Gamerunner (19 page)

He said, ‘No.’

She thought he was answering her question. She pulled her hood up. ‘Great. Can you ask the med to contact Maintenance after he’s seen you? Just for the paperwork. Thanks.’ Her gloved fingers ran over the seams in the out-suit, checking the fastening. ‘Right, better get back to work. Go and get yourself checked out.’

She went back into the office, giving him one final look over her shoulder. The corridor light reflected off her hood, blanking out her eyes.

Rick stood up. His skin still felt cool, tingling like the top layer had been lifted off. He looked at his hands and half expected to see the bare muscles, tightening and drying out in the air-con.

Daed had been in there. And when he’d left, the chair was overturned and the window had a hole big enough to throw a person through.

Rick thought of what it would be like, to stand at a broken window twenty storeys up, with nothing between you and the poisonous air. What it would be like to fall.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He thought: Maybe no one fell. Maybe Daed threw something at the window — the other chair, the desk, an old flatscreen . . . Maybe whoever was in there with him walked out through the door. Maybe there
wasn’t
anyone in there with him.

And Perdita —

He wished he hadn’t thought of her name.

He could almost believe that she was OK. He could almost, almost make himself believe that after she went to see Daed she walked out of his office and went down to the ground floor and left through the airlock, the way she was supposed to. He
would
believe it, if . . .

He breathed in and the smell of chemicals rose, filling his nose and mouth.

Against the dark of his eyelids he could see Perdita’s workshop, the way he’d left it: the wounded techno lined up to be mended, the empty spaces, the bare workbench.

Bare, except for Perdita’s hood.

That was what had been niggling at him, the thing he couldn’t get hold of. That, and the smell of rain.

The hood. The one thing no one would leave the complex without. Unless . . .

Unless they had to. Unless they fought with someone in an office twenty storeys up; unless somehow — in a blur, in a mess of words and movement that Rick can’t imagine clearly — somehow — they smashed their way through the window, fell, disappeared, probably asphyxiated before they even hit the ground. Or . . . unless they were pushed.

Unless they were killed.

For example.

Chapter 18

Rick tried and tried to get back into Perdy’s workshop. He pressed his hand against the comms panel and closed his eyes, willing the door to slide open. The workshop would be just as he remembered it, except without the hood on the workbench. Because he was tired, wasn’t he, and imagining things. Or it must have been his own hood that he’d left there. An easy mistake to make, especially when you weren’t thinking straight.

He tried and tried; but the door stayed closed. Either Jake had only arranged a one-off entry for him, or the system had been swept.

After a while the comms panel said,
This office is temporarily unassigned. Can I help you with anything else?

He shook his head, as if the comms panel was human, and genuinely offering to help. He put his back to the door and pushed, which was stupid, because it opened sideways. The metal was cool and unforgiving against his ribcage. It hurt; but then everything did. His skin was still painful. He didn’t think anyone would be able to touch him, ever again. It hurt to move, or get out of bed, or put his clothes on. Even warm water was unbearable. The med had said he was fine, and given him painkillers, ‘just in case’, but they didn’t work.

Then again, he knew it wasn’t the airburn. It was the thought of the broken window, and Perdita. If he could only be sure she was OK, the pain would go away.

But the door stayed closed. And he remembered getting her hood down, and putting it on the workbench; he remembered it too clearly, like something behind glass. He’d never been so sure in his life.

He spun awkwardly away from the door, and stumbled down the corridor to the Ideas Space. He wanted . . . he didn’t know what he wanted, but he couldn’t stay here. The panel let him in, without pausing, and he stood in the doorway looking at all the whiteness. He wanted to be like that: blank. He wanted to run a bleach-covered cloth round the inside of his skull, and start again from scratch.

A group of Creatives looked up at him, and stopped talking.

He opened his mouth: nothing.

A tall woman with sparkling hair said, ‘Hi, Rick.’

He thought he was going to ask where Perdita was; but he heard himself say, ‘Where’s Jake?’

‘Jake?’

‘He’s a Creative. His office is down there.’ Rick pointed. ‘He’s got light hair. He’s tall.’

‘No Jakes,’ she said, and you could have cut diamonds with her eyes. ‘If you mean Jason, he got asked to leave. For hacking the system. One-hour notice and no reference. Wonder how long he lasted, in Undone.’

‘He was . . . thrown out?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. The other Creatives watched her, and stayed very still. ‘Funny, he said he thought he was doing it on Daed’s orders. What a rubbish excuse. He should have known better. Right, Rick?’

It was like being punched on a frostbitten limb; the pain was vague, only just breaking through the numbness. Rick said, ‘Oh.’

‘Coffee?’ she said.

He shook his head. He thought: They hate me. Of course they do.

He said, ‘Could someone get me . . . I want to check something, in Perdita’s old office . . .’

There was a silence. It fitted the room perfectly, wall to white wall, like it had been ordered especially.

And then they laughed.

He’d never heard people laugh like that. They laughed like the joke was death, and terror, and all the worst things they could imagine. And they were laughing at
him
. He stood there, and if he could have died right there, right then, he would have done.

Finally someone else — a man, with a shiny, sculpted face, too GM’d — said, ‘No, don’t think so, mate. Sorry.’

There was contempt in his voice, as well as hatred. The same old trick, it said. How stupid do you think we are?

They’d stopped laughing. Now they were just staring at him. The hostility made his skin tingle, like the airburn had.

He turned away. He knew Perdy was dead. He’d known it ever since he’d seen the broken window in Daed’s office — but now it was just
there
, an unassailable fact, like gravity.

As he left someone said, just loudly enough, ‘And he couldn’t even get Jason’s
name
right.’

Time passed. There was nothing Rick could do, so he did nothing. No one came to see him; but that was OK, because the thought of seeing anyone made him feel queasy and afraid. Once he thought he heard Daed’s footsteps outside the door, and his stomach swirled and plummeted. But no one came in. And he was glad. Fiercely, defiantly glad.

He swam and practised the slowfight form on his own in his room, so at least he’d be hungry. Then he ate and slept. Strangely enough, he slept well, without dreaming.

Time passed. Hours, days, a week.

He was asleep when the door opened, and he dreamt that someone had come into the room and was sitting at the end of the bed. He rolled over, wishing they’d go away, but they didn’t, and finally he had to admit he’d woken up and they were still sitting on his feet. He opened his eyes and looked at the faint reflection in the window. A ghost of Daed was sitting on a transparent bed, in twenty storeys’ worth of mid-air. Rick wondered vaguely what was keeping him there.

‘Awake?’

‘No,’ Rick said, ‘I’m still asleep.’

‘Security said you might be ill. You’ve slept fourteen hours out of the last twenty-four.’

‘I don’t have anything else to do.’

‘Find something.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘What’s up, Rick?’ Daed’s voice was soft, unexpectedly concerned. It made Rick sit up — slowly, because his head was spinning — and peer at him. Daed smiled, and Rick’s unease faded. ‘Good. I
thought
you were awake.’

‘Go away, Daed.’ He lay back down.

Daed stood up. For a second Rick thought he’d won, and felt a stupid surge of disappointment that Daed hadn’t tried harder. He heard Daed go back to the door. Daed said, ‘Lights, please.’

‘Hey — Daed —’ Rick squeaked in outrage and dived under a pillow, sheltering from the light as if it was a bomb-blast. Everything was muffled but his eyes still ached. He hadn’t had the lights on for
days
.

‘Yep — through there, please, there’s a studio, the door — no, that’s the bathroom — gods, be careful, do you have any idea how much that’s worth? Yes, there, that’s right, ignore the corpse in the bed, it’s just a teenager.’

Rick raised his head. There were two workpeople shuffling round his bed with a box — a kind of white cylinder — the size of a coffin. They glanced at him as they went past. One of them smiled, but Rick was too confused to smile back.

Daed said, ‘Yep, through there, normal power supply, normal networking, software already installed. Can I trust you two to set it up?’

The smaller workperson said, ‘Er . . . well, actually —’

‘Set it up,’ Daed said, dismissing him.

‘But —’ The workpeople exchanged looks. The little one cleared his throat. ‘Erm, we’re not actually — our training isn’t — not for new hardware — the insurance —’

‘Oh, for gods’ sake,’ Daed said. ‘It’s not hard. Just do it. I’ll check it later, OK?’

They exchanged another look, and then the woman shrugged. She said, ‘OK, Daed, no problem,’ and they started moving again. They paused at the door to Rick’s studio, and the comms panel let them straight through, without a qualm. The door shut behind them. Rick turned his head slowly and stared at Daed.

‘The iTank,’ Daed said. He’d got a faint grin, like a skull. ‘A little present for you. Not connected to the Maze yet, obviously, but there’s a demo on there.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t want it.’

‘Tough,’ Daed said. ‘You’ve got it.’

They looked at each other. Then Rick buried his face in his pillow again.

After a while the studio door opened again and the same unfamiliar voice said, ‘All set up. Anything else, Daed?’

‘No. Thanks.’

The silence swirled round the workpeople as they left, and then washed back into the room. It was cold.

‘You should try it,’ Daed said.

‘Try what?’ Rick said. ‘Blackmail? Murder? Oh, right. I get it. You mean the iTank.’

Another silence. Then Daed said quietly, ‘Ah.’

Rick rolled over, until he could see Daed’s face, the way the electric light shone off his skin, how everything looked too thin. He said, ‘Ah? Is that all you’ve got to say?
Ah?
’

‘I’m sorry about Perdy’s — I’m sorry about Perdy.’

‘You killed her,’ Rick said, spitting the words like they were made of something. He wanted to see them hit Daed’s shirt and leave a mark.

‘Yes.’

‘You
murdered
her — you pushed her out of the wi—’ Rick stopped. His heart stuttered, like it was trying to catch up. ‘What?’

‘I said, yes. I pushed her out of my window. I did kill her.’

Rick blinked. He almost wanted to laugh. He waited for Daed to explain, change his mind.

Daed looked back at him, expressionless.

Rick put his face back into the soft breath-smelling pillow, and started to cry.

Daed let him cry for a long time. Then, finally, Rick felt the mattress sag and tremble as Daed sat down. He didn’t touch Rick, but the air got warmer.

Quietly — so quietly Rick had to stop crying, just to hear the words — Daed said, ‘Everything I do is because of you.’

Rick sat bolt upright, and if he’d been close enough to Daed to hit him he would have done. ‘Don’t you dare say that! Daed, you killed her, you
killed
—’

‘Yes. And everything I do is to make sure you’re safe, that you’ll always be safe. I’m sorry about Perdy. But you’re more important.’

Rick stared at him. Part of him said: Come on, it’s
Daed
, of course he knows how to say exactly the right thing. Gods, you don’t
believe
him?

The other part of him stayed resolutely silent, because all it could think of was: Really? You think I’m important? Really?

‘OK?’ Daed reached out a thin, nicotine-stained hand: the hand a skeleton would have, if it chain-smoked. He brushed Rick’s hair off his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. I know it upset you.’

‘How did — why did you have to —?’

‘She was going to sabotage Asterion. I tried to get her out by gentler means, but . . . We had a fight. I realised then that it was . . . inevitable.’