‘Not a chance,’ said the princeling, attempting to make a dash for the nearest door.
Tark grabbed him and dragged him towards Vera and Zyra.
‘Let me go,’ demanded the princeling. ‘What are you doing?’
‘This ’ere is our employer,’ said Tark to Vera. ‘We has only been doin’ wot we has been told.’
The princeling started to protest, but Tark gave him a sharp punch to the mouth.
‘The snotling gaves us the sword o’ light,’ continued Tark. ‘He tolds us to do in Edgar and takes his gold.’
Vera dropped Zyra, who fell to her hands and knees, gasping for breath.
Tark shoved the princeling towards Vera.
‘It's not true,’ yelped the princeling, as Vera wrapped her crushing arms around his podgy body.
‘Tells us,’ demanded Tark, ‘or ya dies first.’
‘The hilt,’ gasped the princeling. ‘Panel … open … button.’
Tark fumbled with the sword hilt, pressing at it with his fingers, until a small section clicked inwards and slid aside, revealing a red button.
‘Ya means — that's all?’ said Tark.
The princeling nodded, gasped and lost consciousness.
Tark pressed the button.
The sword flared into brilliant life. Tark tried to shield his eyes as it sprang from his hands, streaked through the air and embedded itself deep within Vera's side, missing Princeling Galbrath by a hair's breadth.
Vera immediately dropped the princeling, threw back her head and released the most inhuman howl either Tark or Zyra had ever heard. Light spilled from her eyes, nose and mouth. Her flesh and her clothing burst into flame, turning to ash in seconds. Her metal skeleton glowed white-hot, then disintegrated.
The sword clattered to the ground, spent and lightless. Tark sheathed it absently, his eyes fixed on the smouldering metal fragments scattered about the room.
Zyra staggered to her feet and shook Tark from his reverie. ‘Comes on,’ she said.
They made their way past the unconscious princeling to where Tark had left the cart. They slowly wheeled it over to the pedestal. Zyra fished their keys from a pocket and placed them on the pedestal. Then they put their hands, palms down, beside the keys.
‘Access granted,’ said the same disembodied androgynous voice as the Oracle's.
Tark withdrew his hand. On impulse, Zyra pocketed the keys.
And then everything around them melted away.
13: Into Paradise
Static! Grey, crackly, fuzzy, all-encompassing static. It was like being within electronic interference made tangible.
Tark and Zyra were surrounded, encased, in drab, sizzling nothing — suspended in the anticipation of things to come. They could almost feel themselves disappearing, ready to be reformed into something better.
‘Payment calculated,’ said the voice. ‘Access to Designers Paradise granted for sixty-three hours, seventeen minutes, three sec … seconds.’
There was pause. Tark and Zyra waited.
‘Avatars?’ asked the voice.
Tark and Zyra smiled at each other. But before either could speak, the voice announced:
‘Avatars. Avatars not necessary. Entry parameters altered. Game Master assigned.’
‘Game Master?’ asked Tark and Zyra, together.
‘Yes,’ wheezed a voice. ‘That would be me.’
The Fat Man coalesced in the static.
‘Ya can'ts do this,’ protested Tark.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Zyra. ‘We's paid for our time in Designers Paradise. We's paid for our choice.’
‘I have enough money to do anything I want,’ said the Fat Man. ‘You see, if you have enough money, the rules are different. If you have enough money, you can even make your own rules. If you have enough money, you can control those who do not have enough money.’
‘The Oracle,’ whispered Zyra.
‘Oh yes,’ said the Fat Man. ‘That was me and my money. No one ever gets assigned a path through the rat-mage's domain, unless I pay for it. Actually, I'm surprised you made it through. No one else has. You're more resourceful than you look.’
‘Never minds that,’ said Tark. ‘Wots about the Cracker? And the dragon's wife? And the princeling?’
‘Yes,’ agreed the Fat Man. ‘The Cracker is in my employ. As for Vera — well, she was another project altogether. She was just responding to programming. I had her made for the dragon. He was very lonely, you know. He was old and would have died soon enough of natural causes. Vera would have inherited his body, which she would have brought to me. Elixir made from the juices squeezed from a dragon's spleen has the potential to extend one's lifespan, you know. But then you had to go and kill him, didn't you. Burnt up his body, didn't you.’ The Fat Man took a long wheezy breath before continuing. ‘As for the pathetic Princeling Galbrath — my only association with him was arranging to purchase his sword o’ light for pitifully less than it is actually worth. But then you stole the sword.’
The Fat Man's face grew redder as he spoke. His breath became more raspy and laboured.
‘And to top it all off, you steal from me.’ He clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘I do not like to lose. Especially not to gutter-trash like you.’ He took another deep, long, wheezy breath. ‘But luckily, I never lose. I take circumstances and I mould them and I shape them into something of my own design. I turn it into a game. And I do so like games. Games of cat and mouse. Games of chase and capture … and eventual, creatively inspired, demise.’
‘We ain't playin’ no games,’ said Zyra.
‘Oh, but you already are. And I have another game for you now, here in Designers Paradise. After all, that's what you came here for — to play games.’
‘No,’ protested Tark. ‘We don't comes for games. We comes here to escape. To gets into a betta world.’
‘But it's not a better world,’ explained the Fat Man, as if he were talking to an idiot. ‘It's not real. It's a game. Just like our world.’
‘Wots do ya mean?’ asked Zyra.
‘Enough talk,’ said the Fat Man with a swish of his arm. ‘Time to play.’
The static blurred into blackness dotted with pinpricks of light. Then their surroundings solidified. Tark and Zyra found themselves in a room with a door, two chairs, a control panel and a large, curved window. Through the window they could see a vast unending starscape.
‘Wot's this?’ asked Tark, looking around in confusion.
‘Dunno,’ answered Zyra, equally mystified.
‘Look!’ Tark pointed to the window.
A compact, dangerous looking spaceship flew into view. They saw someone waving from its forward portal.
‘Ready for combat?’ said the Fat Man's voice through the speaker on the control panel. ‘We are both in identical starfighters. Of course, I've flown one before, dozens of times, in fact. Whereas you? Well, you'll just have to figure it out. Now, the object of this game is to destroy your opponent, preferably in a creative manner.’
Tark and Zyra stared at each other, fear and confusion etched on their faces.
‘I can't flies a spaceship,’ said Zyra.
‘I'm willing to be sporting about this,’ said the Fat Man's voice. ‘I'll let you have the first shot.’
‘First shot?’ queried Tark, looking around desperately for a crossbow or a gun or something — anything.
The Fat Man's laughter echoed through the speaker. ‘There's a big red button on the control panel in front of the seats. It fires your weapons.’
‘Wot weapons?’ shouted Tark, searching frantically.
More laughter. ‘Your starfighter is equipped with particle-beam weaponry, you silly boy.’
Tark looked at Zyra and shrugged.
‘Exit game!’ commanded Zyra.
Nothing happened.
Her face fell. ‘We is trapped!’ She slumped into a chair.
‘I'm getting a little impatient,’ said the Fat Man's voice. ‘Last chance! Fire your weapons now or I'll launch mine.’