Gamers' Rebellion Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  1: Tark

  2: Zyra

  3: Escape

  4: Captured

  5: Wake Up

  6: Administrators

  7: Josie and the Rebels

  8: Designer Prime

  9: People Who Don’t Matter

  10: Mel

  11: Food

  12: The Game

  13: Desert Sands

  14: Into the Game

  15: Machines

  16: Kiss

  17: Children

  18: Back In

  19: Designer Alpha

  20: Hidden

  21: Reunion

  22: Designing

  23: Return of the Ultimate Gamer

  24: Reprogram

  25: On the Inside

  26: We Have a Problem

  27: Back in the Lab

  28: Beta and Tark

  29: Portal Battle

  30: Hope

  31: The Plan

  32: The Outers

  33: Breakdown Begins

  34: Exit

  35: Josie and Tark

  36: Downloading

  37: Calming Down

  38: The Rebellion

  39: Alex

  40: Designer Beta

  41: Containment Breakout

  42: Preserving Unreality

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Gamers’ Rebellion

  George Ivanoff is an author and stay-at-home dad residing in Melbourne, Australia. He has written over 60 books for children and teenagers. His teen science fiction novel, Gamers’ Quest, won a 2010 Chronos Award for speculative fiction. He has books on both the Victorian Premier’s and the NSW Premier’s Reading Challenge booklists. George eats too much chocolate and drinks too much coffee. He has one wife and two children.

  Visit George’s website at:

  georgeivanoff.com.au

  and the Gamers website:

  www.gamersquestbook.com

  For my godson

  Nicholas Ernst

  with much love

  THE GAMERS’ TRILOGY

  Gamers’ Quest

  Gamers’ Challenge

  Gamers’ Rebellion

  ‘Gamers’ Inferno’ is also in Trust Me Too,

  edited by Paul Collins

  GAMERS’ REBELLION

  George Ivanoff

  First published by Ford Street Publishing, an imprint of

  Hybrid Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond VIC 3204

  Melbourne Victoria Australia

  www.hybridpublishers.com.au

  © George Ivanoff 2013

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  This publication is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests and enquiries concerning reproduction should be addressed to Ford Street Publishing Pty Ltd

  2 Ford Street, Clifton Hill VIC 3068.

  Ford Street website: www.fordstreetpublishing.com

  First published 2013

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author: Ivanoff, George, 1968–

  Title: Gamers’ rebellion / George Ivanoff.

  eISBN: 9781925000276

  ISBN: 9781921665974 (pbk.)

  Target Audience: For secondary school age.

  Dewey Number: A823.3

  Cover art: Les Petersen

  Cover design: © Gittus Graphics

  In-house editor: Beau Hillier

  Printed in China by Tingleman Pty Ltd

  Prologue

  The game was over! Or so they thought.

  With hands tightly clasped, Tark and Zyra watched as all they had ever known melted away.

  And then they were moving through greyness. It was like swimming through treacle. Up ahead, two intense points of white light called to them.

  The greyness swirled around them, tugging and pulling.

  Their fingers slipped and their hands parted. They were whisked away from each other and towards the light – towards the unknown.

  1: Tark

  Tark felt like he was drowning.

  He tried coughing and gasping for air, but the warm, viscous liquid surrounded him. He opened his mouth and more of it flowed in and filled his lungs.

  Tark’s eyes snapped open. Everything was glowing, soft-focus, green nothingness. Panic set in. He thrashed his arms and legs about, connecting with what felt like skin.

  Forcing himself to calm down, he reached out with more care. Whatever it was, it was all around him, like a cocoon encasing him in an environment of fluid – like a baby in a womb. He pushed his hands forward and felt the skin stretch and distend. No, not skin. More like something synthetic … plastic or rubber.

  With a sudden burst of hope, Tark pushed his fingers into it, feeling it stretch further. He put more pressure against it and curled his fingers into fists, grasping the rubbery substance and pulling. He felt it beginning to give. Doubling his efforts, he pushed, pulled and clawed at it until it gave way, rending apart.

  The fluid suddenly drained away and Tark coughed, expelling a lungful of thick green liquid. Then he gasped, drawing in huge, rasping lungfuls of air. His mind was spinning. He blinked rapidly, then wiped the last of the ooze from his eyes.

  He was lying on a hard floor in a pool of liquid, the tattered remains of the membrane clinging to his skin like a burst balloon. Tubes and wires rested beside him, snaking across the floor and connecting into the wall. Tark lifted his head. He was in the middle of a stark white room, with one mirrored wall. Harsh, bright light flooded down from the ceiling.

  Tark coughed uncontrollably, the last of the fluid coming up from his lungs. And then he retched, spewing up a stomachful of the horrid stuff into the green ooze that he was still lying in.

  Desperate to get out of the puddle, vomit still dribbling from the corners of his mouth, he tried to get up. His legs wobbled like jelly and slipped in the pooling liquid. He fell face first into the green slime. Thrashing about, he managed to steady himself. He vomited again, this time a thin stream of green slime mixed with yellowish bile.

  He groaned. And then a torrent of warm water rained down on him. It was the first pleasant sensation since he emerged from the cocoon. But it didn’t last. As the rain ceased, he watched the last of the green wash away down a grating in the floor. The surface then sealed up over it.

  Concentrating hard, Tark forced a leg under himself. Then the other. Closing his eyes, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Pins and needles prickled through his arms and legs, but at least he could feel them. He felt his strength slowly returning.

  A gust of warm air blew through the room, drying everything.

  Tark pulled back into a crouching position, and from there he unsteadily got to his feet. He took a deep breath to calm himself, suppressing a cough, then took a wobbly step forward. Then another. He felt himself rapidly steadying as the pins and needles faded.

  He took another deep breath and opened his eyes.

  Tark almost fell back down in surprise.

  The reflection that greeted him was not his own. The image in the mirror was tall and lithe. And naked. Tark’s eyes moved from the brown, wavy hair and familiar face, down the defined musculature.

  He lifted an arm, the muscles tensing and bulging. He extended his hand and waved it. The image followed suit. It was him, even though it did not look like him. He looked almost like John Hayes, the avatar he used when in the Suburbia environment with Zyra. Almost, but not quite. He looked like an idealised version of
John Hayes – flawless skin and perfect physique. He was the 16-year-old that every teenage boy longed to be.

  Tark wondered if he had somehow wound up in the Suburbia environment. He glanced around the sterile room. He didn’t remember anything like this in Suburbia. And he was supposed to be out of the game, completely. Wasn’t he?

  And where was Zyra? Why wasn’t she with him? They had left the game together. Had he somehow been pulled back in? Was he trapped in some other environment, forced into an avatar and destined to play yet another of the Designers’ seemingly endless games within games?

  Tark looked back at his reflection as these thoughts tumbled through his mind. He opened his mouth, ready to test out his voice.

  A high-pitched wailing split the silence. And everything went dark.

  2: Zyra

  Zyra stood in front of the mirrored wall as the gust of warm air subsided, staring at the reflection that was not her. She was supposed to have a red Mohawk and piercings and green eyes and …

  She knew that the familiar blonde-haired image must be her, because it raised its arm as she raised hers and inclined its head as she did hers. She stared into the eyes of a girl that was a perfect version of Tina Burrows, her Suburbia avatar.

  Behind her image, she saw a portion of the white wall open up. A person stepped into the room. She turned around, ready, as always, for a fight.

  A strange boy stood by the far wall, which was solid once more. He was shorter than her and dressed in grey clothing that clung to him like a second skin. He had a white garment draped over one arm. He was bald, which made it difficult for Zyra to guess at his age. Fifteen?

  ‘This is for you,’ he said, stepping forward and holding out the clothing, eyes wide.

  Zyra was suddenly conscious that she was naked. She dashed forward, snatched the garment from his hand and held it up against herself. Seeing her discomfort, the boy turned his back to her.

  Zyra quickly shook out the garment and examined it. It was a jumpsuit, similar to the one the boy was wearing, but it looked much too small to fit her. She stepped into it anyway, pulling it up over herself, the odd plastic-like fabric stretching to accommodate her body. It covered her feet and extended into gloves that enveloped her hands. She pulled the two sides of fabric towards each other, wondering how to do up the suit since there was no zip or buttons. The fabric simply merged into itself, closing up the gap and leaving no visible join.

  Zyra flexed her arms and wiggled her fingers, marvelling at the surprising comfort of the outfit. It was like being naked and clothed at the same time.

  ‘How do I go to the toilet in this thing?’ she wondered out loud.

  ‘It is a smart fabric,’ explained the boy in quiet, measured tones. ‘It has automatically coded itself to your genetic makeup. It will come apart for you, if you pull at it.’

  The boy turned around. Zyra noticed that he was more than just bald – he was completely hairless. No eyebrows, no eyelashes, not even the shadow of shaved hair. His eyes were the palest blue she had ever seen, and they were focused intently on her.

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Zyra.

  ‘Specifically,’ said the boy, ‘you are in the Design Institute. On a more general level, you are in what you would term the real world.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are no longer in the Game.’

  Zyra frowned, taking in the enormity of the revelation. Fixing her eyes on the boy, she felt a shiver go up her spine.

  ‘Are you … are you a Designer?’

  ‘No,’ the boy answered. ‘I am not.’

  Before Zyra had time to react, an alarm started blaring, the high-pitched wailing hurting her ears. And everything went dark.

  3: Escape

  Completely disorientated, Tark stumbled about in the dark, the alarm blaring around him. He crashed into one of the walls and cried out, clutching his bruised elbow.

  A portion of the wall slid back and dimly silhouetted figures rushed into the room. Hands grabbed at him and something was thrown over his head. He tried to struggle, lashing out at his assailants. His arms were seized roughly and pinned behind him. Tark leaned his weight back, using his captor for support, and kicked out with both his legs.

  Someone swore, then another assailant grasped Tark’s legs and he was manhandled towards the door. He continued to struggle, thrashing about.

  ‘Lets go of me,’ he shouted. If he had not been so preoccupied, he would have marvelled at the sound of the voice that was nothing like his own.

  ‘Shut him up,’ someone hissed.

  Tark felt something cold and metallic pressed to his side. There was an audible crackle and he felt a jolt of electricity course through his body.

  He passed out.

  ***

  Tark ached – from the tip of his nose to the ends of his toes. Slowly, his awareness widened and he felt movement. He was being carried, jostled about roughly as his kidnappers ran with him. Nausea washed over him. He tried breathing deeply to suppress it.

  He opened his eyes but saw nothing. Something still covered his head.

  And then he heard the voices. Urgent, hissing voices over the top of one another, making it difficult to understand anything.

  ‘… got to get out …’

  ‘… he’s heavy …’

  ‘… which way?’

  ‘… what about the other one?’

  ‘… too late …’

  ‘… damn …’

  He felt the hands holding his left leg slip, and the heel of his foot scraped along the ground. Tark yelped.

  ‘He’s awake!’ The voice was panicky.

  ‘Zap him!’ ordered a more authoritative voice.

  Again, Tark felt the metal pressing up against him before the shock of electricity sent him into oblivion.

  4: Captured

  Zyra crouched in the darkness, every muscle tense, ready to spring at the first sign of trouble.

  ‘Do not panic!’ said the boy, his voice calm and steady as the alarm blared. ‘You are quite safe.’

  ‘I don’t panic,’ said Zyra, matter-of-factly, wishing she had her knives and feeling exposed in her clinging jumpsuit.

  A square of dim light appeared at the far wall as the door slid open, revealing three silhouettes. Before any of them could make a move, the boy was blocking their entrance.

  ‘No!’ he said, his voice still calm. ‘Zyra must stay here.’

  ‘Guards,’ warned one of the silhouettes. Then all three sped off.

  Zyra saw other shadows running past the doorway before it closed. Then the lights came back on.

  Zyra stood up. ‘What just happened?’ she demanded.

  ‘It appears we have had an attempted abduction,’ said the boy.

  ‘Why would someone want to kidnap me?’ asked Zyra.

  ‘Good question,’ said the boy.

  ‘And where’s Tark?’

  ‘Another good question.’

  Zyra’s expression hardened. ‘So how about some good answers, kid?’ She took a threatening step towards the boy.

  ‘I would rather not be referred to as kid.’ The boy inclined his head slightly. ‘I am not a kid – not in the conventional sense. I am a clone. And my name is Robbie.’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s great, Robbie. But I want some answers.’ Zyra took another step. ‘And I want them now.’

  ‘Please remain calm,’ said Robbie. ‘My purpose in being here is to introduce you to the real world and give you all the necessary information. So please, let us sit down and discuss things.’

  Two white spherical chairs emerged from behind opening wall panels, and slid towards them. The panels closed up as if they had never been there. Robbie sat down immediately, nodding towards the second chair. Zyra sat down warily.

  ‘Okay, I’m sitting. I’m calm. Now, get on with it.’

  ‘You are in a scientific facility and research centre called –’

  ‘Where’s Tark?’ Zyra cut him off. ‘I want to see him.’


  Robbie paused and cocked his head to one side as if considering Zyra’s question.

  ‘Tark is in a clone birthing room like this one. You cannot see him yet. You –’

  ‘Why can’t I see him?’ demanded Zyra, cutting him off again. ‘If he’s here then I want to see him, now!’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Robbie. ‘There are procedures to be followed. You need to be debriefed before anything else can happen.’

  ‘Right.’ Zyra crossed her arms. ‘Get on with it then.’

  ‘As I have already said, you are out of the Game – you are in the real world.’

  Zyra held her hands up in front of her face. They were encased in the weird, skin-like fabric. She turned them over and then back again, flexing the fingers and letting the words sink in – the real world.

  ‘No doubt you are wondering, how?’ said Robbie. ‘You have been downloaded into a cloned body.’

  Zyra lowered her hands and stared at Robbie. ‘Like you?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Although Robbie’s expression remained constant, Zyra thought she caught a hint of sadness in his eyes. ‘Your cloned body was specifically prepared for a downloaded consciousness. That is, it was grown from the cells of a real person, but was conditioned for physical perfection. It was also grown with no cognitive functions. Your body has a brain, but it was a tabula rasa – a clean slate onto which anything could have been written.’