Philip Kerr - Gridiron

Curtis frowned painfully. 'You mean Ishmael thinks this is a game ?'

'Exactly. We use up all our lives, and he wins. It's as simple as that.'

There was a long silence.

'In case anyone didn't know it,' said Curtis, 'our side is losing.'

'But what's in it for us?' Joan said. 'I've played those games. There's always something the fantasy character, the player, has to win, or to achieve. Like discovering buried treasure.'

Beech shrugged. 'If there is, I haven't been able to find that out yet.'

'Maybe the treasure is that we get to stay alive,' said Jenny. 'Right now, that's the most precious treasure I can think of.'

'Me too,' said Helen.

Richardson was still cursing Kenny. 'That fat fuck. I hope he's alive so I can fire his ass. Then I'm going to sue him for negligence. If he's dead, I'll sue his wife and kid.'

'If this is a game,' said Curtis, 'isn't there some way we can stop playing?'

'You can die,' Beech said bluntly.

'Bob,' said Joan, 'can't you explain to Ishmael there's been some kind of mistake? Get it to halt the game?'

'I've already tried. Unfortunately the game program is now included in Ishmael's basic programming. To halt the game he'd effectively have to halt himself.'

'Halt as in destroy?'

Beech nodded.

'Well, that sounds like a good idea.'

'All Ishmael can do is transform inputs of one sort into outputs of another sort. The trouble is that according to the corrupted form of the program that defines Ishmael, we are the inputs. So long as we are here, the game goes on. It finishes only when we escape from here, or when we're dead. And then only until the next lot of people find themselves in our shoes.

'But it might just be possible to try and understand the rules. If there are any rules. Maybe that way we can out-manoeuvre him.'

Curtis grinned and clapped Beech on the shoulder. 'A game, huh?' he said. 'Well, that's a fucking relief. At least now I know that none of this is real.'

He looked at his watch. 'What do you call it, Mitch, when you people go away on seminars and conferences? What do you call the groups you get split up into?'

'Syndicates?'

'Syndicates. OK, people, we're going to have two syndicates. You've all got one hour and then I want to hear some fuckin' ideas.'

Birnbaum looked wearily at Richardson and murmured, 'Where do cops do their training these days? Harvard Business School? Jesus, this guy thinks he's Lee Iacocca.'

'Syndicate 1 — that's Ray, Joan, Marty. Syndicate 2 — that'll be Mitch, Helen, and Jenny.'

'Who gets to have you, Sergeant?' asked Richardson.

'Me? I get to pick the winning team. First prize, a new computer.'

'And Beech? What about Beech? Who gets him?'

Curtis shook his head. 'Stupid question. Beech gets to play computer games, of course.'

'Disturbing the Cyberdemon is a risky business,' said Ishmael. 'So awesome is his power that movements of the earth are a likely consequence of incurring his wrath. If this happens you must leap the chasm to another castle.'

One thing was soon clear. There was no point in trying to find a method behind the mixture of games that were now included in

Ishmael's basic programs. Beyond the obvious aim that the Human Players should lose their lives, there was no general definition that linked the various rules that he had been able to note down. Some spoke of a shipwreck. Others of an underground citadel. One had referred to a battlefield. Another to the scene of a crime. The characters had included a Parallel Demon, a Princess, a Cyberdemon, the Caliph, the Lord of Power, the Second Samurai, the Megalomaniac, the Sheriff of

Nottingham, the ChessMaster and the Alien Commander. If what was happening to them could be described as a game at all, it was a game that only Ishmael could play.

'Click on the map to examine your location and plan your escape route,' suggested Ishmael. 'What portion of your treasury will you devote to the conquest of other kingdoms?'

'Search me,' said Beech, and returned to the information bar that appeared intermittently on the screen. This included the one piece of information that really troubled him. He clicked on the bar and an hourglass appeared in the corner of his screen, the sand trickling slowly down.

It was some time before he was able to attach a numerical value to the time represented by the hourglass, and exactly what might happen to them all when the last grain of sand passed to the bottom of the glass.

Frank Curtis clapped his hands and then rubbed them with anticipation.

'OK, everyone, show time. I want to hear some big ideas for getting our butts out of this high-rise serial killer. Syndicate 1. What have you got?'

Mitch cleared his throat. 'OK, the real-time images program. The hologram on the atrium floor uses a laser producing short, intense pulses of light.'

He used a 3-D drawing on the laptop computer to help with his explanation.

'At the moment, a shutter placed between the amplifying column located in the front desk here, and the end imager behind the desk here, produces the holographic Kelly Pendry for the tiny fractions of a second it opens. While the shutter is open the stored energy has a peak power capacity that may be as high as several hundred thousand kilowatts. Powerful enough to vaporize a small amount of any substance and drill holes in the hardest materials. My idea is this: that I remove the laser from the front desk assembly, operate the mechanical shutter and burn some holes in the door glass. Enough of them to kick out a larger hole through which I can then leave the building.'

'Maybe you'll burn a hole in yourself, buddy,' said Richardson. 'Have you thought of that? You could blind yourself. The beams spread out with distance, so the danger is greatest close to the laser.'

'I've already thought of that,' said Mitch. 'The desk has a pair of infrared goggles for emergency maintenance.'

'Well, I'm sure we're all impressed with your bravery,' commented Marty Birnbaum. 'But doesn't the laser use electricity? What's to stop Ishmael from just switching off the power?'

'The hologram control program is one of the building management systems controlled by Ishmael, but the laser isn't. According to the wiring diagram on the computer, to turn off the hologram laser Ishmael would have to switch off power for the whole atrium floor, and that would automatically open the front door.' He grinned. 'I might almost prefer that.'

'Aren't you forgetting something?' said Richardson. 'Thanks to the late Mr Dukes, the atrium is locked off.'

'I'll go down to the first level and then over the side,' said Mitch. 'I can slide down on one of the braces. When I reach the ground I'll recover Dukes's walkie-talkie. As soon as I've cut a hole in the door I'll radio up here.'

Joan looked up from rubbing some of Helen's moisturising cream into the chemical burns on her legs, and said, 'And how will you get down as far as the first level? If you're thinking about climbing down the tree, I don't recommend it.'

'I don't have to. According to the plan, there's a local equipment room on the other side of the building. Telecommunications, cable management systems, that kind of thing. But there's also a dry-riser closet. A vertical shaft that extends down to the basement, distributing IT services. In most buildings the closet would be filled with cabling, but because this building is so smart there's considerable spare capacity to take account of future IT requirements. There's even an engineer's ladder that goes all the way down, and a battery-operated lighting system in case the main power cuts out. It might be a snug fit in there. Nobody ever meant it to be used for anything other than going up and down between two levels, but there it is. Safer than the tree at any rate. When I radio up, you all climb down.' Mitch shrugged. 'That's it.'