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  CHAPTER 13

  Here We Go

  WARNING: MINEFIELD

  DO NOT ENTER

  “No kidding,” Kilgore says. It hasn’t taken him long to find the minefield. It’s a wide strip running to his left and his right as far as the eye can see, and since every mine is a hidden object, they’re lighting up his HUD like a toy store window at Christmas. For a moment, he stands at the minefield’s edge, taking in the sheer scale of the thing. It’s vast, but he has his HUD, and there must be a way through—it’s just a matter of finding it. I can do this, he tells himself. And I’m the only one who can. He allows himself a satisfied smile, then he gets to work, scanning the minefield slowly from left to right, searching out a safe route.

  But his smile soon turns to a frown. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “There’s so goddamn many.” The mines are packed tight together here; he’s never seen anything like it. And if he misses just one of them, if he makes a single mistake, he’s finished. Blown to hell. And what effect will that have on his body back in real life? Kilgore bites his bottom lip. Hard. The minefield is way beyond the game’s limits. It’s a place where no player is meant to be. Hell, the game almost terminated him just for crossing the ridge; who knows what the system will do if he’s caught trespassing in the minefield? If I get blown to bits, it’s going to be rough. At best, it will hurt like hell, at worst—what? A bad desync? Brain damage?

  Kilgore scrapes his hand across his face. “I’m not going to make a mistake,” he murmurs. “I’ve got to keep trying.” He takes a few sidesteps to get a different viewpoint then starts his search again. Here we go. This looks like it could be a good route.

  Kilgore holds his breath and lifts his foot from the ground. But as he leans forward to take his first step into the minefield, a stray thought nags at the back of his mind. There’s something else—something I forgot. He tries to stop himself in mid-step, but he’s too late. He’s unbalanced, his momentum carrying him forward. And he remembers. Goddammit, how the hell could he forget? Tripwires! The thought blasts into his mind like a backyard nail bomb.

  Kilgore looks down, staring as his boot moves toward the ground in slow motion. And there it is: a tripwire, razor-thin, glittering in the sunlight. And he’s just about to step on it. The sight chills him to the core. It’s too late. Too late. But somewhere, deep within his reptilian brain, a neuron bursts into life, sending a tiny tidal wave of electrochemical energy to race down his spine. And Kilgore lunges forward, twisting his body, stretching out his stride as far as his joints will allow. Jesus Christ! His boot hits the ground, and he’s done it. He’s cleared the wire.

  “Goddammit!” Kilgore growls. For a heartbeat, he freezes, his leg extended awkwardly in front of him. What now? Should he go forward or try to step back? Are there other wires he might not have noticed? He examines the ground in front of him. It looks clear, but there could be another wire behind him—a wire he already stepped over thanks to pure dumb luck. He can’t take that chance. And he definitely can’t just stay where he is. He has to go on.

  Kilgore exhales slowly and brings his other foot forward, keeping it high to avoid the deadly wire. He’s OK. He’s safe. For now.

  He squats down on his haunches and breathes as deep as he can, though his chest is tight and his throat dry. Goddamned idiot! How could you be so stupid? He should’ve been prepared; he should’ve realized that the tripwires aren’t hidden objects, so his usual HUD mode is no help at all. And while the damned wires are in full view, that doesn’t mean they’re easy to see.

  Kilgore bares his teeth and stares out across the minefield, squinting against the light, searching for the telltale glint of metal. But it isn’t good enough. There’s no way he can be 100 percent sure he’ll see every wire in time—especially after what he’s just been through. He needs something to help him. He needs an edge.

  He checks his HUD, scrolling rapidly through the options. There must be something he can use. Wait. What was that? He halts the display and scrolls back through the menu. Yes. The Electromagnetic Probe—it just might help. He can set it to pick up any metal object, and he’s pretty sure it’s sensitive enough to detect the tripwires. But he hesitates. His HUD can’t run in two modes at once. When he activates the EM probe, his HUD will go dark except for the yellow lines of a basic schematic diagram. He won’t be able to move because the probe won’t show him the buried mines. He’ll have to stand still and check for wires, then switch back to his usual HUD mode before he walks forward. Kilgore shakes his head. This is going to take forever. But it’s the only plan he has. It has to be worth a try.

  Kilgore stands up and activates the EM probe. As his HUD darkens and redraws the terrain, he moves his head slowly from side. “That isn’t so bad,” he murmurs. The tripwires are scattered across the whole minefield, but they’re quite widely spaced, and the area directly in front of him is clear. He can switch his HUD over and move forward a few steps, skirting around the mines and proximity detectors. Then he can stop and scan for wires again.

  “Yeah,” he whispers. “It might just work.” But is might good enough? He stands still for a moment, thinking, then he opens his voice channel. “Will, I’ve found a way through.” He pauses, suddenly unsure of what to say. “I’m going to do it. I’m going in.”

  “Good work. But take it easy. Remember, set one off, and they all go off.”

  Kilgore forces a tight smile. “Thanks for that, Will. It almost slipped my mind. Listen, I’ll call you on the other side.”

  “Maybe I should talk you through—” Will starts to say, but Kilgore interrupts.

  “Closing voice channel,” he says, and shuts his comm link down. He’s going to have to concentrate, and the last thing he needs is Will’s particular brand of smug advice.

  “I’m almost there,” Kilgore murmurs. “Almost there.” But he doesn’t look back over his shoulder, doesn’t compare it to the distance still left between him and the edge of the minefield.

  Goddammit! More tripwires. He stands still and switches his EM probe off, blinking rapidly as his visual HUD comes back on. There they are: a double set of wires running in parallel right across his path. The wires are close together, but he dare not risk jumping over them. He’ll have to tread carefully, placing his heavy combat boots in between the wires with the precision and grace of a ballet dancer. He lifts his right foot and starts to step over the first wire, but in mid-step, a trickle of cold sweat runs down the back of his neck, tickling its way under his collar and down between his shoulder blades. He takes a breath and fights the urge to scratch his back. Come on, he tells himself. You can do it. He puts his right foot down then brings his left foot over. So far, so good. Now all he has to do is repeat the process. If this wire were a broom handle, I’d have no trouble stepping over it. “No trouble at all,” he murmurs. He takes a breath, holds it. Right foot. Left foot. Yes! He’s done it.

  He exhales noisily and moves forward, keeping a watchful eye on the active zone of a nearby proximity detector: its wavering, fuzzy edges displayed as a glowing matrix of orange lines in his HUD. And so it goes. Step by careful step. Another mine avoided. Another tripwire detected. And each cautious step takes him nearer to the minefield’s far edge. Closer to the promised land.

  Kilgore keeps his eyes on the ground, scanning ahead, checking his HUD. Double checking. But then, as he places his foot in the gap between two land mines, he stops walking and studies the dusty ground. Yes. There’s more room to move here. And when he looks ahead, it seems as if the mines are more widely spaced: a clear path. And not a tripwire in sight. “Thank Christ for that,” he murmurs. “This must be the end of it.” And he lets out a shaky laugh. He’s going to make it to the other side. He’s going to live. The sense of relief rushes to his head, makes him almost giddy, and he steps forward confidently.

  And a warning plasters itself across his HUD.

  AIPR0N: THREAT DETECTED

  ANTI-PERSONNEL DEVICES

  Oh, my god! Kilgore stag
gers to a standstill, shifting his weight awkwardly, and for a heartbeat he teeters on the edge of falling flat on his face, but he throws his arms out and regains his balance. Just in time.

  In front of him, the ground is dotted with a scattered array of small, circular anti-personnel cluster bombs. Each one is no wider than Kilgore’s hand, and their dull khaki color blends perfectly with the ground. The cluster bombs are partially embedded in the surface, but they aren’t buried. Like the tripwires, they’re not hidden objects, and his regular HUD can’t pick them up. If it hadn’t been for AIPR0N, he’d be dead already.

  Kilgore stands very still and stares at the mines. I thought these things weren’t allowed anymore. But here they are—hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. Kilgore looks from side to side. The cluster bombs are spread in a narrow belt that’s only a few yards wide but stretches out into the distance on either side. He puts his hand over his mouth. What the hell do I do now?

  AIPR0N: TAKE EVASIVE ACTION

  RETREAT

  “That’s weird,” Kilgore mutters darkly. He wasn’t even thinking about AIPR0N, was he? He shakes his head. He probably accessed the mod without meaning to. Easily done. But he could do without it splattering any more warnings across his HUD for a couple minutes. He’s got to concentrate. There’s no way he’s going back now. He’s so near the end of the minefield, he’s got to go on. “But how? How do I get through?”

  DO YOU REQUIRE STRATEGIC ASSISTANCE?

  What? Kilgore’s breath stalls in his throat. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. No mod is that smart. But the question is still there, hanging in front of his eyes. “Will? Is that you?” But there’s no response. How could there be? His voice channel is still closed. Kilgore glances nervously from side to side. “Is someone there? Can you hear me?”

  There’s no one there. Of course there isn’t. He’s alone out here—isn’t he? I’m going crazy, he thinks. I’ve got to get out of this minefield.

  And new message appears in his HUD:

  STRATEGIC ANALYSIS INITIATED—PLEASE WAIT

  CHAPTER 14

  Knowing How To Look

  DEREK PARTRIDGE OPENS THE DOOR QUIETLY and peers into the room. It hardly seems right to call it a cell, he thinks. The guy has fixed it up as nice as he can. The room is as modern, spacious and airy as a bachelor’s minimalist apartment. And its inmate keeps the place neat and tidy: clothes folded and tucked away in the standard locker, the small collection of paperback books arranged in an orderly row on the single shelf. The pictures on the wall are of rural scenes, beaches, sunsets. It’s the room of a model prisoner. An ideal inmate. And the small tablet computer sitting on the narrow table is a symbol of that status: a reward for good behavior. Not that the guy ever seems to use the thing. As far as Partridge knows, the prisoner refuses to pay the daily charge for connection to the prison’s Wi-Fi network, so the tablet is not much use. But who knows, maybe the guy is keeping a journal or writing his memoir. He wouldn’t be the first.

  And there he is. The man himself. The inmate sits on the floor in the lotus position, his eyes closed, wearing the standard issue prison uniform, apart from the cotton sweatbands on his forehead and his wrists. The sweatbands always strike Derek as odd—the guy is hardly likely to work up much of a sweat sitting motionless on the floor for hours on end. But hey, it keeps the man quiet for a while, and that’s a blessing. Derek frowns and shakes his head slowly. Boy, you should hear the way the man talks. Raving. Gibberish. They say that even the prison shrink doesn’t know what to make of it.

  Partridge checks his watch. Time I was moving on, he tells himself. He’s done his duty here. Everything is fine. Leave him be, Partridge thinks. Leave him be. And he retreats into the corridor, pulling the door quietly closed behind him.

  Jacob Grimwood exhales slowly. He hears the door open and close, but he keeps his eyes shut. Nothing must distract him. The game is moving into its final stages. Soon, he’ll have everything he’s ever wanted. And more. He’ll have power.

  He lets his tongue flick out to wet his lips. A mistake. For a heartbeat, he loses focus, and the images in his mind tremble and shift. No. He must concentrate. He cannot afford to give in to bodily temptations and physical sensations. The carbon nanotube sensors woven into his sweatbands are incredibly sensitive. Even the flutter of an eyelid can disturb the delicate harmony of thought and intent needed to operate the interface. And the sensors’ wireless connection with the tablet is fragile. Of course, the shell of the useless prison-issue device now holds a much more sophisticated machine, but even so, conditions are hardly optimum. And the Wi-Fi network he’s hacked into is far from ideal.

  The image of the interface stabilizes in Jacob’s visual cortex, and he smiles inwardly, without so much as tightening a facial muscle. True, the technological challenges are very great, but how much sweeter the success will be. And he will succeed. He must.

  Now, it’s time to move things along a little, he decides. Yes. For the time being, he can forget about the idiot who calls himself Will. Let him wait, Jacob thinks. I’ll deal with him later. Soon, he’ll be able to dispense with Will’s services, and good riddance. But not yet. Will has an important part to play in the endgame, and while the man’s affectations are ridiculous, his greed makes him easy to lead by the nose. Will is not a problem. But the boy is at something of an impasse.

  Jacob accesses AIPR0N and tunes his interface to Kilgore’s HUD. He watches for a moment, studying the data stream, making sure he understands the situation fully before he commits to his next move.

  Cluster bombs—interesting. The system is hardening its defenses, pushing at the limits of what is legal within the game. Jacob takes a slow breath. The barricade was bad enough, but this challenge is almost impossible. And if he fails this time, the system will throw an even greater obstacle in his path. I must prevail, he tells himself. It is my destiny.

  But where to start? Despite himself, he clenches his jaw as Kilgore’s HUD pans from side to side. There are thousands of mines, densely packed, and spread randomly across the surface. Or so it appears. Within the game’s system, there is no such thing as a truly random number. The mines are just data, and they must be laid out in a way that he can interpret.

  But the boy is never going to figure that out. Not on his own. It’s time to intervene. Jacob hesitates. In some ways, the boy is more complex than Will, and he must be led in a different way. But Kilgore has faith in AIPR0N—if he believes the system is helping him, it should be easy to guide his path.

  Jacob concentrates on Kilgore’s HUD. Just a gentle nudge to begin with. He frames a question and sends it to the display:

  DO YOU REQUIRE STRATEGIC ASSISTANCE?

  The boy’s response almost makes Jacob smile: Is someone there? Oh, if only he knew. But there’s no time to enjoy the irony. AIPR0N has captured plenty of data from Kilgore’s HUD, and now the information must be processed. Jacob opens the data stream and diverts it to a node within the game’s experimental sandbox, bypassing Agrippine’s laughable security protocols. He activates a suite of analytical programs and connects them to the node in parallel. Working together, it won’t take the programs long to chew through the data. Even so, Jacob sends a message to make sure the boy doesn’t go blundering off:

  STRATEGIC ANALYSIS INITIATED—PLEASE WAIT

  It won’t be long know. Whatever the game throws at you, every element is artificially constructed: the result of millions of calculations. There’s always an algorithm, he thinks. It’s just a matter of knowing how to look for it.

  CHAPTER 15

  Bargaining Power

  KILGORE STARES at the messages scrolling up his HUD:

  STRATEGIC ANALYSIS COMPLETE

  THREAT PATTERN CALCULATED

  OK, he thinks, hit me with it. And a new message appears:

  ENGAGING TACTICAL DISPLAY

  His HUD darkens, fading quickly to black.

  “What? Wait!” He turns his head, but it makes no difference. “I can’t
see a goddamned thing.”

  Kilgore tries to draw a calming breath, but his throat is suddenly tight. He is blind, alone and standing in the middle of a minefield.

  “Don’t panic,” he mutters. “It’s just a glitch.” All he has to do is reset his HUD. But before he can form the necessary command, his display is suddenly alive with darting lines of red light. They flash crazily across his field of vision, starkly bright against the black background, and each line leaves a trail of glowing red dots scattered in its wake. And there at the center of the display, a small blue arrow, bounded by a circle.

  Kilgore gasps. And this time, when he turns his head to the right, the red dots shift to the left and the blue arrow rotates.

  “Oh, my god. I get it.” This must be AIPR0N’s tactical overview. He studies the display. There’s a rash of red dots laid out in a thin strip above the arrow, and they must be the cluster bombs in front of him. Below the arrow, the more widely spaced dots must mark out the minefield. Big deal, Kilgore thinks. I already knew the layout. This is no help at all. The display is at completely the wrong scale. There isn’t enough detail for him to move in either direction. Unless…

  Zoom in, he thinks, and his HUD responds, magnifying the display, homing in on his position. Stop. “That’s better,” he whispers. Now the narrow band of red dots has expanded until it almost fills his field of vision, and the gaps between the dots are clear to see. But before he’s even thought about what to do next, a new message materializes:

  PLOTTING OPTIMAL ROUTE—PLEASE WAIT

  And a yellow line appears in his HUD, tracing out a path from the blue arrow to the other side of the cluster bombs.

  I didn’t ask it to do that—did I? Again, AIPR0N is one step ahead. It must somehow translate his thoughts before he’s even put them into words. “Goddamned creepy son of a bitch, aren’t you?” he says. And for a moment, he imagines a hollow laugh, echoing faintly in the distance. “I’ve been here too long,” he says. “I’m going out of my goddamned mind.”