But before the face didn’t match, and now it did.
He opened his mouth to say something, but the mechanism of lungs and voicebox and mouth wasn’t working.
‘Don’t bother,’ Daed said. ‘I would be surprised if you had anything to say. Anything worth saying, that is.’
He was right. Finally Rick heard himself say, ‘You hit me.’
There was a pause, but not a long one. Daed said, ‘Yes. And?’
Rick looked at him.
‘Yes,’ Daed said again. ‘I did. You deserved it. I think we can agree on that. Am I right?’ He asked as if he didn’t know the answer; so it was surprise as much as anything that made Rick respond.
‘Yes, Daed.’ In spite of himself he meant it.
‘Good,’ Daed said, but he didn’t sound pleased. He didn’t sound anything , come to that. ‘Was that all?’
Rick stared into his face, wondering — not for the first time — who Daed was, how old he was, where he’d come from. He swallowed. He didn’t want to think like that; he was happier when he tried not to think at all, when he told himself Daed was just Daed, always snide, always right. He wanted to burst into tears. He wanted to tell Daed what it was like to wake up ill and alone in his bed, to ask for meds and food and get turned down, to be locked out of the Maze. Somehow he thought that — after all — Daed might understand. But he didn’t want Daed to understand. He said, ‘No. Do you have any food?’
Daed made a strange sound, like a laugh. He turned away and sat down at his desk. He was running his fingers over his flatscreen, creating a mesh of lines, a glowing hypnotic pattern. After five seconds he said, without looking up, ‘On the shelf. If you’re that hungry.’
Rick looked over his shoulder and there was a tall plastic cup, full of something viscous and brown: a P&V shake, like the one they’d given Rick. There was a drinking straw stuck in it, like an insult. Rick’s stomach heaved. He said, ‘I’m not drinking that. I want green tea and proper food.’ Silence. Finally he said, ‘Please.’
Daed didn’t react. His fingers traced shapes on the flatscreen, weaving filaments of light together. He dragged everything sideways, started again with an empty frame.
Rick said, ‘Why did you order that ?’
‘Basic rations,’ Daed said. His hands were building another pattern, fluently. ‘That’s what everyone eats, Rick. In the real world we’d be lucky to get that.’
‘Yeah, but it’s disgusting —’
‘I didn’t order it,’ Daed said, and the mesh on his flatscreen grew and grew. ‘I’ve had my food credits withdrawn. As have you, I imagine.’
‘You . . . ?’
Daed didn’t say anything else. His pattern spread and flowered, and Rick realised that it was exactly the same as the last one. Daed dragged it sideways and started again.
Rick said, ‘ You ’ve had your food credits withdrawn.’
‘I have access to basic rations,’ Daed said, as if it didn’t interest him much. ‘We won’t starve. Yet.’
‘But —’ Rick stopped, waited for Daed to interrupt him. But Daed didn’t look up; he just went on constructing the same pattern over and over on his flatscreen. Rick stared at the glimmering blue lines, willing Daed to come up with something new. But he didn’t.
Rick licked his lips and tasted dryness. He said, concentrating on the consonants, ‘Why have they taken away your food credits?’
‘You know what Paz is like when she’s annoyed about something,’ Daed said, as if this happened every day, as if it was no big deal. It was only his fingers, flickering uselessly over the screen, that gave him away.
Rick took a deep breath; there was a grey, blank panic threatening to take him over. He looked up at the lights in the ceiling, but even the silver-blue neon didn’t help. It was like he was seeing everything through a fog. He didn’t want to move, or speak. He wished he could just . . . disperse.
‘Daed,’ he said, and let the silence stretch until Daed
He opened his mouth to say something, but the mechanism of lungs and voicebox and mouth wasn’t working.
‘Don’t bother,’ Daed said. ‘I would be surprised if you had anything to say. Anything worth saying, that is.’
He was right. Finally Rick heard himself say, ‘You hit me.’
There was a pause, but not a long one. Daed said, ‘Yes. And?’
Rick looked at him.
‘Yes,’ Daed said again. ‘I did. You deserved it. I think we can agree on that. Am I right?’ He asked as if he didn’t know the answer; so it was surprise as much as anything that made Rick respond.
‘Yes, Daed.’ In spite of himself he meant it.
‘Good,’ Daed said, but he didn’t sound pleased. He didn’t sound anything , come to that. ‘Was that all?’
Rick stared into his face, wondering — not for the first time — who Daed was, how old he was, where he’d come from. He swallowed. He didn’t want to think like that; he was happier when he tried not to think at all, when he told himself Daed was just Daed, always snide, always right. He wanted to burst into tears. He wanted to tell Daed what it was like to wake up ill and alone in his bed, to ask for meds and food and get turned down, to be locked out of the Maze. Somehow he thought that — after all — Daed might understand. But he didn’t want Daed to understand. He said, ‘No. Do you have any food?’
Daed made a strange sound, like a laugh. He turned away and sat down at his desk. He was running his fingers over his flatscreen, creating a mesh of lines, a glowing hypnotic pattern. After five seconds he said, without looking up, ‘On the shelf. If you’re that hungry.’
Rick looked over his shoulder and there was a tall plastic cup, full of something viscous and brown: a P&V shake, like the one they’d given Rick. There was a drinking straw stuck in it, like an insult. Rick’s stomach heaved. He said, ‘I’m not drinking that. I want green tea and proper food.’ Silence. Finally he said, ‘Please.’
Daed didn’t react. His fingers traced shapes on the flatscreen, weaving filaments of light together. He dragged everything sideways, started again with an empty frame.
Rick said, ‘Why did you order that ?’
‘Basic rations,’ Daed said. His hands were building another pattern, fluently. ‘That’s what everyone eats, Rick. In the real world we’d be lucky to get that.’
‘Yeah, but it’s disgusting —’
‘I didn’t order it,’ Daed said, and the mesh on his flatscreen grew and grew. ‘I’ve had my food credits withdrawn. As have you, I imagine.’
‘You . . . ?’
Daed didn’t say anything else. His pattern spread and flowered, and Rick realised that it was exactly the same as the last one. Daed dragged it sideways and started again.
Rick said, ‘ You ’ve had your food credits withdrawn.’
‘I have access to basic rations,’ Daed said, as if it didn’t interest him much. ‘We won’t starve. Yet.’
‘But —’ Rick stopped, waited for Daed to interrupt him. But Daed didn’t look up; he just went on constructing the same pattern over and over on his flatscreen. Rick stared at the glimmering blue lines, willing Daed to come up with something new. But he didn’t.
Rick licked his lips and tasted dryness. He said, concentrating on the consonants, ‘Why have they taken away your food credits?’
‘You know what Paz is like when she’s annoyed about something,’ Daed said, as if this happened every day, as if it was no big deal. It was only his fingers, flickering uselessly over the screen, that gave him away.
Rick took a deep breath; there was a grey, blank panic threatening to take him over. He looked up at the lights in the ceiling, but even the silver-blue neon didn’t help. It was like he was seeing everything through a fog. He didn’t want to move, or speak. He wished he could just . . . disperse.
‘Daed,’ he said, and let the silence stretch until Daed
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