The Lag (The Game Master: Book #1) (19 page)

Y
anna had decided against taking a cab. That way they could track her down; besides, it wasn't as if she could afford it, either. She jumped off the bus and headed for the RussoVirt tower.

Already as she'd been riding the bus, she'd noticed that Moscow was in a state of unrest. Never a calm relaxed city, it was now tense and alert. About fifty protesters paced the sidewalk in front of the RussoVirt building, contained by security. A slapdash banner hovered over their heads, BRING OUR CHILDREN BACK!

But of course. There must have been so many people, especially children and teenagers, who now lay in their rooms comatose, connected to Gryad via suits, helmets and capsules. And if someone had forcefully disconnected them, did that mean that they had died right there and then in their parents' arms? It was a miracle that this initial unrest hadn't yet grown into a fully blown panic.

She elbowed her way through the crowd and walked up the steps leading to the RussoVirt doors. Two solemn men in dark suits stood there, checking the visitors' invitations.

Yanna joined a small line of people waiting to be let in. Just her luck. She'd hoped to at least get as far as the lobby. Apparently, even that wasn't that easy.

She had no plan of action whatsoever. This was the building she needed to infiltrate. Those were the security guards letting the lucky few into a large lobby humming with people. What's a girl to do?

The line moved fast. The security guards were almost upon her. One was short, the other tall with ginger hair. The people in line showed them brightly colored cards and were flagged through a turnstile.

Two people left in front of her. One. What now? They were going to intercept her!

Yanna hated these situations. She was just too timid for them, to the point of shaking. That was it. Her turn. The security guards stared at her expectantly.

There was nothing left for her to do. She reached into her bag and began rummaging through it, realizing she must be a sorry sight.

"You should've got it ready, miss," the short guard said. "Now you're keeping everybody waiting."

His ginger partner was looking at her with interest. Yanna dug into her bag up to her elbow and sighed. Mustering up enough willpower, she looked ginger straight in the eye.

"I don't seem to have it," she said ruefully. "I must have lost it somewhere."

"Sorry, miss," the short one said. "You can't go in."

"But I-" she was next to tears, embarrassed, despising herself. Why was it that she was always so cool and tough online, hung with knives and bossing men around, shooting and fighting, and now... she couldn't even look them in the eye like some wretched doormat!

"I... I, I really had it," she tried to assure them. "I'm from the medical college, the RussoVirt administration sent us a few invitations, we cast lots to..." gosh, what was she saying! Doormat was the right word. No, worse.

The ginger guard cast her a reserved smile. "Very well. In with you, then."

The short one shook his head, insistent. "Sorry. It's invitation-only."

"It's okay, Igor," the ginger one dismissed him. "Let her through."

"We can't-" the short guard barred the entrance with an authoritative arm.

Ginger forced his arm aside. "I said, she may go."

Then he added, leaning closer to her. "I'm finishing my shift in ten minutes. I'll find you in the lobby, okay?"

"Absolutely!" she squeaked happily and ducked into the crowd, utterly hating herself.

She despised herself down to the soles of her sneakers. How humiliating. Why was she such an embarrassment? Why were other pretty girls so confident, twisting men around their respective little fingers, but she was exactly the opposite? Back on the train in the company of Avtik and Baboon she'd pulled it off though, but now...

She shook her head. Oh, yes. She'd just pulled it off again. She was inside — and that was all that mattered. Excellent. Time to get going.

The lobby was overflowing with show benches and display stands showcasing the corporation's achievements. RussoVirt's latest devices sat in tall glass jars. Any other time Yanna would have paid attention and studied each and every one of them. The "driving suit" which allowed you to control a real-life car was absolutely awesome. But now she had more pressing matters to attend to.

She walked past colorful kiosks where pretty girls in RussoVirt uniform — blue miniskirts, matching stilettoes, jackets and berets with the company's logo — were selling various goodies, helmets, suits and other accessories.

The other side of the lobby was taken by a stage with a screen flashing with bright images of the company's commercials. A man was giving a talk, surrounded by a curious crowd.

Upstairs. She needed to get upstairs. Where were the elevators?

She spent some time walking in circles until finally she noticed the elevators to the left off the stage. Each had a security guard posted next to it. And these weren't the relaxed kind she's encountered earlier. They stood focused and alert, their gazes studying each person who approached, even though they didn’t ask them to show any IDs.

Not many used the elevators, though. And they were probably all corporation workers so the guards knew their faces, that's why they didn't ask them for any identification. But the moment a stranger tried to use them...

She went off to look for the staircase and soon found it — behind a locked glass door in the lobby's far corner. She glimpsed the ginger guard's carrot top in the crowd. Dammit! Yanna ducked behind the nearest kiosk. Time was pressing. She had to get upstairs, but how was she supposed to do that?

She heard voices from inside the kiosk. The salesgirls were changing shift too. The kiosks were basically just tubular frames covered with fabric printed with the company logos. In front, a large flap of fabric formed an awning.

A zipper rasped. A girl stepped out of the kiosk, hurrying somewhere. Yanna peeked inside. The salesgirl stood with her back to her. The space behind her was cramped with stacked-up boxes, a chair and a coat rack. Wrapped in plastic, a set of salesgirls' uniforms hung neatly folded on a hanger on the rack.

This was her chance.

Yanna bit her lip and reached in behind the salesgirl's back, feeling like diving into a frozen lake. She pulled the hanger off the rack and shrank back, catching the languid surprised stare of a customer on the other side of the makeshift counter.

She hurried away on rubbery legs. Her heart rattled a staccato in her ears. She stole a look around. Now she needed to change, but where? Apparently, in the ladies' room.

She found it quickly: an echoing cave of off-white marble veined with gold, beautiful and mind-bogglingly expensive. Two women hovered in front of the mirrors by the sinks.

Yanna walked into one of the cubicles, so clean you could eat off the floor — which was more than she could say about her own kitchen. She hurried to change. But what was she supposed to do with her own stuff? After a moment's hesitation, she crumpled her clothes and stuffed them into the bin.

Smoothing out her skirt, Yanna walked out. Her overnight bag looked weird next to her new outfit, and so did her sneakers. Still, it had to make do. Even if she found a matching pair of shoes, most likely they wouldn't fit her.

The two women by the mirrors were already gone. Excellent.

Yanna paused in front of the mirror, adjusting the narrow skirt that kept sliding up with her every step. Bummer! She gave herself one final once-over and cringed. She looked like a hooker.

Smoothing out the badly-fitting jacket, she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out, heading for the elevators. One had just opened, letting in a few people: a man and three women, one of them a salesgirl in an identical uniform. The guard by the elevator entrance scanned their faces with his stare.
If only he doesn't look down at my sneakers
, Yanna prayed as she approached the elevator.

She stepped toward its open door. The guard peered at her. Yanna raised her hand as if to adjust the beret on her head, shielding her face. The guard stared at her like a presidential bodyguard at a suicide terrorist. Yanna's blood ran cold.

A walkie talkie in the guard's hand sprang to life. He raised it to his mouth, speaking. Yanna dove into the elevator.

The door closed. The elevator whooshed upward. Yanna glanced at herself in the mirrored wall. Her lips were shaking, panic in her eyes. She had to pull herself together. Staring into the mirror, Yanna forced her face into an official but friendly mask.

The man left the elevator first, followed by two of the women who exited on Floor 9. The remaining salesgirl kept casting surprised glances at Yanna's sneakers. Then she looked up. Yanna smiled, meeting her stare.

Sternly the girl returned her smile and exited on Floor 12.

Once alone, Yanna breathed a sigh of relief. She was shaking. Looking in the mirror, she tried to smooth out her skirt until the floors' digital display stopped at 15.

The elevator dinged softly. She walked out. The doors slid close behind her back, cutting off her escape route.

She stood in a long corridor. One of its walls was lined with windows offering a breathtaking view of Moscow. The other wall was one eternal row of glass doors leading off to various offices. They all seemed to be empty even if she could hear muted voices coming from somewhere ahead.

She tiptoed over the fluffy carpet until she came to a door announcing,

Chief Programmer

She walked past it without slowing down, casting a quick peek through the glass as she went.

She saw a desk and a couch. A man lay on the couch face up, wearing a massive helmet with a bulbous transparent visor. Cables were running from the helmet to the computer on the desk. An IV drip stood by the couch.

Was this Healer? Or rather, what's his name, Robert Artov? It definitely looked that way.

Closer to the window stood a second desk. A nurse in a lab coat perched on its edge, exhibiting a well-rounded knee. A guard stood facing her.

Why a guard? Yanna faltered. Another thought replaced the first one as she realized: Robert Artov was alive. Probably, unconscious or comatose, but alive nevertheless. Did that mean that he hadn't really died when the mobs had killed him back in his marshes hut? Or had they failed to kill him at all? What if the clerics had only managed to immobilize his game char with some kind of spell, sending the real Robert Artov into a coma?

Artov's office was separated from the corridor by the secretary's cubicle. A desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, a small couch by the wall. And lurking behind the filing cabinet, a locker in the corner. The furniture was sleek and modern, all plastic and silvery metal, but the locker was old, dented and scratched, as if no one had bothered to take it to the dump.

According to Wayfarer, the key from the utility room was in the locker. Yanna stepped toward the door. The nurse was sitting with her profile to the door; the guard was facing her with his back to the entrance. Shooting the breeze, the two of them. The nurse's body language said it all — the seductive poses she struck in the unconscious desire of a female fancying a male. Very well. No need to distract them.

Yanna stepped out of their field of view and pushed the door. It swung open without a sound. Yanna walked past the filing cabinet and crouched in front of the locker.

She pulled its door open. Inside was a box filled with some crumpled papers, paperclips, a few used batteries and a broken stapler. She dug her hand deeper, her fingers closing around something. There. A bunch of five keys on a ring.

Clutching them in her hand, she backed out of the open door as quietly as she could. Done. The couple by Artov's couch were flirting away, he holding her elbow, she brushing his hip with her knee.

Had she really done it? Just like that? After all the innuendo she'd just had in the lobby downstairs? It was too good to be true. Surely there had to be a catch — but no, apparently there wasn't.

Now. The utility room. What was it Wayfarer had said?
Corridor 2B, right of the elevators, turn twice.
Did he say two turns or three? Probably two. Or three?

She crossed the corridor. So Healer — aka Robert Artov — was alive, then. No idea what that was supposed to mean given the circumstances. She thought about Baboon Face and his men. They were on RussoVirt's payroll, no doubt about it. But if, according to Healer aka Artov, Alpha had revolted against the company, disobeying its programmers, then why would the company send its men after her?

Maybe they wanted her eyewitness account as the only person who'd managed to leave the game alive in the last twenty-four hours? In that case, there had been no need for her to escape them. It made sense, but still Yanna had a bad feeling about this bald-headed Baboon Face, his eyes, his body language and his tattooed fingers. The person was trouble. She just didn't want to have anything to do with him.

She had been right: there were two turns, after all. The corridor ended in a large floor-to-ceiling square window. Three doors lined the wall next to it. Not glass ones, just normal doors. What had Wayfarer said? She needed the third door, the one to the utility room. What was the difference between a storage room and a utility room? Didn't matter, really, as long as she found it.