but the pain cancelled it out. He took a deep breath, and another, testing. He had to close his eyes for a moment, because there was a sudden surge of nausea, swirling up into his vision like a cloud of ink. After a while it faded. He tried to imagine that his body was made of gas: thoroughly insubstantial, weightless. He sat up.
The room was dark, full of bluish shadows, and he was alone. It could have been any time of day, any time of the year. But at least it was his own room, and he was in his own bed. Presumably he wasn’t dead, or dying, then. He said, ‘Time, please.’ The digits flashed up on the blacked-out window: 0543 .
He looked at them until they said 0548 . Then he dragged his fingers over his forehead, trying to drive away the ache. He said, ‘Date, please,’ and then looked at the numbers and realised he had no idea what they meant. It wasn’t like he ever needed to know the date. He wasn’t absolutely sure he knew what year it was meant to be.
The last thing I remember, he thought. Was . . .
Welcome to the endgame , just clear enough to read.
And —
He ran his hand over his jaw, gingerly. What else? The sound of the — yes — that’s it, it was the noise of the tank door, opening. The blur as his eyes adjusted, and Daed’s face, shouting at him. And then the pain and the darkness.
Rick’s hand paused. He moved it upwards, wiped his mouth with his fingers, pressing harder than he needed to. It hurt. His lip was swollen, and there was a sharp stab of pain as his finger dug into his gums. He explored with his tongue and tasted metal.
Gods, he thought.
Daed hit me.
Daed hit me so hard he knocked me out. He overrode the security on the tank and opened the door manually and came in and hit —
The nausea came back in a rush. This time breathing didn’t help. Rick jerked forward — Maze-trained reflexes, he thought, at least they’re good for something — and vomited on to the carpet. It was like being thrown against a wall. He retched and spat. The wet patch on the carpet split into two identical twins of itself. He let his head drop on to the pillow and watched them dance.
I’m ill , he thought. Where the hell is everyone?
He tilted his head back, so he was facing the nearest hidcam, and said, ‘I think I need a med. Please will you send me a med.’
Nothing changed. He thought: They have to send someone, right? They’ve seen me puke. They know I’m ill. They have to help me. I’m important.
The digits on the window said 0556 , 0557 , 0558 . . .
He rolled on to his side, away from the smell of vomit. His mouth tasted of acid and the sore place on his gum was stinging. He thought: What if no one comes, ever?
He closed his eyes and thought of Daed’s garden, full of shimmering golden mist, with the words hanging there in front of him like a mirage.
Welcome to the endgame .
What happened? he thought. What’s going on?
What did I do?
When he woke up he was starving, and his skull felt too big for his head, but he was feeling better. He could sit up without being sick, anyway. He folded himself over, rested his head on his knees, and felt his lungs expanding into the small of his back. Yes, better. Although his ribs . . . ‘Lights, please,’ he said, then pulled up his T-shirt and wished he hadn’t, because seeing the bruise made it worse. He didn’t know how he got it, either, and didn’t want to think about it, because if you looked at it from the right angle it looked like a footprint. Gods, Daed wouldn’t . . . would he?
Rick told himself it wasn’t as bad as it looked, covered it up again and got out of bed. The feeling of carpet under his bare feet was a good one. He was alive. That was something.
‘Time, please.’
1803 .
OK. No wonder he was so hungry. He walked carefully to the door, and opened the delivery box. He’d been out twelve hours, so there should have been two meals waiting for him . . . but there was nothing. He ran his hand over the
The room was dark, full of bluish shadows, and he was alone. It could have been any time of day, any time of the year. But at least it was his own room, and he was in his own bed. Presumably he wasn’t dead, or dying, then. He said, ‘Time, please.’ The digits flashed up on the blacked-out window: 0543 .
He looked at them until they said 0548 . Then he dragged his fingers over his forehead, trying to drive away the ache. He said, ‘Date, please,’ and then looked at the numbers and realised he had no idea what they meant. It wasn’t like he ever needed to know the date. He wasn’t absolutely sure he knew what year it was meant to be.
The last thing I remember, he thought. Was . . .
Welcome to the endgame , just clear enough to read.
And —
He ran his hand over his jaw, gingerly. What else? The sound of the — yes — that’s it, it was the noise of the tank door, opening. The blur as his eyes adjusted, and Daed’s face, shouting at him. And then the pain and the darkness.
Rick’s hand paused. He moved it upwards, wiped his mouth with his fingers, pressing harder than he needed to. It hurt. His lip was swollen, and there was a sharp stab of pain as his finger dug into his gums. He explored with his tongue and tasted metal.
Gods, he thought.
Daed hit me.
Daed hit me so hard he knocked me out. He overrode the security on the tank and opened the door manually and came in and hit —
The nausea came back in a rush. This time breathing didn’t help. Rick jerked forward — Maze-trained reflexes, he thought, at least they’re good for something — and vomited on to the carpet. It was like being thrown against a wall. He retched and spat. The wet patch on the carpet split into two identical twins of itself. He let his head drop on to the pillow and watched them dance.
I’m ill , he thought. Where the hell is everyone?
He tilted his head back, so he was facing the nearest hidcam, and said, ‘I think I need a med. Please will you send me a med.’
Nothing changed. He thought: They have to send someone, right? They’ve seen me puke. They know I’m ill. They have to help me. I’m important.
The digits on the window said 0556 , 0557 , 0558 . . .
He rolled on to his side, away from the smell of vomit. His mouth tasted of acid and the sore place on his gum was stinging. He thought: What if no one comes, ever?
He closed his eyes and thought of Daed’s garden, full of shimmering golden mist, with the words hanging there in front of him like a mirage.
Welcome to the endgame .
What happened? he thought. What’s going on?
What did I do?
When he woke up he was starving, and his skull felt too big for his head, but he was feeling better. He could sit up without being sick, anyway. He folded himself over, rested his head on his knees, and felt his lungs expanding into the small of his back. Yes, better. Although his ribs . . . ‘Lights, please,’ he said, then pulled up his T-shirt and wished he hadn’t, because seeing the bruise made it worse. He didn’t know how he got it, either, and didn’t want to think about it, because if you looked at it from the right angle it looked like a footprint. Gods, Daed wouldn’t . . . would he?
Rick told himself it wasn’t as bad as it looked, covered it up again and got out of bed. The feeling of carpet under his bare feet was a good one. He was alive. That was something.
‘Time, please.’
1803 .
OK. No wonder he was so hungry. He walked carefully to the door, and opened the delivery box. He’d been out twelve hours, so there should have been two meals waiting for him . . . but there was nothing. He ran his hand over the
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