Gamers Con: The First Zak Steepleman Novel by Dave Bakers

her tone sounding a little muffled, almost as if she was trying not to be overheard on the other end.
    For just the fleetingest of moments, I wondered if—maybe—she was in some sort of a hostage-taking situation, and whether she might be choosing to call me as her only phone call.
    Calling the police—or at least Dad—might’ve been a better option.
    “How’re you getting on?” she said.
    “Uh,” I said, eyeing the neon-green numbers that counted us down the floors, and which was now approaching zero, “now’s not a great time—I’m about to start into the Second Round of the Grand Tournament. And they make us hand in our mobiles before play.”
    “Oh,” she said, “I thought you already won?”
    I shook my head as the lift came to a halt and the doors shifted back before me to reveal the sprawling masses of people still reaming through the conference centre.
    There were more people than I’d thought who’d come along to spectate on the Second Round of the Grand Tournament—that sent a slight quiver through my gut, made me feel just a little uneasy about things.
    But I tried to shuck the feeling.
    “Can I, uh . . .” I said, eyeing the signs, trying to get my bearings, and not to think about the fifteen minutes-plus that I was running late.
    I hoped that I wasn’t going to get punished for it.
    Not docked points or kicked out of the competition all together . . . and all that because I couldn’t keep my curiosity to myself—I simply had to get my hands dirty with that video game, just had to confront that Cloaked Figure.
    I kicked on through the crowds, only remembering that Mum was on the other line when I heard her breathing heavily. “Can I call you later? ” I said.
    Mum paused for a long while as I eyed the letters up above, remembering where we’d been told to meet up for the eight o’clock session.
    I could feel Dad right on the backs of my heels and I was aware that if I slowed down—even a tiny bit —he might drag his toes all the way down the backs of my legs.
    Finally, Mum answered, “Sure,” she said. “I should be up till about ten, like always.”
    I nodded to myself, again forgetting that technology—and mobile phone infrastructure—hadn’t quite yet reached the point where video calls were the norm.
    “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”
    “Love you,” she said.
    I dropped my tone of voice, partially because of the public setting—the people flooding all around me—and partially because I saw that we’d arrived, got to just where I needed to be.
    “Love you too,” I said, right as I saw the great, big sign which stood in front of the cordoned-off section to where I needed to be.
    The sign which read:
    No Entry

 
     
     
    20
     
     
    MY GRIP WEAKENED so much that I almost let my mobile slip right through my fingers . . . and from what I’d seen of other people dropping their mobiles, I knew that wouldn’t be the best thing for it.
    Something at the back of my brain snapped at me to cling on, and I did.
    But only just.
    I felt hot from all the running . . . okay, jogging . . . that me and Dad had just done, but I felt strangely cold inside, as if somebody had transfused my blood with liquid nitrogen.
    I looked about, looked for some official to ask.
    One of those people in the dark-purple polo shirts.
    But there was nobody about.
    I looked to Dad, eyes wide, panicked out of my mind.
    He looked just as stumped by the sign as I was.
    . . . And then I remembered the All-Access Pass which hung around my neck.
    The pass which meant just what it said . . . All-Access . . .
    I took a look at the sign before me, glanced about, and then I shifted on past it.
    I thought that I could hear my dad saying something—him calling out to me—but there wasn’t time.
    When I caught sight of a clock up on the wall, I saw that it was already eight twenty.
    I was already twenty minutes late.
    I rushed onwards, tripping over a couple of the bases of the poles which carried the