CHAPTER 8
A VERY SHORT MAN
1
Miserable, Michael lay in bed. Helga was nicer than ever, bringing him hot tea and soup and bananas—it was all he could stomach—whenever he dinged the little bell she’d placed on his nightstand. His parents had to extend their trip yet again, so with only him and Helga there, the apartment was quiet. He kept the blinds closed and didn’t listen to music or watch any shows. The sign that something was really wrong with him, though, was that he barely even looked at his NetScreen.
His head just plain hurt. And along with that was nausea. Constant, unrelenting nausea. He felt like he was going to throw up at least once or twice an hour. Hence the strange menu requests for Helga. As he lay there in agony, there was plenty of time to think about what had happened in the basement of the Black and Blue Club.
The KillSims. What they’d done to Ronika. How far had the creature gotten with Michael? Had some of his Aura’s essence been sucked out? How close had he come to being another brain-dead victim of Kaine? Had he suffered permanent physical damage? With his eyes closed and his skull throbbing, it sure felt like it. He worried that he was growing stupider by the minute—that he’d forget everything he’d learned and experienced inside the VirtNet.
He knew these thoughts were crazy, and he tried to stay positive. Hopefully they’d stopped the thing in time and his headache would slowly go away. He couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life feeling like he did.
But surprisingly, the pain in his head didn’t make him want to stop. It only made him hate Kaine and made him sure of what they were doing. He wouldn’t stop until they found the place the VNS was looking for. Threats or no threats, it was simple. Like many games Michael had played before, it was kill or be killed.
Except this time it was for real. And his headache didn’t let him forget it.
He didn’t get out of bed for a day and a half.
2
Two days after their rendezvous with Ronika, Michael’s head felt much better. He could get up and walk around, shower, even look out into the brightness of the morning without wanting to curl into a ball from the pain. Energized, his spirits lifted, he sat down in the Chair and called out for a private conversation with Bryson and Sarah on the Bulletin. They joined him within ten minutes.
Brystones: It’s about time. That nasty headache go away? Helga kiss you, make you all better? Ooh, never mind, don’t wanna picture that.
Sarahbobara: Bryson, you have free rein to say what you want because you saved us. You have about a week until I start being your mother again.
Brystones: Now, that I really don’t wanna think about.
Mikethespike: I was so worried that thing had done permanent damage to me. Still am, but at least it’s getting better. And I can speak and type without slobbering on myself.
Sarahbobara: Nice.
Brystones: So when are we gonna do this thing? Find the Path?
Sarahbobara: Sooner than later.
Michael breathed a sigh of relief—they were still in. Scared, maybe—just like him—but in. If anything, the gamer and his dogs had ignited a fire under them.
Michael and his friends went on to talk about school and how they’d manage their schedules. It didn’t take long to decide that a few “sick” days wouldn’t hurt anybody—at least, not as much as the VNS or Kaine would. The thought brought Ronika to mind, which gave Michael a pang of guilt. Maybe she was lying somewhere in the Wake, brain-dead, like the other victims who’d shown up. Maybe that was the whole point of the KillSims. But how was it all connected?
Sarah suggested they spend that day studying gamer reports on Devils of Destruction, the game in which Ronika had said they’d find the entrance to the Path. Maybe there’d be some clues about where to find this weak spot in the code. Then they’d get a good night’s rest.
When morning came, it’d be time to move.
3
Michael’s doorbell rang in the middle of the afternoon. He was immersed in researching Devils of Destruction. He knew it was a war game based on history—which was part of the reason mainly old people liked it. No one his age cared about something that happened years and years ago, but in order to get through it, Michael figured he had to know the details of the war. He’d spent the previous hour reading about the War of Greenland in 2022, where several nations fought a bloody battle over a massive vein of gold discovered there the year before. Everyone wanted it, of course, and they all had their reasons why they could claim the land. The details interested Michael more than he expected them to.
The factions in the war used guerrilla tactics and somewhat primitive weapons, because there were so many sides that using nuclear arms or big bombs was too dangerous. Weapons with a large blast radius would wipe out some of the enemy, but chances were you’d hit a few friendlies, also. It was a nasty battle that lasted for two years before enough senseless death occurred that everyone stood down. Brilliant world leaders at their best.
The Devils of Destruction were an actual group of mercenaries who fought during the War of Greenland, hired—sometimes by more than one side—to seek out specific targets and eliminate them. And that was what Michael and his friends would be doing in the game. Dropping into the heart of battle with nothing more than machine guns, hoping to find the trench Ronika mentioned before they got killed. Then hope their hacking skills proved their worth.
He ignored the doorbell when it first chimed—the research was far more fascinating than he’d thought it would be, and he wondered why he’d never actually given the game a shot. He assumed Helga would answer the door, but when it rang again he remembered she’d gone to visit her sister for the day.
Grumbling the whole way, Michael pressed his EarCuff to shut down the NetScreen and headed for the front door. When he pulled it open, he was surprised to find no one there. A chill ran down his spine—nothing seemed like simple happenstance now that he was involved in something so heavy. He looked up and down the hall and at the stairs, but didn’t see anything. He was just about to close the door and lock it tight when he noticed a note had been taped to the outside.
A short message had been handwritten on the small slip of paper:
Meet me in the alley where we picked you up. Now.
4
He didn’t have to think twice about doing as he’d been ordered. He knew it might be a trap, but the odds seemed slim. Kaine didn’t seem as dangerous in the real world—why not, Michael couldn’t say—and how would anyone else know where the VNS had picked him up that day? Then there was Agent Weber. The last thing he could afford to do was tick her off.
It only took twenty minutes for him to get there. He turned off the main road and walked down the long, deserted alley. There wasn’t a soul in sight—not even a car—but several large Dumpsters waited in the middle of the road, and something told Michael that was where he’d find the person he had to meet. It was hot outside, but there was a nice breeze that cooled the sweat on his neck. Loose pieces of trash blew past and danced in the air. The alley was gray and uninviting.
As he approached the first Dumpster, his heart picked up speed and he hesitated before finally peering around its side. He relaxed when he saw an extremely short bald man wearing a three-piece suit. The stranger wasn’t threatening. He had a full beard, which made his hairless dome look even more stark, and his hands were in his pockets.
“Are you—” Michael began, but the man cut him off.
“Yes, Michael. Now get over here so people can’t see you from the street.” He jerked his head, indicating to Michael where to go, then backed up a couple of steps, his face as glum as a funeral director’s.
Michael had to hold back a snicker as he joined him. The guy was short. Straight-out-of-a-cartoon short. “What did you want to see me for?”
“Progress report,” the man answered. He avoided looking Michael in the eye. His gaze flicked left and right, as if he expected an ambush at any moment. Which didn’t make Michael feel very safe. “What’s happened, what have you learned, what are your plans, that sort of thing.”
“Well, we—”
The stranger cut him off again. “And make it snappy. We shouldn’t be seen together. I’ve got plenty of business to get to.”
“Oh … kay,” Michael said. What a weird dude, he thought. “I think we’re on the right track, but we’ve been attacked by Kaine twice now.”
“By Kaine?” the little man asked, taking a step forward and looking at Michael directly for the first time. “You’re absolutely sure it was the … man himself?”
Michael searched for words, suddenly unsure. “Well, yeah, I think so. I guess we didn’t know for sure the second time. They were KillSims, and Ronika assumed Kaine had sent them.”
“Ronika? Who’s Ronika?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Like I said, we want to hear it from you. Tell me everything.”
“How do I know you are who you say you are? Actually”—Michael hesitated before he spoke again—“you haven’t even told me who you are.”
The impish man was obviously annoyed. “My name is Agent Scott, and I work for Agent Weber. That’s all you need to know. We’re running out of time.”
When Michael didn’t answer, the stranger rolled his eyes and pressed his EarCuff. A VNS badge floated out between them and, a little embarrassed that he had to bend over to see the thing, Michael pretended to study it as if he knew what to look for. Hoping the man hadn’t just called his bluff, he nodded.
“All right,” Scott said. “Now tell me everything.”
Michael did. About being trapped in a void of space and hearing—seeing—Kaine’s terrible warning, about Cutter, about Ronika and the Black and Blue, the KillSims, the Path, the Hallowed Ravine to which it supposedly led, the plan to enter Devils of Destruction in the morning—all of it.
When he finished, Agent Scott scratched his bearded chin, his elbow resting on the palm of his other hand, and looked at the ground studiously. It was as if he was the world’s shortest version of Sherlock Holmes. Michael waited patiently, fighting another urge to laugh.
Finally, the agent returned his attention to Michael. “Go ahead and move forward, then. But don’t assume that Kaine is the only one following you or trying to stop you. Do you understand me? Assume everyone you meet is your enemy.”
“That ought to be fun,” Michael muttered, but his insides twisted as he spoke.
“Do you understand me?” the man asked again slowly.
Michael wanted to remind him that he was the taller one. But he just nodded.
“Michael—I need verbal confirmation.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good.” Agent Scott seemed satisfied. After yet another glance up and down the vacant alley, he leaned in close to Michael. “We’ve still got you and your two friends’ Auras tagged with Tracers. Even with your Hider codes we’ll be able to find you, so don’t worry. We’ll know where you are, and we’ll be able to send in the cavalry when you finally break into this Hallowed Ravine you’ve heard about. If the Mortality Doctrine program is being hidden anywhere, that’ll be the place. So be sharp. And safe.”
“Yes, sir.” Suddenly the man didn’t seem so short anymore.
“Good. Very good. I’ll be off, then.”
“Uh, sir?” Michael asked hesitantly. “If we get in trouble before the Hallowed Ravine, are you going to help us? Since you’ll be watching?”
Agent Scott shook his head as if he’d never heard a more ridiculous question. “That’s not how this works. We can’t act like we know what’s going on. We’ve got a lot of teams working on this, and we’ll just have to hope one of you makes it in. Until you do, we can’t help.”
“And what if we get killed?” Michael asked. “Or have our Auras erased, like what happened to Ronika?”
The little man smiled for the first time since they’d met. “Be vigilant. There’s something about Kaine that’s … fishy. That’s all I can say.”
And with that he turned and started walking down the alley.
5
Michael stood there by the Dumpster until the agent had disappeared around the corner. What a strange little man, he thought again, and finally let out the snicker that’d been building inside, probably from stress more than anything. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed or even felt good. The day brightened ever so slightly.
He turned to head home but had only made it halfway down the alley when a sudden pain lanced his skull. It was so powerful he grabbed his head and dropped to his knees. He was barely aware of his groans echoing off the canyon-like walls of the alley.
The pain was far worse than what he’d felt lying in bed after being attacked by the KillSims. It pulsed with every heartbeat. With his eyes squeezed tight, he crawled blindly to the side of the alley until he felt the wall, then sat with his back against it, rubbing his temples. Slowly, he tried to open his eyes, but the brightness of the day sent a fresh wave of agony through his head. And something about where he was didn’t seem right. He squinted, trying to figure out what was off.
The lane before him quivered and rippled as if it had been turned into a river of gray oil. The Dumpsters to his right floated up into the air and spun in circles. Flashes and images of bodies kept appearing and disappearing all around him. The buildings that bordered the alley were askew, leaning in impossible directions, defying physics. The sky had turned a horrible purple color, bruised and splotchy with dark red clouds. Panicked, Michael squeezed his eyes shut and curled up into a ball on the pavement, begging for the episode to end.
And a few seconds later it did. The pain in his head just stopped. There was no lingering ache. It was just … gone, like it had never happened.
Relieved but wary, he opened his eyes to see that everything was back to normal. Still shaky, he climbed to his feet and looked up and down the alley. Nothing was out of the ordinary.
The only thing Michael could do was continue what he’d been doing moments before. Once again, he started down the alley toward home, this time with one scary thought in his mind: That KillSim had done something to him. Something terrible.
6
When Michael got home, he went straight to his room and flipped on his NetScreen. A thought had occurred to him on his walk back—even before he talked to his friends about what had just happened, he needed to find out what had become of Ronika in real life after the KillSim attack.
It took him almost two hours to put all the pieces together. And it wasn’t pretty.
Ronika was obviously not the woman’s real name. And being in her position, running a club like the Black and Blue inside the VirtNet, she would’ve done everything in her power to make sure people didn’t find out who she was in the Wake. But after digging through every last NewsBop, running dates and times, and comparing them to when he and his friends had been at the club, Michael was able to build a plausible story.
There was a woman in Connecticut named Wilhelma Harris whose job was to oversee the firewall security for a gaming software development firm Michael had never heard of in New York City. Her job description, and research on her lifestyle, both pointed to the fact that she was almost always in the Sleep and had few friends or family in the real world. This same woman had been found by police wandering the streets of her local downtown area—right after Michael had seen Ronika destroyed by a KillSim at her club—with what they described as a “dazed look,” and she grew hostile when they approached her. Then she fell into a coma, in which she’d remained ever since.
The police were asking for friends and family to come forward because her Coffin had short-circuited and there was absolutely zero trace of her existence in the VirtNet—it was as if she’d never once Sunk into the Sleep. They also said that her life readings weren’t doing well and that she might not live much longer.
And then the kicker: she had a dog, and the tag on its collar read RONIKA.
It had to be her.
Michael shut everything down and went to lie on his bed. Staring at the ceiling, he thought of what they’d seen happen to the club owner. Her skin and hair and clothes transforming into digital ashes, then blowing away and winking out of existence. She’d been erased by a KillSim. And Michael thought about what it had done to her actual body.
A coma. Life readings not doing so well. Might not live much longer.
And whatever had happened to her, the same process had at least been started on Michael. He could be partially damaged.
Remembering the intensity of the pain that tore through his head in the alley and the wild visions that had horrified him for those few moments, he decided to put off telling his friends about it. Tomorrow was a big day, and they had big plans. Maybe they could talk about it on the way.
It took a long time for Michael’s thoughts to settle down. Right before he fell asleep, he had the distant and foggy realization that Helga must’ve decided to stay with her sister for the night. She’d never come home.