

It would fall to me to make the play to
win
this faceoff.

I waited for the longest time, not really sure why I did.

After all, I was nothing if not a
blast
-minded gamer . . . I liked to throw myself into the thick of the action and have at the other player.

Just my style, I guess.

When I finally decided that it was time to make my move, I felt that skitter trundle its way up my spine, briefly send a cold wave through my blood.

Maybe I should’ve paid attention.

Should’ve
thought
a little more.

About
who
I was playing against.

But it was too late.

As I got closer, I noticed Alan unhinging the back hatch off his boat, bringing up—what looked to me—like the
uber
cannon.

I . . . well, I couldn’t
believe
it.

Of course
I
knew about the
uber
cannon.

In fact, I knew it well,
too
well.

And I knew just as well that it was a kamikaze trick—one of those things that inexperienced gamers would try out during online melees . . . once they’d find themselves getting beaten up they’d decide that it was better for
both
of us to go down.

Before I had a chance to turn back, Alan unleashed all he had.

There was a percussive
whoomph!
and then, just like that, a mushroom cloud puffed up from where the nuclear-infused cannon ball hit.

The screen brightened up all over till it faded out to white.

And it was over.

The tie was drawn.

33

FOR A COUPLE OF MOMENTS I just stood there, controller locked in my hands, unable to believe just what I had seen.

That here—
here
—at what some gamers would’ve described as a near-holy place, Alan had pulled that kind of crap on me.

Oh, sure, he was going to lose.

He
knew
that I was going to take him out.

But, now, it was all over.

He had tied our match.

As Alan promptly headed back off to the sofa area, off to go and wait for the order for the next matchup to come, I couldn’t help but reach out, grab hold of him, tug him back towards me.

I only realised that I’d used my gummy left hand to do so when I felt that flush of delayed pain flare up to my skull.

I winced a little.

But I had Alan—had him
now
—standing before me.

His red hair all raggedy. His blue eyes slowly finding mine.

He said nothing.

So I guessed
that
was left up to me.

“Can we talk?” I said.

Alan didn’t react. He just continued to send me that stony glare of his. His blue eyes almost seeming to take on a dull shine in the fluorescent light.

“Let him go.”

I swivelled around. That
unsettlingly
booming voice dragging me back.

It was Harold.

Gently, Harold reached out and—one by one—prised my fingers off from where I held tight onto Alan’s shirt.

“May I remind you,” Harold said, “that gamers are to stay apart till the conclusion of the competition—no
talking
,” he added, squinting a little.

I had to admit that I hadn’t previously seen this side of Harold.

But, then again, I guessed that I would’ve acted just the same if I’d been in his shoes.

He was right, of course, the rules had clearly been laid out that we were to keep our distance from the other gamers, and I’d just gone ahead and violated it in the very first matchup of the round.

When Harold released me, allowed my hand to flop back down to its neutral position at my side, he held up his index finger then said, “First warning—you get
one
more.”

Despite the heavy feeling in the atmosphere between us, that had settled down over the floor of the convention centre, I couldn’t help but snap back, “Three and I’m out?”

Harold slipped me the sliver of a smile. “Yeah,” he said.

Maybe I would’ve said something more, but I felt Steve’s hand heavy on my shoulder.

When I looked back to him, I saw that his eyes, sunken into his pudgy cheeks, were fairly bored-looking, like he’d expected something like this to happen.

“All right,” Steve said, “let’s get you all set for your next matchup, huh?”

I did just what he said.

* * *

The rest of the round lasted till about ten o’clock in the morning.

I watched as the other three gamers—those among us who
hadn’t
been affiliated with Alive Action Games—came back with increasingly darkened features, like they were getting more and more frustrated by something.

I had half a mind to
tell
them.

But I knew that it would get me into a whole load more trouble.

That got me thinking, wondering if the rule change hadn’t been so that me and the others from Alive Action could get cracking on the puzzle with
Halls of Hallow
but so that we wouldn’t drop hints to the other three gamers that this tournament—that this
Grand
Tournament was anything but on the level.

Whatever the explanation was, I noticed how the leader board ticked along with the five of us from Alive Action Games all filling out the top five spots.

In my matchups with the other three gamers, I witnessed a couple of glitches. And me and my opponent both agreed on what had happened—that it
hadn’t
been a fair fight—and told the invigilators, they just looked at us with kind of puppy-dog glances, and shook their heads, mumbling some section of the rules of the Grand Tournament which dealt with such issues.

At one point, I thought of pressing the issue, telling the invigilator who was following my opponent around that I
insisted
we replay the round.

But that only served to get me my second warning.

And, though I hated a small part of myself for it, I knew that I would hate myself even more for getting
this close
to the Grand Tournament Trophy and then to have thrown it away over something as stupid as a
glitch
.

By the time we—all of us who’d been affiliated with Alive Action Games—were all standing up, being told to reconvene after lunch for the final of the competition, I felt nothing but empty inside.

Though I knew well that I hadn’t set out to
cheat
my way through the competition, I knew just as well that that was
exactly
what had happened.

With or without my input.

I was surprised to find that Steve was instructed to follow me around for the rest of the time—even tagging along with me and Dad at lunch.

I thought of telling him that he didn’t need to follow us about, but then I remembered that I was sitting on a second warning . . . that my place in the final depended on me keeping my trap shut.

And so I kept it shut.

After a lunch of hamburger and chips, I speculated that it would be one of the good things about my parents getting divorced, that whenever I was with my dad there’d be
lots
of hamburgers and chips to come. I looked to Dad, tried to divine just what he was going to get up to next.

He seemed to have a plan for himself, though, already.

He was back to staring at his mobile screen.

Tapping away at his latest chess move.

I don’t think he even noticed when I headed up for the hotel room—in fact I’m
sure
he didn’t notice because he soon lost himself in the crowds of people.

Steve, of course, was still tagging along at my heels.

I thought he might be content with just following me up to my floor, seeing me heading for the hotel room.