Gamers Con: The First Zak Steepleman Novel (17 page)

No, I couldn’t allow that to happen.

Not if I wanted to save them.

So I breathed deep—calmed myself down.

Tried to let the facts come to my brain.

Now, I could count on the others having had the same experience as me, having that Cloaked Figure—
Harold
—tell them he wanted them to bring him the trophy, but what I couldn’t count on was the fact that they’d realised that Gamers Con had their parents . . . that they’d snatched them away.

And if I was to blurt
that
out it might cause a stir, but I was sure that Mr Yorbleson would find a way to brush over it.

After all, we hardly knew one another.

Me, Kate, James and Chung had only known one another for a little longer than twenty-four hours.

They didn’t know if I was a psycho, or what . . .

So I just slunk in with the rest of them, taking glances of the spectators as I did so, trying again to see if I could find my dad.

But, nope. He wasn’t there.

I turned my attention to the person who’d just walked into the enclosure.

Mr Yorbleson.

Of course he was here.

He wouldn’t miss out on this.

He looked like a corpse in that suit of his, and he walked across the stage which I now noticed before us, and he tapped the microphone a couple of times—sending an electrical
pop
about the enclosure—before he spoke.

“Gamers, and spectators,” he said, his voice calm, almost
sweet
. . . though I felt like I could easily have strangled him . . . if it would’ve solved the mystery of what he’d done to my father . . . “we’re gathered here to witness the Final of the Grand Tournament, which, I think you’ll agree, promises to be
quite
a spectacular event.”

There was a little polite applause from the spectators, and I allowed myself the flicker of a smile, knowing that the spectators—them being gamers—had come here to see the
gaming
, and not to hear speeches from old guys in suits.

Mr Yorbleson clapped his hands together, then continued, “Before we begin the Final, I must explain the precautions we have taken”—he gestured in the direction of the plastic shell, large enough for all five of us who remained, and our invigilators, to get inside—“so that we can ensure the
integrity
of this event.” He paused, smiled so widely that all the skin which surrounded his eyes creased up. “I’m sure you’ll
all
agree that that is one of the most important
duties
of Gamers Con—to ensure the
quality
of that very greatest prize: the Grand Tournament Trophy.”

Another smattering of applause, and I heard several grumbles among the crowd for Mr Yorbleson to ‘get on with it.’

I allowed myself another smile.

Then I allowed it to slip away, telling myself that I needed to get my head into the game, not just for the good of my chances of
winning
this tournament but so that I might win back all our parents.

With that, Mr Yorbleson indicated to the invigilators and they proceeded to lead us five across the enclosure and towards the plastic shell which—I supposed—housed the Sirocco.

I wondered whether our parents would be inside—
waiting
.

For some reason, I convinced myself of the idea that—
just maybe
—the Final would consist of us having to, on the spot, teach our parents—or
instruct
them—on how to play through the games . . . if that was to be the case then I guessed Chung would take the competition without so much as a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead since his mother had been a pro gamer, a
prodigy
. . .

But, inside the plastic shell, there was no sign of our parents.

It was cool, and I could hear the noise from the audience, the shuffling of feet, and the mumbled conversations, echoing about the shell.

I thought of the plasma screen outside, and what they might be seeing.

Then I snapped back to the present moment, looked to the screen
here
—on the
inside
—and I saw the Sirocco standing there, ready for playing.

The invigilators all stood about us.

Waiting for something.

Someone?

Just as I caught Kate’s eye, I heard Mr Yorbleson begin to speak outside once again.

Into the microphone.

His voice echoing about.

“For the Final we really have something
special
lined up—nothing less than
virtual reality
.”

Mr Yorbleson broke off there, and I guessed that Yorbleson had thought this might have drawn a
gasp
from the spectators, as if he expected the whole collection of gamers in the audience to be
impressed
by the concept of virtual reality.

But if Mr Yorbleson had been a gamer—a
real
gamer—then he would’ve understood that, for people like us, virtual reality represented nothing more than disappointment upon disappointment, rubbish technology that never really worked.

Apparently understanding that he wasn’t going to get a
positive
reaction from his audience, Mr Yorbleson continued.

“Our remaining five gamers”—I guessed he was pointing up at the plasma screen at that point—“shall take on three-dimensional
avatars
of themselves, and they shall strive through a whole series of challenges, where one shall eventually emerge triumphant.”

Now I could see what he was planning—just
why
we found ourselves here, in this plastic shell, confronting the Sirocco 3000.

We were
all
going into the game.

And the spectators were going to watch us, thinking that it was just some sort of a virtual reality
trick
. . . if only they’d known the truth.

“And so, with that,” Mr Yorbleson continued, “I announce the beginning of the Grand Tournament Final—may the best gamer
win!
”

Again, this was greeted with a smattering of applause.

I looked to my side, watched as the invigilators, Steve and Harold among them, brought the curtains shut on us, left the inside of the shell in total darkness for several moments.

The TV screen blinked into life.

Its glow of static illuminated us.

I looked across the others—caught Chung’s eye.

He gave me a slight smile, but I knew that he was nervous.

Just as
I
was nervous.

Just as—
surely
—all of us were nervous.

But there really was no turning back now.

If only the others knew how much that was true.

That if they didn’t go through with the Final now then there was no telling just what might become of their parents.

Mr Yorbleson appeared in the shell, swishing in past one of the curtains which held us in blackout. Without looking over
any
of us, he shifted over to the Sirocco which stood ready beneath the TV screen.

I watched on as he poked around the back of it, looking for the infrared strip.

And then—just like that—he disappeared into thin air.

Now it was
our
turn.

38

I FELT MYSELF tumbling down.

I reached out my arms, trying to find my balance.

And failing to do so.

My gut seemed to fall right through me.

And my nerves caught fire.

I could feel the tension in my left wrist, that knowledge I had that if I fell in a certain way I wouldn’t be able to break my fall with it.

I just kept on falling down.

Further and further, deeper and deeper, into the darkness.

It was around then when my eyes began to adjust.

I could make out the shapes about me as I continued to fall.

Four other shapes.

The others.

I heard my name.

“Zak! Zak!”

It was Chung.

As I tumbled down, I looked off in the direction of Chung’s voice, saw that he must be the blurry shape over to my right, or was that my left?

Even though it was mostly pitch-black, only a dribble of light about the place, I could see that he wasn’t flopping through mid-air as inelegantly as I was, that he had some sense of control of his descent.

“Breathe in deep!” Chung said. “Try to catch yourself . . . it’s not . . . too
hard
.”

I thought to myself that it was easy enough for him to say.

But I did as he said.

Drew in a deep breath—right to the pit of my lungs.

Felt it inflating me, similar to that effect of breathing out while swimming and floating up to the surface.

I imagined myself underwater.

Tried to get a hold on my constant motion.

To stop my arms and legs from sprawling all about me—from flopping all over the place.

It was slow.

At first I was sure that I was dreaming it.

But . . . just like Chung had said . . . I was beginning to get control of my fall.

When I looked about me again, I was surprised to find him close—
really
close.

I mean, the tips of our noses were almost touching.

As we continued to fall.

“Don’t you know this one?” Chung said . . . and I could see that he was grinning.

Not wanting to ruin this whole balanced-falling thing that I had going on, I took care not to speak too loudly. “What one?” I said.

“
Labyrinths, Labyrinths
,” Chung said.

Despite our situation, what with all this free-falling, my brain clicked and whirred, got itself back into order, and I recalled the game. A good one. Surely worthy of the Grand Tournament Final.

. . . Yes . . . it was funny . . . how I’d played so many games that I couldn’t keep track of all of them—but
Labyrinths, Labyrinths
I did remember.

It opened with a scene—
this
scene—the main character flopping down through the air, through the darkness, and then right down onto—

I barely had a chance to catch my breath before we hit.

Hit the
mattress
.

I felt myself sink right down.

Could feel the coil of the springs pressing up against my cheeks.

Heard the sick
groan
as they caught my weight.

And I remember my brain thinking,
Oh no!
right at the point where the springs pushed me back, tossed me back up into the air.

I seemed to forget the falling lesson Chung had given me.

For a long while I continued to flail.

I’d hardly even had the chance to
think
about breathing and controlling the direction of my limbs when I was dropping
down
all over again.

Down into the mattresses.

Into the springs.

This time, though, I didn’t get tossed so high.

I only fell for about ten seconds.

Then landed back on the mattress.

Another couple of bounces and I was more or less stable.

I noticed, when I finally realised there was a light source from somewhere, beaming down on us from above, that the others were all lying over the mattresses, apparently having stopped a little while before me.

I was sure that my physics teacher could’ve explained—in pretty baffling terms—just
why
that was, why it had taken me just a little longer to find equilibrium, or whatever
the hell
it was. Since the others were all fairly trim, there was little doubt that it was to do with my weight.

I looked over them, from Kate, to James, to Chung . . . to
Alan
.

Just for a few seconds, everybody was stock still.

It was like I’d fallen down into a painting, or something like that.

I’m pretty sure it was right as I caught his eye, that Alan scrabbled about, found his feet, and then, unable to get his footing that well, did his best to run along the surface of the mattresses.

“Get him!” I called out, and the others quickly scrambled after him.

39

THE MATTRESSES almost seemed to go on forever.

Walking on those springs reminded me of going to the beach, and trying to make my way through fine sand.

And the chase wasn’t improved at all by the fact that the lighting was—at best—inconsistent.

Every couple of steps, Alan seemed to pull away from us, seemed to find his way into the darkness, and make his escape.

As we pursued him, as I did my best to keep on lagging at the others’ heels, I mentally thought through how
Labyrinths, Labyrinths
had been when I’d been back in my room playing it.

I tried to recall what happened after this, the initial stage.

Would we continue on into the darkness?

. . . No, from what I could remember . . .

And then, just like that, I felt myself falling again.

I thought I might end up falling right down a
huge
distance like I had before.

But, no, it wasn’t that. I stopped soon enough, and I heard my foot make a
splosh
down below me.

A cold dampness seized hold of my trouser leg.

Water.

That was right.

Now we had to face off with water.

I called out to the others, told them to stop running off along the endless mattresses, and to come back to where I was.

I watched on as they emerged from the darkness which surrounded me and then I helped each of them down—down into the water beside me.

For some sexist reason, I’d thought that Kate would make the biggest fuss about having to get wet but it was actually James and Chung who made the loudest
gasps
as they hit the water. Though I knew this was deadly serious, that there were things here that I desperately needed to tell them about, I couldn’t help but give the flicker of a smile.

With us all standing down there, in the water, the darkness still closing in on all sides, James said, “Which way’d he go?”

I stared hard into the darkness. Tried to
sense
something.

I could hear splashing in the distance but I was having a hard time in working out
precisely
where it was coming from.