Massively Multiplayer (23 page)

“Scared?” Jenna asked, perplexed. “Why scared? As far as I can see, this boat trip is the only nice thing which has happened to us all week. Well,” she admitted, casting a glance forward along the deck to where Captain Tom Thunder was instructing Malcolm in the finer points of swordsmanship, “almost the only nice thing.”

Druin followed her glance. “He’s obviously very good at what he does,” he said slowly.

“He is that. He told me he’s sailed all over this place, fighting pirates, being a pirate, trading things, blowing things up, ferrying people around...”

“And it doesn’t bother you that he’s having all these experiences in a fantasy world?”

“Oh, no, I think he’s absolutely bats. Insane. Just like Malcolm. But he’s got an excuse.”

“Which is?” Druin prompted.

“He used to be a real sailor. Made a fortune as an accountant in New York, bought a big sailboat and just went up and down both coasts, for years. He’d run tours for historians doing research on maritime history in the Americas. Conquistadors, pilgrims, slave traders, all that stuff. He said he got to where he knew more nautical history than most of the researchers he carried.”

“Sounds like you were a good enough audience that he forgot his salty pirate act,” Druin noted. “So what happened?”

“Regulations. He said that the various authorities from Canada, the U.S., all the way down through South America, started cracking down on immigrants, drug-runners, terrorists, and offshore data-smugglers running masked servers mounted on ships. Even the FCC started requiring licenses for every bit of electrical equipment on board his boat. They started restricting access to most of the good harbors, and even parts of the coastline. He said that he ran aground on a reef made of red tape.”

“And so he turned virtual.”

“Yeah,” Jenna nodded. “And found that his expertise was useful here in a way nobody really appreciated in RL. He said he chose the Crucible game because it had built up a complex history. So he’s a researcher again, making charts, chronicling the navies, that sort of thing.”

“Listen to you,” Druin chuckled. “’RL.’ Leet-speak. You’re turning into a gamer.”

Jenna shrugged. “Blame my psychiatrist. Besides, atavism is a natural journalistic tool. Plenty of studies suggest that subjects open up more to reporters who adapt to their audience.”

“Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that.”

Captain Thunder had concluded his lesson, and set Malcolm to chopping at a barrel with a belaying pin. “The lad’s got spirit,” he grinned, piratical accent firmly back in place, “but someone somewhere taught him all wrong about how to hold a sword. Swings it like a frying pan, but we’ll cure him of his bad habits.” He lowered his voice. “Privately, I blame those damned martial arts movies.”

“He should take a class. Most local YMCAs offer them.”

“Aye, ‘jest so. Now then, ma’am, Master Druin, I’ve heard the short version of your adventure from Master Malcolm, and I can assure you I’ll forward the information to Gil. That makes you even, as I understand your deal, and sticks one to MadHarp at the same time, which I don’t mind one bit. That one’s got it in for you, Master Druin, mark my words. But in the meantime, what’s your pleasure? Back to Heron Rock, and Westerly, or have you other plans?”

“I need to get to the Whetstone Pass. Any idea where that is?”

Thunder stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Oh aye, that’s not hard. In the Sword Range, that’d be, in Antiqua. It’s a two day’s trip inland, though. Nearest I could get you would be Hasport. A few day’s sailing, if the wind holds.”

“I’ll take it,” Druin said. “If you’re willing to go that far.”

“Oh that’s no trouble ‘tall, lad,” the Captain replied cheerfully. “Me crew ‘n I were jest wonderin’ what chance might blow us a reason to make trouble for the Antiquan authorities. Seems my hearties didn’t take too kindly to the near-drubbin’ we took at the hands o’ the last pair o’ revenue cutters we encountered. Taxes. Hah! I’ll fetch me’ charts, and we’ll plot a course. Master. Ma’am.” He sketched a bow, doffing his three-cornered hat to Jenna, and went below.

“Antiqua again,” Jenna muttered. “What’s that?”

“Europe,” Druin sighed. “Westerly is the country which is stored on the main Crucible server in Seattle, and it’s the default country of origin for any new player who logs in from North America. Southron is on the South American server. Antiqua is the country based on the European server, in Germany or France, I think. Supposedly it’s a lot more grim over there. Our monsters and adventures are pure Hollywood – theirs are more like the Brothers Grimm. Or Bram Stoker.”

“Sounds pleasant,” Jenna agreed.

Druin the Thief. Circle: 6. Wealth: 4,449. You have been logged in for 48 minutes. Thank you for playing Crucible v4.0.

“So, what are you doing in there, anyway. You were twitching like an epileptic. I’m going to guess weren’t cramming for the System Design examination.”

Andrew wiped his eyes and sat up. The virlo was crammed into a corner of Trick’s bedroom, which was already crowded with Trick’s bed, a small desk, chair, and bookshelves full of data cubes. This building wasn’t designed with modern laundry facilities, so Trick had a lot more clothing as well, most of it currently adorning various surfaces. Only his collection of costumes from prior productions were hung neatly in the tiny closet. One door led to the communal living space and kitchen he shared with three other students, and another to the rest of the apartment complex.

“Ugh,” Andrew coughed. “No, gaming. I think I’m seasick.”

“Don’t puke on the computer,” Trick advised, opening the outer door to let in fresh air. “What kind of game is it that’s worth getting sick over.”

“It’s not the game, really, there’s some people I owe. I guess it’s like being on a sports team.”

“Whatever,” Trick shrugged, who cultivated what he believed was an actor’s proper disdain for popular diversions outside the legitimate theater. “Is that what got your parents all bunched up?”

“Partly,” Andrew frowned. “I think it had more to do with their ideas about what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.”

“Which is?”

“Anything. I get the feeling they were born knowing exactly what to major in, what jobs they were going to have, where to live, who to marry, how many kids...”

“Man, people like that aren’t born, they’re hatched,” Trick grinned, offering Andrew a soda from a miniature refrigerator.

Andrew laughed. “Maybe.”

“What do your folks do, anyway?”

“Professionally? My dad’s an editor for a textbook publisher. My mom’s an accountant, for the publisher and a bunch of other clients. Then they have volunteer work they do, a distributorship for books and data to inner city schools, and that takes up a lot of their time...”

“They sound okay.”

“They are okay,” Andrew admitted. “They’re just gone a lot.”

“Travel?”

“No, that’s the weird thing. They’re usually in their office, at our house, logged in. They have professional virlo set-ups, so they can stay in for eight hours at a time.”

“Until they get forced out by hunger, huh?”

“Or bladder pressure. They have a deal with the publishing corporation, so they only put in one face-day a week. The rest are online, from home.”

“Man, most people do that so they can spend
more
time with their kids.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Andrew sipped his drink thoughtfully. “I’ve never felt neglected, or anything. I know my sister, Sara, has turned out alright, so I assume I’m not too messed up. I just wonder if I’m missing something, some kind of connection, because they’re logged in all the time.”

Trick thought about it for a while. “You ever wonder if they feel the same way about you?”

Andrew shrugged.

“That’s all of it.”

“Thank you.” Wolfgang Wallace shut the door and dropped the smartpaper on his desk. The desk obligingly downloaded the data from the flimsy sheet and threw up a three-dimensional display. There wasn’t much to see.

Druin the Reaver, a sixth-circle thief, originated on the central Western server, character file currently housed on the South American server, assigned to a mobile character storage zone called “August Rose,” probably a ship, filesize, date of origination, most recent gamesave, most recent promotion, blah, blah, blah.

There was nothing here that would stand out from a million other character files, certainly nothing indicating any tie to the mysterious system changes which were being perpetrated by person or persons unknown.

The user-file wasn’t any more useful. Andrew Hunter, occupation given as university student, age, a credit card number, a brief access history which didn’t coincide in any way with the bandwidth surges or the appearance of the unauthorized geography on the game servers. Nothing.

Without much optimism, Wolfgang opened up the files for other players who had apparently been logged into the unauthorized zones during previous surges. There was nothing which captured his attention. A few players worked in the software industry, but who didn’t these days? What was he expecting, for someone to sign up on the server listing their occupation as “data pirate?”

Besides, he didn’t even know yet whether any of these players or their characters had been singled out like this Andrew Hunter. No, not Hunter, but his character, Druin the Reaver. That was what the unknown hacker had been tracking, had been impressed by, and knowing something about him would tell him something about what the hacker was up to. He opened a window on his desktop.

“Hello, Marybeth. I’ve got another request, if you’re not too busy setting up those monitoring routines.”

“No problem, I’ve got Han doing it. He was having too much fun wandering around in his old character and calling it research. He was getting scarce.”

“Hey, if the server’s going down, we might as well have fun while it burns. Anyway, I have the file on that character who got all the attention from our mystery guest. I want to know who the character has had a lot of contact with. Questing groups, formal adventuring companies, guilds, war clans, other affiliations, whatever. You might get some information by comparing login times, but I think it would be faster and more certain to just ask some people. Port your character – Amitra, right? – to the town of Bitter Edge, near the northeastern corner of Westerly.”

Marybeth looked confused. “My character? Why not just use a standard programming avatar?”

“No angels,” Wolfgang said. “We know for certain that our mystery guest can distinguish them from regular characters, and probably has a half-dozen subroutines monitoring them. We don’t know much about him, but we know he’s very sneaky. It’s time we started getting sneaky too.”

Marybeth nodded, either convinced of Wolfgang’s wisdom or else eager to reacquaint herself with her alter ego. She reached out to cut the connection, when Wolfgang remembered his other request. “Oh, and Marybeth? Get me someone from the Catalysts, someone who can act as a liaison. We need someone who can keep quiet.” He rubbed his hands together. “Oh yeah, we’re going to have fun with this.”

He closed the connection with a gesture. He looked at the files of the players contacted by the mystery hacker. Something was nagging at the corners of his consciousness: something Raphael Gellar had once written about role-playing and psychological typing, and something Marybeth had said about friends she had in law enforcement. He began whistling the theme to
Mephistofeles
.

Lord Gil de Wraithmorte, initiate of the Fourteenth Circle, businessman and respected citizen of Bitter Edge, was counting his money. There was no question in his mind: this game got a hell of a lot more interesting when you crossed over to the Fifteenth Circle. Getting there was turning out to be a trial, of course. The advancement from the First through Tenth circles was so straightforward by comparison: do some quests, save some native peons, amass so much gold, so much fame, etcetera, etcetera.

But progress after the Tenth Circle was much more opaque, even for him. It had something to do with wealth and growing prestige, the choice to establish a center of operations, to amass influence and power, to buy the services of others, whether computer constructs like his guards or actual players, like MadHarp.

The notoriety he’d gained from organizing the Great Swamp expedition had propelled him farther, faster, than anyone else he knew. But elevation to the Fifteenth Circle required something more: patronage. He couldn’t rely on local friends like Mim and the guys at the Mage Tower to vote him an advancement. He needed something on a national scale. That meant gaining the attention of someone important, a Councilor or the Heptarch herself.

He had a plan: being near the border, the town of Bitter Edge was a common origin point for new adventurers – the primary reason his own guide business had thrived so well. But being a border town also meant it didn’t generally have the developmental level necessary to churn out the more interesting class of NPC. That would change if Gil de Wraithmorte, patriotic citizen, built the town a barracks. That would allow them to field an army unit...a modest one, certainly, but a noticeable contribution to Westerly’s defense (and, potentially, any avaricious designs on its neighbors). There were few northern army outposts, which would make them – and Gil – even more visible. It was an expensive plan, and would take up more than half of his carefully acquired wealth, but he thought it would be worth it in the long run. For one thing, no-one had ever been elected to the ruling Council of Westerly without being at least Fifteenth circle, and that prize was worth a good deal more than his potential outlay on the barracks.

For another thing, if his plan failed and no-one decided his action was conspicuous enough to recommend him to the Fifteenth Circle, he could always take the army and go pillaging. That ought to get someone’s attention.

Little did he know it, but he was the object of too much attention already.

“Gil de Wraithmorte.”

The voice was female, and soft without being breathy. It spoke his name firmly, gently enunciating the pseudo-French consonant blends. Were he given to poetic description, Gil might have described the voice as “luxuriant.” It was absolutely seductive.