Gamerunner (18 page)

She must have come and gone. No. He would’ve woken up; he was right next to the door. She must’ve just gone, without even bothering to come back to her workshop first. Oh,
damn
.

He imagined her, alone, in the rain, walking the streets of Undone, looking for somewhere to stay. He imagined a small, anonymous figure in black out-clothes and hood, too ordinary for the cameras to follow. He thought he ought to pity her; but all he could feel was a cold, half-relieved stab of envy. She was outside the complex. She’d escaped.

Unless . . .

He thought: Daed wouldn’t have changed his mind about getting rid of her. Surely . . . No. He wouldn’t. He never makes any decision unless he’s certain; so he never changes his mind.

Unless
she’d
changed
hers
. If she’d agreed to help with Asterion. Then, maybe . . .

He rubbed his eyes. He’d just woken up, but he felt so tired, so
tired
. What was wrong with him?

He took a last look around at Perdita’s stuff — the rows of damaged components, lined up like a hospital ward, the books, the hood on the table like a black bag, the tangle of wire that shone like a crown yesterday — and then logged out of the workshop. He didn’t meet anyone in the corridor, and he was glad.

He went up, up and up and up, to the twentieth storey, heading to Daed’s office.

When he got out of the lift — he couldn’t be bothered with the stairs — there was a strange odour in the corridor. It was something he’d smelt before, somewhere, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was acrid and sharp, like a cleaning agent. It niggled at him, as though it was trying to tell him something important. He thought: Yeah, right, like that someone has
finally
been allowed to clean Daed’s office . . .

Daed’s door was locked. The comms panel was dark, as if it wasn’t working. Either he really wasn’t in, or he didn’t want anyone to know he was in. The acidic smell was stronger, now. It hit the back of Rick’s throat and made him cough. He put his hand on the panel and said, ‘Daed?’, but there was no answer, and he knew he wasn’t going to get one. Maybe Daed and Perdita were in there together; or maybe not. He wished he knew where Daed’s other rooms were.

He could have sat down outside the door and waited. But he was sick of waiting. All he ever seemed to do was wait.

He leant towards the comms panel and gave it another handprint, but it didn’t even ripple. It was completely kaput. But then, Daed might have designed a kaput mode, just for situations like this one. It didn’t mean anything.

So stuff it. Daed wasn’t going to answer, even if he was in there; and either Perdita had gone already, or she wasn’t going.

Rick coughed again — gods, that
smell
, like it had stripped a layer off his throat — and turned away. He went back to his rooms. There wasn’t anywhere else to go.

He got in through the door and looked round at his room. He felt faintly sick. Outside the rain had started again. The shark in his pool was closer to the surface than normal; its outline was almost clear. The water rippled, blue and enticing.

Perdita must have left the complex; otherwise she’d have told him. Wouldn’t she?

He stayed where he was, in the vestibule, and said to the comms panel, ‘Housekeeping, please.’

Hello, Rick. How can I help you?

‘Er . . . listen, I wanted to order a meal. For someone else, but from my account.’

Certainly. Please choose your food options.

He struggled to think. ‘Just . . . um. Chips. Just chips. With salt and vinegar, and —’ There wasn’t any point getting carried away; it’s not like he was going to get to eat it. ‘That’s all. Thanks.’

One portion of chips, with salt and vinegar. Where would you like that delivered?

‘To Perdita, in the Creative Department,’ he said. ‘Please.’

I’m afraid I don’t recognise the name. Do you have an alternative?

‘To Workshop One, in the Creative Department,’ Rick said. His hand was still pressed against the comms panel, and it was slippery and cold.

I’m afraid there’s no one registered at that address. Do you have an alternative?

‘Er . . . look, Perdita Sands, she used to be a Creative, I mean, until this aftern— until yesterday afternoon. Can you look up your records?’

I’m afraid I don’t understand your request. Would you repeat it, please?

He took a deep breath. ‘Request personal response, please.’

A pause.
One moment, please.

Two seconds later, the comms panel said,
Yes? How can I help you, Rick?

He wished they wouldn’t be so polite; he never quite believed that they were real people, even though they said they were. He said, ‘Look, I’m trying to send some food to a friend of mine, and the system’s saying she’s not registered. Can you tell me what’s going on?’

What is her name, please?

He went through it all again, slowly, with his heart skittering in his ears.

I’m afraid Perdita Sands isn’t registered with us.

‘I know, that’s what the computer said, but — she was here yesterday . . . Maybe she got fired or something —’

That’s possible.

OK, Rick thought, it
is
a real person, because the computer never interrupts.

I’m not sure exactly what’s happened, but I
can
tell you for certain that she is no longer in the building. Technically the information is sensitive . . . But as it’s
you
— the voice softened, like something going sticky in the heat —
I think I can say that if she had been fired, this is exactly how it would show up on the system.
Exactly
like this. Does that help?

Rick’s disappointment gagged him for a second; he had to bite down on it before he could make the words come out. Then he said, ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

My pleasure. Would you like the food order sent to a different location?

‘Yes,’ he said automatically, ‘send it to me here, please.’

No problem. Can I help you with anything else, Rick?

‘No.’

Well, please don’t hesitate to contact me again if
—

He walked away from the comms panel and let the voice talk to itself. That was it, then. Perdita had left, without going back to her workshop. He’d waited for her, and all the time she was already outside, probably. He stood at the window and watched the rain. The grey towers and streets of Undone were spread out in front of him like a 3D map. It wasn’t anything like the Maze; but the shine in the chemiglass made it look beautiful, almost. Dangerous — but beautiful.

He heard the click of Housekeeping signing in, and the noise of the delivery box opening and closing. He didn’t move, even though he could smell the vinegar-and-hot-fat perfume of the chips. He’d thought he was hungry. But he wasn’t. The smell only made him feel queasy.

I used to be hungry, he thought. I used to sleep well. The only things that hurt were injuries I got in the Maze. What’s happened to me?

He stood up, dragged the duvet off his bed, and sat down in the corner of the room, next to the window. He wrapped it round himself, half cloak, half nest. Then he leant his head against the chemiglass, watching the huge blurred raindrops on the other side of the window, too close to focus on. It was hard to believe they were poisonous. From here they just looked like water.

He stayed where he was. He drifted into a kind of trance, watching the rain. It wasn’t quite sleep, because his eyes were open; but time passed quicker than it should have done. Until it was dark, and he was watching the lightning, long thick fingers of white light, like the roots of stars.

And there was something in his head; something with sharp corners, so that when he thought it dug into him, not letting him get comfortable. Something he’d seen, or something he’d heard, or touched, or smelt . . . Something that was germinating now, pushing a little tendril out into his brain. What . . . ?

He got up, leaving the duvet where it was, hollowed into the shape of his body. He stood for a moment in front of the darkened window, watching the lightning snatch at the clouds like it was looking for something. The rain slackened for a moment, and stopped. There was silence. The sudden quiet pressed against his brain.

And then he was logging out of his room, running along the corridors to Daed’s office, and when he got round the corner there was the stench of ammonia, thick as a brick wall, and Daed’s door was open and there was light spilling out.

He said, ‘Daed? Daed, I need to talk to you —’

And then, in spite of the smell, he went in.

He had just enough time to see the world breaking in through the window, the shards of chemiglass on the floor like frozen petrol and the chair with its legs in the air like an insect. Then he took a breath — he couldn’t help it — and he was blind and choking and his lungs were full of molten metal.

Someone grabbed him and pushed him backwards, gripping his shoulders as if they wanted to tear handfuls out of him. They were shouting but Rick couldn’t focus on the words; whatever was in the air was eating into him, turning his skin inside out. He let himself fold down on the floor, choking so hard it felt like someone else was doing it. His eyes were streaming and everything hurt.

Something liquid poured over him, through his hair and down his face. It was cool, slightly sticky, and the pain washed away with it. His throat still burnt, but his skin was shivery and relieved, as if it was covered in frost. He gasped and coughed, and his mouth filled with the taste of bleach. He tried to spit it out. Something thick slid down his chin, leaving a trail of stinging slime. He wiped it away with his hand, and blinked the last drops of water out of his eyes.

There was a woman in front of him, her hood hanging down her back, her out-clothes undone at the collar. She said, ‘Gods, are you trying to kill yourself? What on earth are you playing at?’

Rick said, from a corroded voicebox, ‘What happened?’

He meant, what happened in the office; but the woman either didn’t understand, or didn’t want to tell him. She said, ‘You took a lungful of outside air. I rinsed you off, but you should see a med to check for internal damage. If it was raining, you’d have been killed.’ Her voice was flat, but she was shaking. Of course: he was important, he was Daed’s son. If he’d got killed, it would have been her fault.

‘I only wanted to see if Daed was in there,’ Rick said.

A man’s voice said, ‘Did you leave the door open? What were you —’

She didn’t look round. She said, still looking at Rick, ‘The mechanism’s broken. I couldn’t close it. Get on with the job.’

The man snorted. It made an odd, muffled sound, because he was still wearing his hood. Then Rick heard him go back inside Daed’s office.

The woman searched Rick’s face with her eyes. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘OK. What happened in the office? I mean — the window —’

‘A minor incident,’ she said.

Which is why you’re fixing it now, at night, when no one’ll see, Rick thought. But he didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes and saw the missing window, the last splinters of chemiglass clinging to the frame like teeth. The taste of Undone’s air filled his mouth and he wanted to spit again.

‘The chair,’ he said. ‘Someone wrecked the office.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘just a minor incident. Daed’s fine. He’s been checked over, and he’s fine. Nothing for you to worry about.’

‘He was
in
there? When the window broke?’

‘He’s fine,’ she said again. ‘It wasn’t raining, and he was only in there for a few seconds. He knew to get out as soon as possible, and the air didn’t corrode the comms panel right away, so there was no problem opening the door . . .’ She paused, as if she’d realised she was talking too quickly. ‘Really, it was a minor incident.’

‘So he was in there,’ Rick said. He coughed. He was never going to get the taste of ammonia out of his mouth. ‘What happened? Why did the window break?’

‘An accident. Let’s get you to a med.’

‘Because the glass was too old?’

‘No,’ she said, a sudden defensive note in her voice. ‘The Maintenance records are completely up to date. We can’t be held responsible.’

‘It didn’t just implode?’

‘No, it certainly —’ She narrowed her eyes, then her face smoothed itself out. She was trying not to give anything away. But it was too late. She stood up, and hovered for a second, looking down at him. ‘Go back to your rooms and ask for a med, urgently. OK? You can do that? Do you need someone to come with you?’

He wished she wouldn’t tell him what to do; but the irritation was a long way away, behind a veil of grey. He didn’t want to think about Daed, or his office. The broken window was like a mouth, trying to tell him something. Daed had been in there; Daed had broken the window, even though he must have known how dangerous it was. And he’d left the office in a mess, with the chair overturned, as if there’d been a fight . . .