soft, delighted sound, not of amusement but sheer pleasure, like someone who’s died and discovered it’s not too bad after all — and realises it’s his own voice. The acoustic relays it back to him with a clean, deep note, like music. Gods, he thinks, this is heaven, Daed’s designed heaven .
He laughs again. The glowing mist around him swirls and dances.
Congratulations , the screen says to him.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. I can’t express how much this means to me. I’d like to thank everyone at Crater and especially Daed, my mysterious possibly-not-father-at-all, who has always been there for me, if only to criticise and order me around. Thanks, Daed, this one’s for you —’
You have successfully completed the Roots of the Maze , the screen says, ignoring him. The mist begins to clear, slowly, like Rick’s sobering up. Behind it there’s a garden: grass, trees, fountains, the kind of garden that would be riddled with traps, if it were just another part of the Maze. Thank you for playing. Game over.
The words disappear. Rick takes a step forward into the garden, hands on his weapon-belt, through force of habit. In the Maze, there’d be enemies, at least. You’d never find a garden that was . . . just a garden. But here there’s nothing. Just the sound of the fountain. He keeps walking, savouring the scent of . . . what? Jasmine? Something old, anyway, something extinct. The grass makes a soft, agreeable noise under his feet. Yes, heaven. Peace. Game over . . .
He stops, then, and looks back over his shoulder. The portal has gone; there’s only more garden where the door would have been. No way out. And no traps, no enemies, nothing.
Gods, what is he supposed to do here? Sleep?
He steps forward again, a strange impatient ache in his throat. He can still see Game over , as though it’s branded on his retina. He rubs his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into his face, suddenly sick of the faint gold haze. He feels moisture on his wrists and the brief sting of sweat on his eyelashes. When he looks up again he’s sure that something will have changed: he waits for a threatening note in the music, an ominous shadow behind the vines . . . Come on, he thinks. Please. Am I dead or what?
But . . . yes. Something has changed.
Faintly — very, very faintly, so faintly he isn’t sure that he’s really seeing it — the air is shimmering, forming itself into words. He blinks and frowns.
The words are just a ripple in the haze, insubstantial, like writing in water. They’re hard to see; but he can read them, just.
Welcome to the endgame.
He reads them again and feels the grin spreading across his face, like there’s someone putting their thumbs at the corners of his mouth and pushing. He hasn’t won. Thank gods . . . It’s not over.
Welcome to the endgame.
He closes his eyes. Suddenly he’s tired. He could lie down on the floor of the tank and die, right now. He opens his mouth to log out.
There’s a noise he recognises. A brief, mechanical, swish-buzz sound, something so familiar he can’t quite, can’t quite —
He opens his eyes and Daed’s there, right next to him, blurry, too close. The nausea rises as he struggles to focus. Daed’s shouting. Rick says, ‘Wait, Daed, I can’t see, I need time to adjust,’ slurring his words. ‘Just a second, Daed, what’s going —’
Then there’s pain exploding into his face, and he feels himself fall, straight down into blackness, like a magic trick.
Part 2
Welcome to the endgame
Chapter 7
He woke up. He hurt. He looked at the ceiling and didn’t know where he was, or who, but he knew he was in pain. Bits of his body demanded his attention. Slowly words came back to him, unscrolling like windows on an old flatscreen computer. Shoulders. Abdomen. Ribs. Head .
And then, finally, his own name.
Oh, yes, he thought. Rick. Me.
It should have been a relief that he’d remembered who he was,
He laughs again. The glowing mist around him swirls and dances.
Congratulations , the screen says to him.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. I can’t express how much this means to me. I’d like to thank everyone at Crater and especially Daed, my mysterious possibly-not-father-at-all, who has always been there for me, if only to criticise and order me around. Thanks, Daed, this one’s for you —’
You have successfully completed the Roots of the Maze , the screen says, ignoring him. The mist begins to clear, slowly, like Rick’s sobering up. Behind it there’s a garden: grass, trees, fountains, the kind of garden that would be riddled with traps, if it were just another part of the Maze. Thank you for playing. Game over.
The words disappear. Rick takes a step forward into the garden, hands on his weapon-belt, through force of habit. In the Maze, there’d be enemies, at least. You’d never find a garden that was . . . just a garden. But here there’s nothing. Just the sound of the fountain. He keeps walking, savouring the scent of . . . what? Jasmine? Something old, anyway, something extinct. The grass makes a soft, agreeable noise under his feet. Yes, heaven. Peace. Game over . . .
He stops, then, and looks back over his shoulder. The portal has gone; there’s only more garden where the door would have been. No way out. And no traps, no enemies, nothing.
Gods, what is he supposed to do here? Sleep?
He steps forward again, a strange impatient ache in his throat. He can still see Game over , as though it’s branded on his retina. He rubs his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into his face, suddenly sick of the faint gold haze. He feels moisture on his wrists and the brief sting of sweat on his eyelashes. When he looks up again he’s sure that something will have changed: he waits for a threatening note in the music, an ominous shadow behind the vines . . . Come on, he thinks. Please. Am I dead or what?
But . . . yes. Something has changed.
Faintly — very, very faintly, so faintly he isn’t sure that he’s really seeing it — the air is shimmering, forming itself into words. He blinks and frowns.
The words are just a ripple in the haze, insubstantial, like writing in water. They’re hard to see; but he can read them, just.
Welcome to the endgame.
He reads them again and feels the grin spreading across his face, like there’s someone putting their thumbs at the corners of his mouth and pushing. He hasn’t won. Thank gods . . . It’s not over.
Welcome to the endgame.
He closes his eyes. Suddenly he’s tired. He could lie down on the floor of the tank and die, right now. He opens his mouth to log out.
There’s a noise he recognises. A brief, mechanical, swish-buzz sound, something so familiar he can’t quite, can’t quite —
He opens his eyes and Daed’s there, right next to him, blurry, too close. The nausea rises as he struggles to focus. Daed’s shouting. Rick says, ‘Wait, Daed, I can’t see, I need time to adjust,’ slurring his words. ‘Just a second, Daed, what’s going —’
Then there’s pain exploding into his face, and he feels himself fall, straight down into blackness, like a magic trick.
Part 2
Welcome to the endgame
Chapter 7
He woke up. He hurt. He looked at the ceiling and didn’t know where he was, or who, but he knew he was in pain. Bits of his body demanded his attention. Slowly words came back to him, unscrolling like windows on an old flatscreen computer. Shoulders. Abdomen. Ribs. Head .
And then, finally, his own name.
Oh, yes, he thought. Rick. Me.
It should have been a relief that he’d remembered who he was,
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