The Leveller

  “Listen,” I say. “I’m on a job and don’t have much time. You guys need to stay off any and all nonreg frequencies until you hear back from me. Don’t sell any more or give any out either. It’s important.”

  Chang and Moose don’t say anything for a moment. I imagine them looking at each other, silently assessing my strange request.

  “Look, Nix, it’s a holiday weekend, Christmas in the MEEP,” Moose finally says. “That’s big business for us. Half the high school’s texting us for overrides.”

  “Well don’t give any more out,” I insist, trying not to raise my voice. “Look, you guys, I’m not messing with you. It’s dangerous. No more hacks.”

  “Where are you, Nixy?” Chang asks.

  “Can’t say.”

  “You’re working for Diego Salvador, aren’t you?”

  “Why would you say that?” I snap, inwardly cursing the Spock-like Chang and bracing myself for the checkmate I know is coming.

  “One, you don’t have a great-aunt Martha. Two, my uncle is a janitor at the airstrip. He saw you and Vic board a Cessna Mustang this morning. And three, how else would you have inside information about the hack frequencies?”

  “Whatever, Sherlock,” I say. “Just do what I ask . . . please?”

  “All right, we’ll comply,” Chang says, though I hear Moose groan in the background. “But you have to bow out, Nixy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t do it, whatever Diego Salvador is asking you to do.”

  “Why not? It’s good money, Chang, and I’m already here.”

  “So I was right,” he says.

  Damn. I just gave away my hand like an idiot.

  “Think about it, Nixy,” Chang continues. “If Salvador has hired you for a levelling job, that means no one else—not even his best programmers—could get the job done. Something’s not right about that. You need to walk away.”

  “But it’s his son,” I say, figuring I might as well let the whole mewling cat out of the bag. Chang will figure it out sooner or later, just like he always does. “He’s run away inside the MEEP and left a mess behind him.”

  “Then let Diego Salvador go in and find him. It’s their mess, not yours. Let them deal with it. This is none of your business.”

  “Chang’s right,” says Moose, his voice serious now. “Let those rich people sort out their own problems. You need to come home, Nixy.”

  I sigh. “Look, guys, it’s nothing I can’t handle. And besides, Salvador employs both my parents. Just lay off the hacks until I get back, okay? I’ll even split some of my paycheck with you. Gotta run.”

  “Nixy—” Chang starts, but I hang up before he can say anything else.

  It’s showtime.

  SIX

  OKAY, SO WYN SALVADOR LOOKS LIKE A SLEEPING ANGEL, IF ANGELS are hot guys with long lashes and lips that beg to be kissed. This irritates me, as I’d rather he sported a jerk face when I give him the takedown he deserves.

  An older woman sits at his side and smiles at me sadly. “He is a handsome boy, yes?”

  I can’t help but smile back at her. This must be Mama Beti, and she is, quite frankly, as adorable as her name. She wears a flowered cotton sundress and a matching yellow wrap around her head that shows off the fine angles of her face, the coffee-with-cream color of her skin, the deep brown eyes and long lashes. Both the Salvador men—father and son—obviously inherited their looks from this woman.

  Mr. Salvador, Kora, and Dad are all huddled in the corner in front of a portable computer stand. Kora is tapping something into the keyboard while Dad and Salvador murmur behind her. Mama Beti sits in an overstuffed chair next to Wyn’s bed, a sturdy metal walker parked nearby. She reaches an arm out to summon me. When I walk over to her she takes my hand in hers.

  “You must find him for me,” Mama Beti says in accented English. “He is not hiding, he is lost. Do you understand me, linda?”

  I’m about to remind her my name is Nixy, not Linda, but then I remember from Spanish class that linda means “pretty,” and I blush a little bit under her gaze. It is intense, this Mama Beti gaze.

  “I’ll find him, I promise,” I tell her.

  She squeezes my hand. “My grandson likes beautiful things. Maybe that will help you search for him. Look,” she commands, sweeping a ropy yet elegant hand through the room.

  I look around Wyn’s room and I see what she means. Though the room is dominated by Wyn’s bed and the IV machine attached to the needle in his arm, now I observe the ocean blue walls and white-painted bookshelves that display a large collection of baubles and seashells, polished rocks and exotic handicrafts, in addition to dozens of books on art and architecture. A huge picture window looks out at the sea. I have to admit, Wyn’s room certainly isn’t the typical teenage boy dump I usually encounter: clothes on the floor, empty soda cans, burrito wrappers, posters of sports teams or the TARDIS on the walls (depending), and an oversize computer monitor, extra-smudged.

  “See? Beautiful things, like you,” Mama Beti says. I run a hand through my hair and wonder if Mama Beti is sincere or just working me. I hold her gaze for a moment and decide she’s sincere.

  “Thank you,” I say, then turn back to Wyn, who lies next to her. If it weren’t for the IV hooked up to him, you’d think the guy was taking the sweetest nap in the world. The corners of his mouth are turned up a bit, as if he’s dreaming of baby dolphins or a basket of kittens, rather than operating a virtual torture maze.

  A servant comes in then, pushing what looks like a portable operating table. Kora directs him to the far end of the room near the bookshelves, but apparently Mama Beti has other plans.

  “Aquí, Juanito,” she calls, waving to the area on the other side of her chair. “This way, I look after you both,” she says to me.

  That’s when I realize the operating table is for me. Dad sees my face and puts his hands on my shoulders. “There’s still time to say no, Nixy. You don’t have to do this.”

  I glance over at Mama Beti, who is kneading her hands in worry. “I know, Dad, but I’m good at this, you know I am. I’ll give it a try, but can we skip the ER drama?” I ask, pointing to the portable bed.

  Kora chimes in. “It’s just a precaution, Nixy, in case you’re in the MEEP a little longer than expected. Your body will be more comfortable reclined on the hospital bed and we can monitor your vital signs more easily.”

  “My vital signs? Look, I’ll be back within the hour. That’s my thing. Two hours tops. Just tell me how to activate the return frequency once I find him,” I say, looking back at Wyn.

  Now Mr. Salvador speaks. “We’ve programmed an eleven-digit return frequency that you may use at any time. You can access the code from your inventory. Just read the numbers aloud into the MEEPosphere and it will immediately activate your return.”

  “Will the same code bring back Wyn?” I ask.

  Mr. Salvador shakes his head. “No, unfortunately. Because he’s tampered with his internal settings, we’re unable to match frequencies with his ear trans. He’ll have to initiate his own return.”

  “But what if he refuses to come back?” I ask.

  Mr. Salvador raises his eyebrows at me. “I thought you were the expert in retrieval? Surely you can convince—or trick him.”

  Touché, big guy, I think, but then I look at Mama Beti and say, “I’ll do my best.”

  “We’ve also given you unlimited credit in the Landing to equip yourself with any supplies and weaponry you feel you may need,” Kora says.

  “They’ve doubled your working inventory capacity as well,” Dad says, “so you’ll have a total of ten slots to carry what you need.”

  I whistle. Those are some decent perks. I hope I get to keep them once the job is done.

  “Now if you’ll please just lie down,” says Kora, “we can get started.”

&nbs
p; I look at the hospital bed and shrug. Whatever. I feel my phone vibrate as I sit on the bed. Chang and Moose, certainly. They’ll have to wait. I pull out the phone and power it down, then put it back in my pocket. I kick my shoes off and stretch out on the bed.

  Kora gives me an ear trans.

  Mama Beti reaches up and holds my hand.

  Dad leans over to kiss me on the forehead. He looks like he’s just put me on a train to Siberia to serve a life sentence.

  I laugh. “It’s just a game, Dad, no worries,” I say, smiling up at him. “‘Nixy Bauer, home in an hour,’ remember?” I hear myself saying as the frequency starts beeping.

  Christmas in the Landing is in full swing. The choir is belting out some jolly tune and a dance troupe of sugarplum fairies leaps around the Christmas tree. A forest elf tries to hand me a sales flyer and a sample potion for hot pink eyelash extensions. It’s way too distracting and I don’t need samples or discounts today. I’ve got unlimited credit, oh yeah! I walk straight to the Information Desk and look through my options on the main control panel. I press the WINTER SOLSTICE button, figuring that will be the least annoying backdrop to the mad dash I’m about to make through the mall.

  There. Much better. No more tinsel and Christmas carols, just some boring new age music, snow-laden fir trees, and a few silver-clad druids drifting among the Meeple. I’m about to start shopping when another button on the panel lights up; apparently, Wyn has MEEP Mail. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should be reading his private messages, but then I decide he gave up all rights to common courtesy once he left his family behind. I quickly scan the mail, only to find it’s for me.

  NIXY, ABORT MISSION! TOO DANGEROUS!—CHANG

  Unbelievable.

  I know Chang’s got some mad hacking skills, but this is crazy. Is there no code he can’t unravel? I don’t have time to ponder my friend’s resourcefulness right now. I’ve got work to do.

  I purse my lips and type a quick response:

  NO.

  That should do it.

  I take a moment to review what’s already in my working inventory. I’ve got the ultra crossbow, which I intend to keep, but I need to stock more arrows. I decide to keep my mage staff as well, but everything else I place in my storage locker to clear up space for new goods.

  The MEEP MAIL button lights up again. “What part of NO do you not understand, Chang?” I grumble, pressing the button.

  This time it’s from Moose.

  NIX, HERE’S THE DATA CHANG RECORDED FROM OUR MINI-GAMES.

  I could hug Jackson Mooser right now. Attached to the message is a list of all the enemies we’ve fought in our mini-game sessions and the most effective weapons to defeat them. The perfect shopping list. I copy it to my inventory, laughing at Moose’s last line:

  SENDING YOU MY LUCKY POTATO GUN VIA POST.

  I make a beeline to World of WarToys on the second floor, where I’ll be making the majority of my purchases. I buy the best of everything, running through the list as fast as I can. Within minutes I’ve filled my storage locker with a decent variety of weapons and all the ammo I can pack.

  Next I visit the I Will Survive! store and pick up a heavy-duty rappelling gun and harness, and the best pair of night-vision goggles I can find. My new contacts may not cut it for this gig.

  I’ve now filled ninety-eight of the one hundred slots in my storage locker. I think about leaving them empty to save time, but the unlimited credit is burning a hole in my virtual pocket. I may never have this chance again. I hightail it to Medieval Moderne and buy the wench dress on my Wish List, then I figure, what the heck: I pop into the Parcel Post and pick up the potato gun delivery from Moose. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, especially after he took the time to help me out.

  I’m loaded for bear now. Or shark, as the case may be. I take a few minutes to browse my Closet and change into a casual commando outfit, basically a T-shirt, cargo pants, and boots, plus a leather holster belt. I arm myself with the things I’ll need first, then fill the rest of my inventory slots with items from my locker.

  It’s time to go hunting.

  No fear, no fear, no fear, I tell myself as I walk purposefully through the Landing to the portal. It’s just a game. They can’t really eat you.

  The automatic portal doors sense my approach and slide open before me in friendly fashion, like they do at the grocery store. I pause for a second and mentally rehearse the next few moments. If I were in my physical body, I would take some deep breaths, try to slow my heart rate. But those things don’t matter here. All that matters is how fast and how well my brain can instruct my virtual body to operate.

  I step into the room and hear the doors whoosh shut behind me.

  I glance around.

  It’s just like the MEEP-O Men said it would be: white everywhere, with no signs of entrance or exit. A few seconds later a message appears in black inky cursive across the walls:

  Now begins the great adventure. Though I leave behind a body, my soul will live forever in the MEEP.

  As the words begin to fade, I ready myself for what’s coming next.

  It happens faster than I expected.

  The floor drops open and I fall.

  I shoot my rappelling gun at the ceiling and brace myself for the jolt on the back of my harness. I hate to look down, but there’s no time for cowardice.

  Fy fæn.

  Three fins circle in the water below me, less than three feet away. Two of the sharks are smaller or, perhaps more accurately, less ginormous than the third, who looks to be an 18-footer.

  Suddenly I feel like a worm on the end of a hook. If he wanted to, Mr. 18 could easily breach the surface and pick me off faster than I can reach for my guns.

  I start to panic, trying to make sense of the competing voices yelling at each other inside my brain.

  GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, NIXY!

  NO! YOU CAN DO THIS!

  INITIATE THE FREQUENCY CODE!

  THEY’RE NOT REAL, DAMN IT!

  SAY THE NUMBERS!

  PULL OUT YOUR GUNS AND SHOOT!

  I start blasting my two laser guns into the tank like I’m Yosemite Sam. The sharks whip into a frenzy, running into each other in the tank, thrashing around in a blur of gray. My initial panic begins to subside, replaced by the familiar head rush of battle. This isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. A few more shots should do it.

  And they do. The two smaller sharks eventually stop moving, and then they disappear. Now I’ve just got Mr. 18 to deal with.

  Heh.

  Only now he has more room in the tank. And he knows where I am.

  The voices in my head have no time to argue. In a flash he breaches the surface. Two tons of gray flesh and a gaping maw of teeth come straight at me.

  SEVEN

  I SQUEEZE MY EYES SHUT AND BLAST BOTH LASER GUNS INTO HIS open jaws.

  I hear a splash and take a quick peek through squinting eyes. I check to see if my legs are still attached to my body.

  They are, thank God. I’ve been killed many times in virtual battle, but I’ve never been virtually eaten, and hope I never will be. Even though the logical part of my brain knows I won’t feel any pain while it’s happening and that I will regenerate within seconds, I don’t think I can live with the image of my torso torn in half—my body being devoured limb by limb by an oversize guppy.

  Below me the huge shark flails a few times, then stills and slowly dissolves in the water like an Alka-Seltzer.

  I twirl around on my harness, waiting for what I’ve been told will happen next. Sure enough, the shark tank disappears and the white room returns.

  “Inventory!” I command into the MEEPosphere, and my list of available items appears like a sidebar inside my head. I quickly trade my laser guns and rappelling equipment for a machete and a full supply of grenades.

&n
bsp; A door slides open in front of me and I exit the room into the maze. The maze is all white too, corridors upon corridors, mostly leading to dead ends. But Dad and I went over my strategy step-by-step on the plane; I reach my right arm out and drag my fingers along the wall, always making right turns no matter what.

  Within a few minutes, I discover a blue button on the wall. I mentally review my plan, then push the button. Another door appears and opens before me. As soon as I step inside, the door closes, and once again I’m trapped in a white box with no visible signs of entry or exit. When I reach the center of the room, the white turns into a hazy green and a second later I’m standing in the middle of a thick, overgrown jungle. I draw my machete and cautiously begin hacking my way through the claustrophobia-inducing foliage.

  The jungle seems to throb with damp heat and buzzing insects. Close spaces aren’t normally a problem for me, but still, it feels as though it’s hard to breathe. Two thoughts take turns playing through my mind as I cut through ropy vines and giant fern-like plants. One, this is some impressive programming; I actually feel hot and sweaty and breathless. And two, I’m definitely not a save-the-rain-forest, Mother Nature kind of girl. I can’t wait to get out of here, and fast.

  As if on cue, I hear a slithering sound to my right and I whip my head around, machete at the ready. A streak of yellow shows through the green. Then whooosh, something flies by to my left, creating a breeze across my cheek. I whip my head left, but see nothing. Slither, whoosh. Slither, whoosh. My head is spinning like a top now as I turn from one side to the next, trying to follow the sounds.

  These jungle creatures—two man-eating plants and a giant anaconda, according to the report—seem to be playing with me, stalking me. I feel my skin crawl, a sensation I’ve never felt in the MEEP before. For a fleeting second I wonder if they are monitoring my vital signs back in Wyn’s room, and if so, whether my brow is beaded with sweat, my heart pounding triple-time.

  I wonder, illogically, if any of this could take a physical toll. If it could, actually, hurt me somehow. I need to end this now, I think, before I find myself swallowed whole and have a heart attack back in the real world.