Level 13, p.3
Level 13, page 3
We parachuted to the mountainside through a howling blizzard and skied through dense forest, our backpacks stuffed with high explosives. The factory was heavily guarded, but we didn’t dare use our guns. Any loud noise would bring dozens of soldiers down upon us.
As I crept up behind a sentry, my knife in my teeth, I couldn’t help noticing that my followers had already zoomed up to six. I even had my first comment on the message feed. It read: This stream rocks!!! Oh—my heart sank a little—that was from Pavel. But it still counted. And anyway, I’d have more comments than I knew what to do with when I blew the Vemork plant sky-high.
“I hope nobody minds the sight of a little blood, because look out,” I told my followers, twirling the joystick. In the game, that operated my Mark II combat knife.
A loud pounding at the door shook the house. It broke my concentration so suddenly that I lifted three inches off the couch and one of the gummy worms almost went down the wrong pipe. On the screen, a sentry smacked my knife away with the barrel of his machine gun and brought the butt down on my head. The Norwegian forest began to spin as my character went down in the snow. Choking and spitting, I barely managed to pause the game before being surrounded and captured by the enemy.
The pounding went on upstairs. “Cam! It’s me! Let me in!” I recognized Chuck’s voice.
“Go away!” I shouted.
In horror, I realized my mistake. What if my followers thought I wanted them to leave? “Not you guys!” I babbled, as the counter clicked down until there were only two people left. “I—I—we’re experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by!” And GameFox229 went offline.
Still choking a little, I raced upstairs with murder in my heart. I threw open the door and glared out at Chuck. “You idiot—”
My tantrum fizzled as my eyes fell on the pet carrier in his arms. Brown fur, beady eyes, big buckteeth. “Wait a minute. Is that—?”
“Elvis,” Chuck finished, inviting himself inside, beaver and all. “I wanted you to see him. He really is too skinny, right?” He frowned. “What’s up with the mask?”
I didn’t hit him. I deserved a lot of credit for that. “I’m starting the new stream today, remember? At least I was trying to before fifty percent of Duckne showed up with a stupid rodent!” I wheeled on him and raced back downstairs to my streaming setup. Zero followers. They were all gone, even Pavel.
“Sorry, Cam.” Chuck followed behind me, shamefaced. “It’s just that Daphne’s really upset. I want to be a good boyfriend, but what do I know about beavers? Fat beavers, thin beavers—it’s all the same to me. Yeah, I guess Elvis looks kind of skinny, but maybe I just think that because I want to support Daph. I need your unbiased opinion.”
There was a rustling in the pet carrier. Elvis pressed his face up against the bars, staring at my screen, mesmerized by the colorful video game images. Yeah, sure, what did a beaver know? He had no idea he was looking at a frozen picture of my character being captured by guards outside a Nazi heavy water plant in 1942.
“I’m going back to my stream,” I told Chuck, my voice under tight control. “There may still be somebody watching—although I doubt it after you made me mess up. As for the skinny beaver, ask yourself if the kind of person who cares about that is someone you want to be. Because the Chuck Kinsey I know isn’t that kind of person. At least he wasn’t until he got himself mixed up in a ‘ship.’ ”
Chuck got quiet. “You’re picking on Daphne and I don’t appreciate it.”
“I’m not picking on Daphne,” I countered. “Daphne obsessing over Elvis is totally normal. What’s not normal is when you do it.”
“Fine. I’m leaving.”
“Make sure you close the door on your way out,” I called, settling myself back into streaming position, behind console and computer.
All the way up the stairs, Elvis’s eyes never left the screen. And when the carrier was hefted out of view, he protested with a high-pitched whine that sounded like a crying baby. I heard the door slam.
I felt bad about kicking out a friend, but these moments when I had the entire house to myself were prime streaming time. Chuck understood that as well as anybody.
As it was, I had my work cut out for me. I had to escape from the guard, who had a machine gun, while I had nothing but the thousands of hours I’d put into this game. A little-known hack—I held down the R and L buttons and tapped the on/off switch. Suddenly, my character whirled around and delivered a paralyzing kick. The sentry went down, but before he could shoot, my team of freedom fighters burst through the bushes and took him out.
“The mission is back on!” I narrated to my audience of zero.
No, wait—three of them were back! I stuffed fresh gummy worms into my cheeks and went to work. As we entered the Vemork plant, battling guards and planting explosive charges, I watched the counter of followers tick slowly upward: 5 … 8 … 11. Double digits! Okay, it was no 50,000, but this was only day one, after all. And I’d gotten off to a bad start back there in the forest.
I had comments, too—enough to fill an entire pane of my streaming screen. People were loving it! A few even wanted to know how I’d pulled off my spectacular escape. “Tricks of the trade,” I explained. “A magician never reveals his secrets.” With my fresh mouthful of gummy worms, the word came out “shecretsh” along with a dollop of spit on the carpet. I made a mental note to tell Mom Melody did it. Melody didn’t play video games anymore, so I’d have to be super convincing.
“Explosive charges placed and ready, sir,” my lieutenant reported.
What a triumph! To come back from capture to this glorious moment could be the greatest achievement of my entire gaming career. And to have it happen in front of my very first streaming audience made my heart swell with pride.
I was about to give the order to blow the place to smithereens, when I became aware of a sound I’d never heard before. It wasn’t loud exactly, but it was kind of grating, and close by, too—right outside the basement window. A rough noise, like people crushing crackers into their soup.
I took a few seconds to crane my neck and check it out. The delay could only add to the suspense of my followers who were waiting for the big kablooey.
At first, I saw nothing out the high window, but then I caught a glimpse of a broad, flat brown tail. There were two options: Either a duck-billed platypus had swum here from the east coast of Australia, or Elvis was back.
“Hang on a sec,” I told my viewers, slipping off the couch. It didn’t sound very Norwegian, but this was an emergency. I hoisted myself up to the windowsill and peered outside. It was the beaver, all right. He might not have been fat enough to suit Daphne Leibowitz, but he was making up for it by chewing on the cedar shakes that covered our wall.
The dilemma nearly tore me in two. On one hand was the Vemork heavy water plant, which had to go. The entire direction of the war depended on it. On the other, how could I sit by while a wild animal ate our house?
I paused the game again. It was going to cost me followers, but I couldn’t let Mom and Dad come home to find the back wall missing up to beaver height.
I ran outside and circled around the house to confront that little terrorist. “Scram! Bad beaver! Go home! Shoo!”
He must have thought I said chew, because he kept right on doing it, even when I stomped my foot on the ground right next to him. He was either fearless or stupid. Or it was possible that our house was really, really delicious.
I did the only thing I could think of: I picked him up. I guess I was hoping he’d run away when I reached for him. But Elvis was so used to having the P.A.G. around fussing over him that he wasn’t afraid of people anymore.
So what now? I felt like the dog who chases a car and has absolutely no idea what do when he catches it. I could only think of one thing: My audience was waiting. My game console was waiting. World War II was waiting. When I burst back into the house and down to the basement, the fact that I was still holding a beaver barely registered with me. I dumped Elvis on the floor, reinserted myself into the streaming spot, and unpaused the game.
“Showtime, folks!” I announced, and hit the button to detonate the charges.
The Vemork heavy water plant went up like the Fourth of July. It was everything I’d hoped for and more—a magnificent supernova of victory for the good guys. Only—the billowing smoke and flame cleared to reveal the counter. Zero. All my followers had deserted me again. The greatest, most amazing explosion in the annals of online gaming, and nobody was there to see it but me—and Elvis. The beaver had climbed up onto the couch and was watching with rapt interest.
“Go away,” I told him. “You ruined everything.”
He didn’t budge.
Fine, let him stay. At least when he was sitting here with me, he wasn’t devouring our house. I’d figure out what to do with him later—probably when Mom and Dad got home and found a giant rodent in their basement.
I started a new mission, determined to earn back some of my lost followers. Nobody was going to come between me and my lifestyle—especially not a dumb beaver.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. What was happening on the computer screen in front of me was (technically) impossible, but how could I ignore the evidence of my own eyes? Even when the doorbell rang, I backed up all the way to answer it so I wouldn’t miss anything.
Chuck stood on the doorstep, sweaty and disheveled, lugging an empty pet carrier. “What took you so long, man? I’m dead! I’m totally dead!”
“Calm down,” I soothed. “What’s the matter?”
“I lost Elvis!” he mourned. “Daphne’s going to kill me!”
“Come with me,” I told him.
“No, man!” He was practically hysterical. “I took Elvis over to Cam’s to get a second opinion on how skinny he is. But I didn’t close the cage right, and on the way back, he busted out and took off on me. I’ve been searching for the past hour. He’s capital-G Gone. Now Daphne just texted. She wants to meet at the habitat. What am I going to do?”
“Come,” I repeated, this time dragging him by the arm.
He stopped dead the minute he caught sight of the computer. It was logged on to the GameFox229 stream. On the screen, a battle scene raged on the rough terrain of a snow-covered mountainside. In the window to the left was the gamer himself—Cam in his Zorro mask, his fingers just a blur on the controller.
That wasn’t the incredible part.
What was really amazing was the second figure perched on the back of the sofa, staring over Cam’s shoulder in intense concentration. Nose wiggling, brown fur, buckteeth—
“Elvis!” Chuck practically howled. “What’s he doing at Cam’s?”
“He must have run back there when he escaped from the carrier,” I suggested.
“But why?”
“I’m no animal expert, but I think he likes video games. Look at his eyes. He’s following the action.” A rapid whump-whump-whump sounded over the audio. “And I think he slaps his tail when he gets excited.”
“Well, he can’t stay!” Chuck exclaimed. “Daphne’s meeting me at the habitat in fifteen minutes, and if there’s no Elvis, she’s going to freak.”
“Hey, check it out. The message feed is going crazy.” I leaned closer to the screen. Comments scrolled down the right side like a waterfall:
That doesn’t look like a GameFox or any other kind of fox …
What is it, a woodchuck?
It’s a beaver, stupid. Look at those teeth.
Don’t you recognize a capybara when you see one?
Beaver. Definitely beaver.
So why GameFOX?
It went on and on.
“Come on, Pavel,” Chuck wheedled. “You’ve got to help me.”
“Fine,” I agreed. “But you have to admit it isn’t every streamer who’s got a beaver hanging over his shoulder like he’s coaching.”
“Pa-vel!” He was already at the door.
I couldn’t resist rubbing it in. “You must be really scared of Daphne. You know, technically, healthy relationships shouldn’t be based on fear. On the other hand, your girlfriend is kind of scary—”
“You wouldn’t let me tell Daphne what’s going on with Cam’s streaming life,” he shot back defiantly. “Well, this is part of that. If she gets the whole P.A.G. searching for Elvis …”
He had me there. Cam was keeping a secret, and the last thing he needed was Daphne nosing around.
We got on our bikes and pedaled to the Boxer home.
Melody answered the door. “Oh, hi. He’s playing video games, big surprise.” Her eyes found the pet carrier in Chuck’s arms. “What’s that for?”
“This?” Chuck held it up. “How did this get here?”
Melody was instantly alert. She stormed down the stairs. “Cam, why are Frick and Frack up there with—”
An earsplitting scream tore through the house. Chuck dropped the carrier in shock. It hit the floor and the door popped open. A split second later, a streak of brown flashed up the stairs and into the cage. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost swear that Elvis was trying to close the door behind himself.
I reached down and latched it. “Go!” I hissed.
Chuck didn’t have to be told twice. Daphne was probably already on her way to the habitat.
We got back on our bikes and rode for the woods on the edge of town where the P.A.G. had built the beaver lodge. Chuck had the extra responsibility of balancing the carrier on his lap, bashing it with his knees as he pedaled. He looked terrified—but not half as terrified as Elvis had to be after that shriek had rousted him from his perch on the couch.
As we dropped our bikes by the path that led into the woods, a terrible sight greeted us: another bike. A pink one.
“Daphne,” Chuck croaked.
“This is where the whole ‘ship’ thing gets you,” I lectured. “I don’t have a girlfriend, and as you can see, I’m totally cool, calm, and collected. But look at you. You’re a wreck.”
“What do we do?” Chuck pleaded.
I let him suffer for a couple of minutes. “All right,” I said finally. “I’ll go in and distract her and you sneak Elvis in the back way.”
He was pathetically grateful.
With Chuck and the beaver keeping well behind and out of sight, I started into the woods. “Daphne!” I called. “Daphne, is that your bike?”
And there she was, stopped in the trail ahead of me, barely fifty feet from the creek where the P.A.G. had established Elvis’s habitat. Another thirty seconds and Chuck would have been up that creek without a paddle.
I looked at her critically—the girl who had turned Chuck into a boyfriend. Call me crazy, but I actually saw it for a split second. She was petite, with a nice smile and big green eyes—or maybe they were just magnified behind her glasses.
“Oh, hi, Pavel,” she greeted me. “Is Chuck with you?”
“No, he went ahead,” I told her. “He was really anxious to get here.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement in the bushes off to my left as Chuck outflanked us en route to the habitat. I heard a thud and a muffled “oof!” (Good old Chucky never graduated ninja school.)
“What was that?” Daphne asked.
“Woodpeckers,” I supplied, thinking on my feet.
I made sure to slow our pace to just above a crawl, so by the time we reached the habitat, there was Chuck, standing on the bank, watching Elvis paddling around happily.
Duckne had a reunion, which was pretty gross. I felt like I was intruding on a private moment.
“He’s still skinny,” Daphne said tragically. “And—wait a minute! What happened to his eyes?”
Chuck was nervous. “His eyes?”
“They’re glazed over. You know, like a kid who’s been watching too much TV.”
Remind me to never try to sneak anything past Daphne Leibowitz.
Mr. Fan-whosis ambushed me at my locker on Tuesday.
“Good morning, Cameron. I’d like a word with you in my office.”
This was never a good thing. He was the faculty adviser for the Positive Action Group, and he had never quite figured out that it wasn’t supposed to be a real club. That probably had a lot to do with the 873 people besides me who’d joined. Whatever the reason, he loved the P.A.G., and he loved me for being its founder.
“Well, Mr. Fan—uh, sir, I really should be getting to class—”
“You can spare me a few minutes,” he said firmly.
What could I do? I followed him to his office, which was a tribute to the achievements of the P.A.G. The whole room was wallpapered with P.A.G. posters and photographs and news clippings of our amazing good deeds.
He sat down behind his desk. “We’ve had some excellent meetings lately. Too bad you haven’t been able to make it to any of them.”
“I’ve been really busy,” I began vaguely.
“I get that. You’re a busy kid—president of the P.A.G. But that should just mean that you’re busy with the club.”
I had no answer for him. The other kids at school probably assumed I was a no-show at those meetings because I was home studying in order to pull up my grades. But I couldn’t say that to Mr. Fan-doohickey. He was faculty, so if he wanted to see my grades, all he had to do was call them up on his computer. And there they’d be, not flunking at all. That was the whole problem of talking with the guidance counselor. He wasn’t a bad guy. I had nothing against him. But he always expected me to do things. And doing things that weren’t gaming related didn’t fit into my lifestyle.
“I think part of the reason is the library fund-raiser,” I explained carefully. “Daphne has kind of taken that over. And, man, isn’t she knocking it out of the park?”
“I wanted to speak to you about that, too,” he continued. “I’ve been looking over the sign-up sheets for the different stations, and your name isn’t on any of them. It’s like you’re not even planning to be there.”
