The Game of Worlds

The Game of Worlds

David Brin’s Out of Time Series

Roger MacBride Allen

To V., M., J., B., A., & A.,

who were there already,

and

ROSE & JAMES

who came along after

Chapter One

Hotwire

1999 A.D.

Carrboro, North Carolina, USA

Earth

Adam O’Connor slid his hand through the grillwork under the hood of the car and found the hood-release latch on the first try. He pulled on it, and the hood popped up an inch or two. He put his hands under the hood and lifted it up.

It swung up and clear. He took the flashlight out of his jacket pocket, turned it on, and aimed the light into the engine compartment. It was, he knew, a 318 V-8. The car, an ancient 1973 Dodge Dart, belonged to his math teacher, Mrs. Meredith. Half the kids in the car club had worked on it, one time or another. Adam had himself, before the faculty advisor kicked him out of the club for pulling the potato-in-the-exhaust-pipe trick on a fellow student’s car. Everyone had gone after him for that one—the club advisor, the guidance counselor, his parents. It didn’t seem right for all the adults to gang up and cause so much ruckus over such a little thing. The potato trick hadn’t caused that much damage. It wasn’t fair.

And so Adam had decided to carry out just a little bit of harmless revenge.

He pulled the cherry-bomb rig out of his other pocket and tried to balance the flashlight on top of the car’s battery, but the light started to roll off, and he had to grab it before it dropped into the engine compartment. But he’d need both hands to hook up the cherry bomb. He should have thought about that before he headed out, rigged some way to steady the light, with duct tape or something.

That wasn’t the only problem. Even with the flashlight, it was hard to see what he was doing. The tight beam cast harsh shadows and dazzled his eyes, making the darkness around the cone of light seem all the darker. And even though he had worked on this very car a half dozen times, he had forgotten one of its most annoying quirks. The counterbalance springs that held the hood up were old and worn, and the hood didn’t stay up properly. It tended to drift down slowly, until it hung about a third open. He should have brought a stick or a pole to hold it up. Instead, he was reduced to holding the hood open with one hand while he held the flashlight with the other so he could find the spot where he was going to clip the leads—a procedure that left him a couple of hands short for doing the job.

He had thought it was going to be easy, fast. Pop the hood, hook the alligator clips on electric leads he had rigged to the cherry-bomb fuse there and there, slam the hood, and then retreat into the darkness, sit back and watch the fun.

He pointed the flashlight at his wristwatch. It was almost 9:00 P.M. The drama club’s rehearsal was going to break up any minute. That was why he had chosen this particular evening for the prank. Mrs. Meredith was the drama-club sponsor. Not only would she be here at school tonight, but so, too, would all the drama-club members. A prank needed an audience. It would do no good at all to set off a cherry bomb in Mrs. Meredith’s car unless a bunch of kids saw it, and set the school hallways buzzing with the story the next day.

But no one was going to be talking about it at all if he didn’t get this thing hooked up before the rehearsal ended and Mrs. Meredith and the club members came out into the parking lot.

The hood was drifting down again. Adam tried to get it to stay up by standing on the driver’s side of the car and wedging his body in under the hood, supporting its weight between his shoulders. A sharp corner of metal caught him at the base of his neck, pinching down painfully. At least that got one hand free so he could hook up the leads—but the angle was incredibly awkward. He was practically face-down in the engine compartment. He had to crane his neck around to see even part of what he was doing, and that just seemed to make the piece of metal cut deeper into the back of his neck. Adam was starting to sweat, in spite of the cool night air. He hadn’t planned this one well.

Finally he managed to get a clear look at where the first lead went. He squeezed the alligator clip open, shoved it into place, and released it. It looked like a good, solid connection.

Now all he had to do was clip on the second lead, and then—

Hey! Mrs. Meredith! I think someone’s trying to steal your car!

Adam jerked back at the sound of the voice, and slammed his head into the inside of the Dodge’s hood. That sharp bit of metal bit deeper still into his neck, breaking the skin. He felt a flush of warmth on the back of his neck as a small dribble of blood welled up from the cut.

He dropped the second lead and the flashlight and levered his hand around to shove up hard on the car hood, forcing it out of the way. The flashlight bounced and tumbled through the engine compartment, and the beam of light caught him square in the eyes, dazzling him. The flashlight hit the ground hard and went dark. He pulled his head out from under the hood just before it bounced off the top of its springs and came slamming back down. It crashed shut with a tremendous bang.

Suddenly all was quiet. He blinked and turned around, his vision still muddled by the glare of the flashlight. The dim lights from the school showed him nothing but the silhouettes of a half dozen kids, all of them seemingly frozen in place, staring at him in shock. Another silhouette, an adult, came hurrying out of the building. It was a heavyset woman with long dark hair, wearing a dress and carrying a thick sheaf of papers. She was too far off and too dark for Adam to see her face, but it had to be Mrs. Meredith.

Who is it? the woman demanded. Who’s that messing with my car?

He didn’t need to see her face. He knew that voice. Mrs. Meredith. Everyone else might be frozen to the spot, but not her. She was moving forward, her shoes clip-clopping loudly on the concrete, straight for him.

His head was throbbing from hitting the car hood. His neck was stinging like crazy. Adam stared at his math teacher in shocked terror. The moment seemed to come to a halt. This was it. She was going to catch him and then—

He got hold of himself. And then, nothing, Adam thought. No one was going to catch him. Not tonight. He turned and ran.

Principal Benton sighed wearily and leaned forward in his chair. He folded his arms on his desk and stared at Adam, waiting. At last he stood and picked up the tangle of wires hooked up to a cherry bomb from his desk. He wrapped one wire and then the other neatly around the firecracker, and clipped the two alligator clamps together. He dropped the gadget onto his desk and looked down at Adam. They had already been through all the accusations and denials more than once. It was a lousy start to the day.

What’s the point of the game anyway? Mr. Benton asked in a voice that was almost gentle. We know you did it, and you know we know.

I didn’t do it, Adam said, staring straight ahead at the principal’s desk.

Uh-huh, said the principal. He turned and walked around his desk to stare out the window at the school parking lot.

Adam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had been there a while, and he wanted to unbutton his collar, but he didn’t dare. The bandage over the cut on his neck was itching like crazy, but he couldn’t bring attention to it. The cut on his neck was evidence against him, as much as the cherry bomb sitting on Mr. Benton’s desk.

Adam risked a glance up at Principal Benton while his back was turned. Mr. Benton was a pretty nice guy. Medium height, brown hair, going a bit bald, with a kindly, patient face. Adam had always sort of liked him. Except for times like this, when the principal turned out to be the enemy.

Honest, Adam lied. It wasn’t me. Part of him wanted to admit the truth, admit it and get it over with. But he had denied everything from the first moment, and somehow, it got harder and harder to turn back from the lie. It wasn’t me.

It wasn’t you, echoed Mr. Benton. Except we know it was.

"It wasn’t," Adam said, his voice coming close to a whine.

If you deny it hard enough and long enough, you might even start believing your own lies. In fact, I bet you’re starting to feel a nice big gush of self-pity, telling yourself how brave and noble you are for standing up under all the cruel punishment you don’t deserve.

Adam looked up in shock. How had he known?

Adam dropped his eyes back down to the desktop as Mr. Benton turned around. "Except you haven’t been punished—yet—and you know, deep in your heart, that you do deserve it. Mr. Benton turned around and leaned against the window frame as he looked down at Adam. This one is serious. Very serious."

But I didn’t—

Do it. Of course not. The tooth fairy did, Mr. Benton said sourly. You know, sometimes I think that the worst part of this job is getting insulted all the time by kids like you.

Adam looked up at Mr. Benton in surprise. Kids insult you?

By treating me like I’m really, really, stupid, Mr. Benton said. They—you—look me right in the eye and tell me the dumbest, most obviously phony story, something a kindergarten kid wouldn’t believe, and expect me to buy it. Of course you didn’t do it. Of course not.

Honest, Mr. Benton. I didn’t do it, he said again. Really.

You didn’t?

No. Honest. I didn’t. Um, ah, I’m missing social-studies class. Can I—can I go now?

Mr. Benton looked at him hard for a long time. Yes, he said. In a minute. After you pretend to hear a speech I’m going to give. First I’ll tell you something and you’ll pretend to understand it and agree with it, and then you’ll rush out of here so fast we’ll both know that you didn’t listen at all, and don’t care what I said. Ready?

Adam felt a strange little pit at the bottom of his stomach. This kind of sarcasm wasn’t like Mr. Benton. Urn, ah—yeah, I guess.

Then here goes. You could grow up to be a worthwhile person who makes good use of the gifts he has been given. But you’re headed down a path, Adam. One that goes straight in the wrong direction. He sat down at his desk again and held one hand flat about six inches above the desktop. "There’s a file that thick on all the trouble you’ve been in over the years. The kids you’ve beaten up, the lectures and punishments you’ve gotten, the promises you’ve made to do better. Obviously none of the warnings took, and you didn’t mean what you said, because otherwise you wouldn’t be here now. That path is going to lead down, Adam, straight down. One day you’ll wake up and notice you’re a loser, a punk who threw everything away. You won’t even know for sure when it happened. With me so far?"

Yeah, yeah, said Adam. Even as he spoke, he knew his voice was too nervous and edgy to sound the least bit sincere. All he wanted to do was get out of there. He’d agree to anything that would let him escape.

I bet you are, said Mr. Benton. "So I take that file, and what happened last night, and together they tell me one of two things is going to happen. Either you admit what you did, and tell us what everyone knows. Tell us you did it. You’ll be disciplined—no, you’ll be punished, and you won’t get off easy. But it can be handled inside the school, and when it’s over, it’ll be over."

Mr. Benton stared straight at Adam in silence for a moment, then spoke again. Otherwise, this time, we’ll have to call in the police.

Adam’s stomach suddenly tightened into a cold, iron knot. The police? he asked. But—but I didn’t do any—

I’ve heard that already, Mr. Benton snapped. And I don’t care. He pointed at the M-80. "Someone rigged up a bomb, a small one, but a bomb all the same, to go off in a teacher’s car when she turned the ignition. We can’t let this case go without it being officially solved. We have to find out who did this, and make sure it never, ever, happens again. If that’s what it takes, we have to go to the police. Once the police are involved, it will be a lot harder to control the situation. There have been a lot of vandalism cases recently, and the police are taking them seriously. They won’t treat this as a prank. They might want to treat it as attempted murder."

"Murder? But—but—" Adam was on the verge of blurting out but I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, when he realized just how much of an admission he would be making.

I know, Mr. Benton said, exactly as if Adam had finished his sentence. His voice turned gentle as he went on. "It was just a prank. You didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Just a big noise, and a big laugh, and that would be that. But what you mean doesn’t count. What you did was put a bomb in a car and try to set it to go off when the car was occupied."

Attempted murder! Adam felt a flush of shock—and of anger—rising in his face. One little gag with an oversize firecracker, and they want to call it murder! They were out to get him. Old Man Benton got him in here and treated him nice just to trick him, scare him into admitting something.

I didn’t do it, Adam said in his most surly and angry voice.

Right. Mr. Benton put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, and suddenly there was no patience left in his voice or his expression. Of course not. All right, I know when I’m beaten. This one is up to you now. I’ll give you until tomorrow. Either you admit what you did, and we punish you for it—or else I pick up the phone and call the police, and see what they can make of it.

Mr. Benton paused once more, and glared at Adam. Well, that went pretty much the way I expected. I just hope you surprise me tomorrow. Now get out of here.

Chapter Two

Hot Seat

The day didn’t get any better. No one seemed to want to talk to Adam, but they all seemed eager enough to talk about him. Everywhere he went, it seemed as if a cloud of whispers and giggles and shocked looks trailed behind him.

His classes seemed to drag on and on, each leading up to what would be the worst of all: last period in Mrs. Meredith’s math class.

Adam was strongly tempted to skip her class, but he realized that it would be a bad tactic. It would just give everyone in class something else to gossip about, and more than likely get him dug in deeper at the same time. He was going to have to face Mrs. Meredith sooner or later. He might as well get it over with.

He slunk into class just as the bell was ringing, to the accompaniment of more whispering and buzzing and giggling than he had heard all day. He took a seat at the back of the room, instead of his normal seat in the second row. He was embarrassed enough by the commotion that he did not notice at first that Mrs. Meredith was not in the room.

That never happened. She was always there before the bell rang. Adam was just starting to wonder if her absence somehow had something to do with him when Mrs. Meredith swept into the room, moving fast, but not appearing the least bit hurried.

I’m sorry I’m late, class, she said. I had some matters to attend to in the main office.

That put a chill down Adam’s spine. It took no imagination at all to believe the matters had something to do with him.

Let’s get started, shall we? Jackie Andrews?

Here.

Paul Bolton?

Present.

Adam found himself staring at Mrs. Meredith as she worked her way through the roll. She was one of the fun teachers, one of the good ones. Whether it was quadratic equations in math class, or working on the blocking of a tricky scene at a drama-club rehearsal, Mrs. Meredith made the subject exciting and interesting. Every other math teacher Adam had ever had treated mathematics as something to be learned by rote, dull formulae and rules to memorize. Mrs. Meredith made it fun, a series of complicated, intriguing puzzles to be solved. Adam liked her. He hadn’t even been thinking of her, personally, when he had tried to rig the cherry bomb. He had merely been out to play a trick on a teacher, any teacher.

But today, her usual good cheer was gone, replaced by a cool, crisp efficiency that didn’t fool Adam. She was upset. He could read it in the way she drummed her fingers nervously on her desk, in the wary expression on her face—and in the way she didn’t look at anyone. She kept her gaze locked down on the roll-call list.

Adam O’Connor?

Adam was so focused on Mrs. Meredith’s mood and appearance that he didn’t notice when his name was called.

Huh? he grunted. What?

Adam? Mrs. Meredith asked. You are here, aren’t you? There was nothing joking or humorous in her tone.

He was suddenly aware that every eye in the class was on him. What? Oh. Yeah. I’m here.

Wonder how you got the nerve to show up, dude, some boy muttered from the middle of the class, setting off a whole new flurry of giggles and whispers.

That will do, Mrs. Meredith said sharply, glaring around the room until quiet prevailed. The kids in the class quieted down fast, a lot faster than they would have for a teacher they didn’t take seriously or respect.

Very well, said Mrs. Meredith. Jennifer Parsons?

Here, said Jennifer in a subdued tone of voice.

Mrs. Meredith finished the roll and launched directly into the lesson. She kept the class focused and attentive, and somehow treated Adam exactly the way she normally did—while at the same time making it clear she knew perfectly well things were nowhere close to being normal. He tried to do the same. She called on him two or three times, and he answered as best he could, getting the answers more or less right. He found himself admiring the way she was handling the situation.

It dawned on Adam that he knew very little about Mrs. Meredith. He wasn’t even sure what her first name was. He had a vague recollection that it was something plain-sounding, and a little bit old-fashioned. Alice or Agnes. Something like that. Mrs. Meredith. Not Miss. Except she didn’t act married, somehow. Now that he thought about it, he had a vague recollection of something in the school paper two years before, about her husband dying, and there being lots of bills and no insurance. Maybe she was still paying them off. Maybe that was why she drove such an old car, and was always eager to serve as a chaperon at a school dance or a basketball game. They paid the teachers extra for that work—though, Adam gathered, not very much.

Adam found himself being drawn into her determined show of normality. It was a math class like every other. There was no crisis. No wonder she ran the drama class. She was showing them all she knew something about acting.

When the bell rang, ending the period and the school day, it seemed as if the sharp clanging rattle popped the balloon. All the make-believe normalness rushed out into the hallway the moment the door opened and the kids started hurrying out through it.

Adam gathered up his stuff and started heading for the door. Maybe he could pretend, just long enough to get through the door.

But Mrs. Meredith had another idea. Adam, she said, I’d like to talk with you a few minutes. There’s something I’d like to show you.

Adam felt his stomach tighten up again, and he felt a hot, unreasonable shot of anger wash over him. Man, everyone wanted to talk with him. Talk at him, more like. They all wanted to