Chapter 24

Len reads the email from the schoolteacher for the fifth time in as many days. Every time he clicks on it, he thinks this time he’s going to answer it with a polite dismissal of the guy’s concerns and be done with it. But he can’t seem to bring himself to write that short reply, which has been nagging at him. He knows Rainblocks inside out, from Dave’s initial sketchbooks and notes on the game to the final beta tests. He was the first and last person Dave shared his ideas with, and the only one trusted with a comprehensive overview of the project. Len always assumed that was due to the risk of intellectual property theft by competitors keen to cash in on Dave’s popularity, or—more likely—insiders eager to generate click bait with spoilers.

But now he’s beginning to wonder if he did get the full picture. Were aspects of the game somehow withheld from him? Dave did ask him once about setting up a backchannel for communication with players so he could pop in and surprise kids for the sheer delight factor. Len could see the appeal, but thought it was a bad idea.

He remembers that meeting clearly, remembers saying that if it were a text channel the kids would think it was the AI responding to their gameplay, not Dave himself—unless he wanted a channel for talking to them on a live video feed, but that kind of one-on-one interaction with minors opened the door to all kinds of liability, which could in turn jeopardize Dave’s relationship with his sponsors.

Dave had called him a wet blanket, more concerned with liability than with the OMG factor.

“Just trying to spare you the OMG, I’m getting sued factor, buddy,” Len had said.

Dave was disappointed, but he never brought it up again, and Len had believed that was the end of it. Now here is evidence that Dave went ahead and hired someone to install the feature after all, then used it with at least one kid and made exactly the kind of inappropriate request Len feared in the first place. So how many times has this happened? Not enough to generate a buzz on the forums, or this wouldn’t be the first he was hearing of it.

But what if the schoolteacher’s email turns out to be the first of many?

Len realizes he’s been staring at the screen without blinking for long enough to make his eyes burn. He shuts them and massages the lids with his fingertips, pushes his chair back from the desk, and closes the laptop lid.

Len did enough therapy in his twenties to learn that escaping into game worlds is a common coping mechanism for children who’ve suffered at the hands of adults, and there have always been little clues from Dave that suggest he and Len share the same unspoken sorrow. Len also knows there’s some truth to the axiom Do unto others what has been done to you. And he wonders now if Dave’s failures with women and his drive to reclaim lost innocence by immersing himself in a world built for children might both have roots in that kind of wound.

In at least one instance, the anonymous messages encouraged the child to use the tablet’s camera without adult supervision.

Len stands and looks around the apartment. He’s already had lunch, but takes a step toward the kitchenette anyway, the cupboard beckoning him, offering something to occupy his hands and mouth and redirect his agitation from the thing he knows he should do. He recognizes the impulse. Stress eating is his favorite method of procrastination when confrontation beckons.

Not today. He turns himself around and heads for the stairway, plucking his car keys off the hook and dropping them into the pocket of his knee-length camo shorts. Time to drive out to Stony Brook and pay a visit to the lately elusive Rainbow Dave. Time to find out what the actual fuck is going on.

Thirty minutes later, gravel crunching under the tires of his Prius, he parks next to Dave’s Mini in front of the brick townhouse. The windows are blank and the shades drawn, but the car at least indicates that Dave is at home.

Len rings the bell and waits, then knocks again. Motion in his peripheral vision draws his eye toward a second story window, but the sun glaring off the glass makes it hard to see if a finger has parted the blinds. A moment later, he hears footsteps, and the door opens just wide enough to frame Dave’s haggard, sun dazzled face. It’s impossible to tell if he’s dressed or not behind the door, but he appears to have recently peeled himself off some horizontal surface—his eyes crusty slits, his mohawk dim and dusty, a growth of stubble threatening to overtake what looks to have been a recent lizard-shaped buzz.

“Hey man. Sorry if I woke you.”

“Len.” Dave’s voice is flat, but his chapped lips curl into a half-smile. “What are you doing here?”

Dave looks beyond him at the cars in the driveway, and for a second his gaze flits across the trees that serve as a privacy screen between the house and the road. Watching his young friend’s skeptical expression, Len gets the sense that Dave is either searching for some threat he imagines Len may have brought with him or processing the environment outside his door with a degree of disbelief, as if he can’t imagine there should be such things as trees and sunlight and motor vehicles and a whole world of other people beyond his dark den.

“You haven’t answered my emails,” Len says. “Figured I’d stop by and make sure you’re all right. Are you? Because I gotta say, dude: you look a bit off, to put it blunt.”

“Yeah, no. I’m fine. Just been crazy busy.”

“Oh? I thought things might settle down a bit for you after the game release. Congrats, by the way. No rest for the wicked, huh?”

Dave just nods, letting the conversation stall.

“I looked into the Mote for you, like I said I would. Poked around. Found some crazy rumors about malign hackers using it to mess with people’s brains and cause suicide attempts and stuff.”

“Wow. That’s pretty crazy.”

“No doubt. But that was it, just rumors. Nothing I could pin down. The weirdest part is that after all that buzz about it last spring, it just stopped. Like whoever was behind it got what they wanted out of it or got spooked by the attention and pulled the plug. It’s even hard to find old threads about it now. How about you? Did you ever see it again?”

“No. No, I don’t know what that was. I appreciate you looking into it, though. But yeah, I honestly forgot all about it. Just been so busy.”

“Right. What are you working on now?”

“The show, always the show, and, uh… toys. I’m putting together a little tour. So yeah, busy. Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but yeah, no need to worry. I appreciate you dropping by, but I should get back to it.”

The door swings toward the frame, but Len catches it on the rubber of a size thirteen sneaker, stopping it dead. The gesture is effortless and undramatic, and he follows it up with a smile. “Hey man, I always make time for you. Can you give me a minute? Ten tops, then I’ll be out of your hair. There’s something else you need to hear about. Can I come in?”

For a tense second, there’s a struggle played out on Dave’s face. But there is no good reason to say no—not one he can come up with on the spot after the exchange they’ve had so far, anyway. He nods and withdraws, allowing Len to push through the door and step into the foyer.

The place smells like a restaurant dumpster the day before the truck comes. There are takeout containers and pizza boxes piled around the living room, but not enough festering food to account for the cloying ripeness in the air. Len pinches his nose and suppresses the urge to retch. “Damn, dude. You should kill the AC and open a window once in a while.”

“Yeah, I need to take out the trash,” Dave says, registering the big man’s discomfort with—is that a flicker of satisfaction? Of hope that the smell might keep him from getting comfortable and maybe drive him away sooner?

Without offering a place to sit or a cool drink—which Len wouldn’t take him up on anyway; he doesn’t want anything from Dave’s fridge—Dave folds his arms over his chest and says, “So what’s up? What do I need to hear?”

“You got somebody to code the back channel on the game after all, didn’t you? After I told you not to, you did it anyway. You went and put in a secret message channel.”

“Hey, back off, Len. Whose game is it, anyway?”

“I thought I explained the risk. The trouble it could lead to.”

Dave, in a maroon Gryffindor bath robe, turns away and paces the room, scratching distractedly at the lizard tail running down the back of his head while Len takes a closer look at the detritus of his friend’s hermit lifestyle. A sleek black visor with clear lenses catches his eye, perched atop the entertainment center. Absent the layer of dust that coats most of the objects in the room, it practically gleams.

“Geez, Len. You know, I ask a lot of people for advice, and I appreciate yours, I do. And I pay you well for it. But just because I ask for it doesn’t mean I’m always going to take it, and last I checked you’re not my lawyer.”

Len takes a step toward the entertainment center, absorbing the details of the strange glasses while Dave’s back is turned to him. There’s a symbol engraved on the side: three interlocked triangles. Where has he seen that before? The symbol tickles some memory, enough to make it stir in its sleep, but not enough to wake it. Dave turns toward him, and Len instinctively averts his eyes.

“Well?” Dave says. “Was there?”

“What?” Pondering the headset, he missed whatever Dave said last. That symbol is ringing discordant chimes that hang from strings connected to things he can’t recall.

“Was there something you heard about Rainblocks messages that prompted you to come over and crawl up my butt about it?”

“Yes. I got an email from a schoolteacher. He doesn’t know for sure that it’s you on the other end, but he’s concerned about anonymous text and video in the game. The kid’s mother is, too.”

“What kid? Who?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I haven’t answered him yet. I wanted to talk to you first, find out what the hell you’re up to. They’re not threatening legal action, not yet. But depending on how much of this kinda thing you’ve engaged in, I doubt they’ll be the last. You should shut it down.”

Fury sparks in Dave’s eyes for a split second, but then he laughs. “It’s going to be the game of the year. I am not shutting it down. Period.”

“Not the game, the message channel. What do you need it for, anyway?”

Dave collapses backward onto the couch in exasperation. The leather hisses on impact and his eyes settle on the headset directly across the room. He subtly stiffens, looks at Len, and says, “It’s not like… Whatever, I’ll deactivate it. I only used it to reward some of the better players with a bit of face-to-face, and that phase of the rollout is done. I don’t need it anymore. I just sent them prizes, anyway. You made your point.” Dave runs a finger across his chapped bottom lip, thinking. Len wonders if he’s taking care of himself at all. He looks dehydrated. And that smell. “Thank you. You can go.”

Len scoffs and turns to the door, still shaking his shaggy head.

“Len. Wait.”

He looks back.

“I’m sorry. I’m just under a lot of pressure. With the tour and all. It’s my own fault. I keep upping the ante, trying to maximize the impact of all this while it’s hot. I know it’s not gonna last forever. I’m sorry if I’m being a dick. I know you’re just looking out for me.”

“’Kay. See you around, Dave.”

“Do me a favor and forward me that email? I’d like to put their minds at ease.”

Len sighs at this and hikes up his shorts. A fly buzzes at his ear. He waves it away. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, dude. You don’t want to cop to anything in writing.”

“Then I won’t answer it. I’d still like to know who to watch out for. Okay?”

Len nods. He doesn’t want to make any promises, doesn’t want to get caught in the middle of anything, but fears he already is. “Take care of yourself, bro. Try to unplug once in a while. And for fuck’s sake, take out that trash and buy some fresh groceries.”

Dave winces at the profanity. “Right.”