The Assassin Game Page 16

  Ooh. Everyone has registered! There’s a complete user list on the news feed:

  Grand Master

  CharlotteCorday

  DeadMcTavish

  I_did_it

  Banana Hammock

  AllKillerNoFiller

  13*is*my*lucky*number

  IceColdBlond

  General Disarray

  Clouseau

  Skulk

  Smee

  Becky_is_Dead

  RAW

  sooperdooper

  Nimrod

  Hmm…this Game just got even more crazy—crazy good. I chew on a thumbnail and study my screen. Who’s who? Grand Master is obviously Alex. I think sooperdooper is Anvi, because she’s always saying “sooper”…unless it’s a bluff. Becky_is_Dead is clearly a bluff; Becky herself would never do that in a million years. I suspect RAW is Becky, because it’s her initials, and I doubt she would bother putting much effort into her username now she’s dead and effectively out of the Game.

  But other than those two, I haven’t got a clue who everyone is. Apart from me, of course.

  Wait—I count the names: sixteen of them. That’s not right. Thirteen Guild members and one Grand Master, that’s how it should be—oh no. There’s Vaughan now too. But that still only makes fifteen in total. Somebody has registered twice. Is that allowed? Some kind of error? I make a mental note to ask Vaughan later.

  Right, better get on with some actual homework.

  I’m only minutes into researching art nouveau when Guild IMs begin to pop up.

  Smee

  Who got a wristband, then?

  sooperdooper

  Yeah, fess up!!!

  Grand Master

  No telling online, folks. Otherwise, we can connect usernames to Guild members and your covers will be blown.

  sooperdooper

  Oh yeah, never thought of that!! Or perhaps it was all part of my plan…mwah–ha-ha-ha!!!

  Yeah, sooperdooper is definitely Anvi; all those headache-inducing exclamation marks. I read the messages as they come in and write a couple. It feels totally decadent. Then Alex messages us again.

  Grand Master

  Check out my new posting on Crypt for details on the lucky winners.

  Ack. I glance at the clock on my laptop and reluctantly log out. I’m longing to read who my fellow invincibles are, but I’ve only got forty minutes of Internet time remaining and a lot of work to do. I was checking Guild members out at tea, looking for another red snake, but I couldn’t see anyone wearing one. I had pushed mine up my sleeve because I didn’t know if it was wise to have it on display yet. After tea, I exited the hall and Alex whispered in my ear—no, in fact, he hissed, nothing else, just one long “hissssss!” Just like a snake. I nodded at him, and he left, grinning.

  Damn. I have to log in to Crypt again. Just a peek. With a quick glance to see that no one is looking my way, I type in my password and go to the home page. Sure enough, there’s a new post:

  INVINCIBILITY CLAIMED!

  I AM ECSTATIC TO ANNOUNCE THAT ALL OF THE RED WRISTBANDS HAVE NOW BEEN DUG UP FROM THEIR SANDY GRAVES! THERE ARE THREE IN PLAY AND THREE ONLY. THE LUCKY PLAYERS ARE:

  ANVI

  MARTIN

  CATE

  WEAR YOUR BANDS. WEAR THEM WITH PRIDE. YOU HAVE THE WEEK TO RELAX…BUT USE THIS TIME TO GATHER INTEL ON YOUR FELLOW PLAYERS FOR THE VOTE NEXT WEEKEND.

  AND REMEMBER…JUST BECAUSE THE PLAYERS ABOVE HAVE BANDS, IT DOESN’T MEAN THEY’RE NOT THE KILLER!!!

  LOVE, YOUR GRAND MASTER XOXOX

  Martin! The little weasel. Said he didn’t have a band when I met him at the caves. Was he telling the truth? Or is it possible he found it afterward?

  I go back to my art homework but keep logged in, and the IMs ping every few seconds. Everyone is excited, chatting about who found the bands and who didn’t, but trying not to reveal identities at the same time. It’s really distracting, because I want to study the chatter, try and guess who everyone is from the personalities emerging. sooperdooper is excitable; Smee is a character of few words; General Disarray is sarcastic, superior. And of course, I’m checking out who is at the other computer terminals around me in the library, watching who is typing and when, and if anyone is giggling or making faces at the messages. All the Guild members are here—except Vaughan… I haven’t seen him—but on another night, we could all be in our studies or elsewhere on the map, online. I see now how this tracking thing is going to be invaluable to guess who’s who. As far as I can make out, all users are contributing to the conversation, including the extra user, whoever that might be. The only one who isn’t posting is me. I write a couple quick IMs to avoid standing out.

  Suddenly, I sense a pressure change in the room; a teacher has walked into the library.

  A couple teachers are on duty every evening, and they do the rounds to check that everybody is actually working. It’s Ms. Lasillo tonight. Head of computer studies. Damn. If anyone is going to notice something amiss with the IMs, it’s her. A palpable wave of dread runs through the room. IMs ping out, like little birds warning each other of the arrival of a sparrow hawk. And that’s a good description of Ms. Lasillo. Small, sharp, with quick eyes and a quicker brain. She does a lap of the main room, past the workers at the reading tables, barely seeming to look at everyone’s screens, but you can bet that she’s checking what everyone is looking at, and if anything extracurricular is going on, she will strike. I’ve seen it in action: someone pulls a hack and logs on to a social media site, and they are toast. It’s Lasillo’s job to police all of this; she puts the gatekeepers in place, and when someone finds a crack in her coding, she comes down hard on them.

  Click-clack, click-clack.

  Suddenly, Lasillo’s heels are on the stairs behind me. I quickly log out of Crypt and return to my work.

  “Arse!” Carl mutters under his breath. He’s my nearest neighbor, at a desk to the left of me, but still a good three or four yards away.

  I see him try to hit a few keys, but by the look on his face something has gone wrong. I can’t see his screen from my seat, but Ms. Lasillo will be able to in a few seconds.

  I get up, a book in hand. Then, as I pass the back of his desk, I fumble and drop it on the floor. As I duck down, Ms. Lasillo approaches from the top of the stairs. I quickly pull the cable out of the screen of the desktop. Ms. Lasillo is passing behind Carl. She stops in her tracks.

  “Carl?” she says. “Is there something wrong with your machine?”

  “What?” Carl looks up, as if disturbed from some deep thought. “Oh, sorry, Ms. Lasillo, no—I just switched the screen off to avoid the glare while I was reading.”

  Ms. Lasillo frowns. “Fine. Well, remember to switch it on again for the next person when you’re finished, yes?”

  Carl smiles. “Of course. Thank you.”

  Ms. Lasillo peers over at me, where I’m still crouching on the floor. “Have you fainted, Cate?”

  “No, Ms. Lasillo.” Something about her always makes me prickle. “Just dropped my book.”

  She tuts and shakes her head, like I’m the clumsiest oaf in the world. “I’m sure you have some work to be doing, Cate. Please get up and get back to it.”

  I’m sorely tempted to tell her to go jump out of the window, but there has been enough blood spilt in the quad…for now. Plus, she’s pals with Mr. Flynn, and if he finds out I’ve given her lip, I won’t hear the end of it from him.

  I nod my head and straighten up, and she trots off to the next workstation.

  “Thank you,” mouths Carl. I wink at him, then return to my desk. Lasillo is still walking around, but I can’t resist logging back in to Crypt.

  Skulk

  Nice work, Cate.

  My hands hover over the keys, ready to shoot off a reply—argh! I stop myself in time. If I re
spond, everyone will know my username.

  So, Skulk saw what went down with Carl? I fight the urge to look around the room but visualize where everyone is sitting. Who would have a good enough view of what just happened? Is Skulk Carl? He’s the only one who could actually know what I did. I glance at him. He seems preoccupied with a book, not even looking at his screen. The cable I unplugged is still on the floor. He’s not risking fiddling with it until Ms. Lasillo is out of the room. So that means Skulk can’t be him, doesn’t it? I suppose he could, in theory, write an IM with no working screen—the computer itself is still on, the keyboard connected—but it’s a bit of a stretch.

  Nobody is responding to Skulk’s message, too afraid that whatever they write will identify them, in the very least as Not Carl and Not Cate.

  Another message pops up:

  Skulk

  *slow clap*

  I take a breath. He or she is trying to taunt me now, trying to make me say something. They’re also running the risk that Ms. Lasillo will see an IM, because she’s still here, although currently rummaging through some oversized books in the back corner. Any moment now and she’ll probably be making her way back toward the stairs and past the workstations.

  “What did I miss?”

  Vaughan plops down on the seat beside me.

  “God, I wish people would stop doing that,” I mutter, hand on my heart.

  “What, talking to you?” Vaughan whispers. “I’m sure it can be arranged.”

  I turn around in my seat and look at him. “When you said you can’t tell who users are, were you telling me the truth?”

  Vaughan looks surprised. “Of course. Why would I lie to you?”

  I sigh. “Oh, to save me from myself, perhaps. Because you would know that at some point I’d start asking you who everyone was.”

  “Sorry, mate.” He chuckles at me, leans over, and ruffles my hair. It’s supremely annoying, just like it was when we were eight. “Other than using my excellent powers of deduction, I really can’t tell who each user is.” He nods at my screen. “Who do you want to know about?”

  I shake my head, move my hand to the mouse, and close my IM down quickly. “Nobody. It doesn’t matter.”

  Vaughan looks disappointed. “Aw. Don’t want to share any more theories?” He bats his eyelashes at me. “I was so looking forward to you being Watson to my Holmes.”

  “Yeah, I can see that you would be.” I hesitate. “You’ve noticed, of course, that there’s one too many users.”

  He nods, green eyes smiling. “Adds an extra something, doesn’t it?”

  I frown. “People can do that? Make more than one profile?”

  He pulls a face. “I didn’t put any limit on it initially. Somebody took advantage, and now they have an alter ego.” He runs his hands through his black curls. “But the Elders noticed and asked me to change things so that no one else can do that. Makes sense, I guess. After all, only one of us is living a double life in the Game.”

  “You think the person with two usernames is the Killer?”

  He shrugs. “Would be a good move, wouldn’t it?”

  I don’t answer, but inside I’m thinking: Skulk, Skulk…it has to be. I pack my bag, giving up any hope of achieving anything more on my computer. I’ll work in my study and do the rest of the online stuff tomorrow. As I stand up, Vaughan grabs my hand.

  “Relax. Enjoy. You’re safe.” He rubs his thumb up the inside of my wrist. The touch sends electricity up the inside of my arm. “You have the wristband after all.” He snags it with his thumb, and I pull away, embarrassed.

  “Yeah, safe.” I throw my bag over my shoulder, unable to meet his eyes, and scuttle down the stairs and out of the library as fast as I can.

  It’s only when I’m back in my room, sitting at my desk, door locked, that I allow myself to breathe again.

  Chapter 15

  Monday morning, Tuesday morning, Wednesday morning…and I’m breathing easy.

  I love being safe. The little red snake around my wrist feels wonderful. Guild members eye it, some with envy. One of them is looking at it and mentally crossing me off their hit list—for this week.

  The Game is buzzing. I begin to live for screen time. Crypt is the place to be. Players are posting stuff constantly—jokes, theories, even pictures. Analyzing clues. Having fun. And part of that fun is keeping in the loop while keeping your username private and not letting any non-Guild in on the secret.

  Suddenly, no Internet is no big deal. My personal devices are connected to the school intranet and I can get on to Crypt whenever I like, as long as I’m in range of the Umfraville Wi-Fi. There’s a mad increase of Guild members carrying around tablets at all times, chuckling at them in lessons, lounging around with open laptops in the quad, trying to pick up a signal in the pottery studio or in the toilets. The staff must think we’ve all become very industrious. We’ll have to be careful.

  But Vaughan is on point. By Tuesday afternoon, there’s a post on Crypt from him.

  Greetings, assassins. This is your webmaster.

  Please click on the link below to download this simple yet highly addictive game onto your personal machines. Once downloaded, in the event of an emergency, this game can be toggled to hide any Game IMs or Crypt page you might be viewing.

  Yours prophylactically, Vaughan

  I have to smile. He’s smart, that boy. I click on the link, and before long I’m playing a bright and obnoxious matching game called Kreepy Klowns.

  The days pass with no Kills. Perhaps the Killer is too busy matching lines of clown faces and bantering online on Crypt. Perhaps one of us with immunity is next on their list, and they don’t want to waver from the plan. Perhaps they’re enjoying heightening the fun by lulling everyone into a false sense of security.

  But then on Thursday, the fun starts to sour.

  I don’t see it coming at all; I’ve had a good day. Swimming has been replaced by a choice of yoga or hockey, and I’m all about the om. I have double art, and art history winds up the day with the batty but charming Miss Biddulph. I’m coming out of class, chatting to Whitney and laughing about which Kreepy Klowns level we’re on, when Anvi comes running up to us, peroxide blond hair bouncing in her usual ponytail.

  “Where have you been?” Her brown cheeks are flushed scarlet, dark eyes wild beneath the long fringe.

  “Art history.” Whitney looks at her friend as if to say, er, duh.

  “Not you. Her.” Anvi nods at me. “Have you seen it yet, on Crypt? Everybody’s talking.”

  My heart sinks. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.

  “Spill the beans, you tease!” Whitney says.

  Anvi doesn’t answer, just grabs my arm painfully, looks from side to side and marches me around the corner of the main block of classrooms. She whips out a tablet.

  “Should pick up the Wi-Fi here.” She swipes away Kreepy Klowns and Crypt pops up. “Look!” she urges me. I do. Nothing untoward, just a news feed of various posts… She scrolls down. There’s a box with an arrow.

  “Cool.” Whitney is looking over my shoulder. “Someone uploaded a video?”

  Someone did. Anvi taps the arrow, and the video begins to play.

  It’s very dark. The picture is blurred. For a moment I think it’s the caves, and I wonder why Anvi’s showing it to me specifically. It’s obviously something to do with the Game.

  The cameraperson (female?) chuckles a little as the focus comes in and out. We’re not in the cave, but that’s water, isn’t it? Then…stairs? Two blurred figures. Ah! It’s the grandstand at the swimming pool.

  Oh. Oh please, no.

  This is nothing to do with the Game. But everything to do with me.

  The camera zooms in, and in spite of the dim lighting, it’s easy to see what the two figures are doing. Kissi
ng. Arms wrapped around each other, one on top of the other. The one on top stops for a minute, throws back her head, and laughs. The one on the bottom laughs too.

  Me and Daniel. Nope, nope, nope…

  I’m vaguely aware of Whitney suppressing a gasp in my ear. Anvi’s not so subtle. The tablet is shaking as she giggles. I snatch it.

  “Hey!” Anvi grabs at it, trying to get it back, but I hug it to me.

  “Who posted this?” I shout at her.

  She shrugs, face passive. “Smee.”

  Great. Smee, one of the users who I have no clue about. I have little sense of whether they’re friend or foe, male or female, Killer or not. One thing I do know about them now, however: I know they’re not Daniel.

  “Smee better damn well delete this!” I shove the tablet back at Anvi, poking her in the chest with it. “And if you know who they are, make sure they get the message from me!”

  “Don’t get your big girl pants in a twist,” Anvi says. “Be thankful that this actually makes you interesting for a change. Momentarily.”

  “Really, Anvi?” I step up to her. “You find this interesting? Interesting enough to post?” I push her shoulders. She’s half my size but hard as nails, and she doesn’t budge.

  “Stop!” Whitney steps in. “You need to calm down, Cate. You know Anvi had nothing to do with this.” She looks at Anvi. “You didn’t, did you?”

  “No!” Anvi says, revolted.

  “Great,” Whitney says, turning to me. “Rise above it. Talk to Vaughan or Alex and get it taken down. After all, it’s seriously Off-Topic when it comes to the Game. Nobody’s going to care about old gossip after a day or two.”