Massively Multiplayer (38 page)

“Money,” Andrew said quietly, earning another approving nod from Blanks. The boy really did seem to grasp more than his parents gave him credit for.

“That’s correct,” he confirmed. “Archimago makes much of its money from user fees – even a few days of downtime might eat unacceptably into their profits. Moreover, they’ve just released a significant upgrade to their services, and undergone a change in ownership. Shutting down could cost them licensing and legal problems. They have requested that we carry on our investigation without shutting down their system, which we will continue to attempt to do until or unless Mr. Tenser proves himself a more significant threat.”

“Threat to who?” Andrew’s father asked bluntly.

Blanks hesitated. Something in Andrew’s expression made him answer honestly. “Before...resigning his commission...Mr. Tenser had access to a large number of intelligence files. We’ve been analyzing his usage patterns and have determined that he spent the majority of that time reviewing biographical profiles of international irregular operatives. We are concerned he might try contacting one of those for some unspecified reason.”

“International irregular what?”

“Terrorists,” Andrew translated. “They think Tenser might be a terrorist.”

All in all, it could have gone much worse.

Blanks spent the shuttle trip back to Seattle in conference call, coordinating between Sharps and his technical team at Archimago. Andrew hadn’t batted an eye to learn that while he’d be using his regular home rig to connect to the game, a battery of ancillary monitoring units, hardware and software, would be attached to his system, reporting every action, every bit of data, to the investigation team. Agent Sharps would remain at a hotel near the Hunter residence as a technical and legal liaison, while the team at Archimago would analyze the data. Their tasks were threefold, and Blanks mentally prioritized them in the following order: first, to figure out what, precisely, Tenser was up to with his covert game; second, to put countermeasure in place which could shut down Tenser’s system, if necessary; third, to physically locate Marcus Tenser so he could be properly interrogated. While a traditional investigator might have placed that last item nearer the top of the list, Blanks figured from experience that once Tenser’s ability to do virtual damage was neutralized, he’d probably materialize naturally.

The second task was, happily, already provided for. The government kept a stable of programmers busy doing nothing but developing bigger and smarter and more virulent counter-intelligence technology, and a single phone call had arranged for the standard package to be hooked up to Andrew Hunter’s system, behind several firewalls and buried in a hidden subdirectory. With a single command code, Blanks could now shut down and completely erase any computer with a direct connection to Hunter’s system. It was the kind of deception which was standard operating procedure for the department, the kind he normally despised, but in this case, with Tenser’s real motives still uncertain, it was a welcome bit of security.

Once he’d landed and returned to the building, however, Blanks discovered that he had an overarching priority which over-ruled all his other goals: to keep Ms. Sumter of the National Security Agency from collapsing his investigation around his ears and getting them all fired.

Marybeth and Wolfgang returned to the Island on the same ferry. They entered the Archimago Building through the same door. They entered at different times, however, Wolfgang following Mary after a scrupulously timed three-minute interval. “To be certain Marcus doesn’t catch on,” he offered, an excuse Marybeth agreed to with too-obvious relief. Neither of them mentioned the real reason for their care, of course. Office gossip is, contrary to popular belief, only the third-fastest form of communication in the universe.

They needn’t have bothered. The office grapevine was abuzz with the presence of law-enforcement officials in the building. While it is only the third-fastest, gossip is the most easily mutable form of information – almost nothing is accurate by the time it has circulated through a standard office environment.

Of necessity, most of the programming team knew what the various agents were up to, but Wolfgang spent too much of his morning fielding questions and speculation from other quarters. The relief technicians wanted to know if this was preparatory to some union-busting activity, while an entire wing of the actors’ group downstairs hinted darkly that if this was some sort of drug-bust, Archimago would have difficulty filling its need for on-line Catalysts. Only the accounting department seemed immune to the flurry, buried deeply in financial statements, no doubt, too busy to pump Wolfgang for information.

There was at least one golden lining to the flood of rumors: Bernardo Calloway was also being kept busy with requests for information, and therefore had no time to drag Wolfgang up to the executive floor.

His absence from executive circles also meant Wolfgang had a moment or two to think about what he’d learned the night before. Not just about Marcus Tenser, though that was certainly interesting enough.

Contrary to many of his peers, Wolfgang’s love-life had not suffered significantly from his choice of profession. He had the usual deeply-focused, almost obsessive, personality of many who went into the computer field, but this was significantly moderated by his interpersonal skills, remnants of that artistic future his mother had once envisioned for him. That, indeed, was his romantic downfall. The same open-minded affability which had thrust him into management had also gifted him with an ex-wife and a lot of ex-girlfriends. His mother, in addition to her other qualities, had had a lot of friends with available daughters. Any one of them might have told Marybeth that if one was feeling at all guilty, Wolfgang’s attentive gaze could sometimes give him the appearance of an interrogator instead of a friend. Of course, then they might have had to explain why they’d felt guilty in the first place. At least one of Wolfgang’s ex-girlfriends was currently married to his ex-best-friend.

But such thoughts were far from his mind as he contemplated the previous evening. He’d listened, yes, but he’d found himself talking too. Marybeth seemed genuinely interested in his history at school, how he’d come to work for Marcus Tenser, and the stories he could offer which might illuminate their current problem. But she’d also been interested in him: his interests, his perspective, how he spent his time. By the time he’d left her at her apartment – with a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek which she’d somehow turned into a promise of something more – he’d been happier than he’d felt in weeks.

It was good enough reason to look her up, and he didn’t want to contact her through the system. Not only was it less intimate than he wanted, it was also much more susceptible to prying eyes.

A quick elevator trip brought him to her office. He knocked on the door, and entered at her sharp “come on!”

“Not going well?”

“What? Oh, Wolf. Thank God it’s you. I’ve been fielding junk from the Feds all morning. I’d be dumping it on Han, but he’s out with the flu. I’m so sorry I didn’t call you...”

“Forget it,” he waved his hand in the gesture which told a desk to delete junk files. “I’ve been getting it from the other side. Systems division wants to know if they need to prepare immigration documents for everyone. Theo, from marketing, has apparently been telling people that Crucible has been used to smuggle military secrets.”

“Are we so sure we haven’t?”

He shrugged, and smiled. “You look like you could use some coffee”

Marybeth grimaced, rubbing her hand through hair she knew she’d already ruffled in frustration. “Gee, you really know how to let a girl know she’s attractive.”

Wolfgang lowered his gaze and smiled even wider. “Coffee?”

“Depends. Are you making it?”

“I promise to not even get near the pot.”

“Then yes.”

“You should know I’ve got other talents outside the coffee maker, though. I make a mean goulash.”

Marybeth smiled. “Why Mr. Wallace, is that an offer?”

They made for the elevator, but were stopped in the hall by a stern-faced Ms. Sumter of the NSA, who buttonholed Wolfgang with a rigid finger.

“You! Come with me, right now!” Sumter’s voice was clipped with what Wolfgang knew by now was habitual anger. But there was something else there too – an underlying agitation so fearsome it actually threatened to unstick a strand or two of hair from Sumter’s perfectly shellacked blond helmet.

He exchanged a quick glance with Marybeth, who shrugged.

“Ms. Sumter, what’s the problem?”

She glared frostily from under her perfectly coifed helmet of hair. “What the hell is the meaning of these mass file deletions?”

“Mass...what?” he asked in genuine confusion.

“We were assured of your complete cooperation, Mr. Wallace. My team needs a static shot of your system in order to track Tenser’s effect. They can’t do that if you’re dumping files left and right! Is this part of your regular update routine? How long does it last? I’ve got technicians cooling their heels!”

Wolfgang reeled backwards, knocked physically off balance by her naked contempt. “Ms. Sumter, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. We rotate cached files in a separate mirror process. The primary netvironmental system shouldn’t be experiencing any mass-file deletions.”

She snorted derisively. “You mean you don’t even know? Here!”

She thrust a sheet of smartpaper into his hands, and he scanned the columns rapidly. Files scrolled upwards under his fingers, deletions scheduled for this morning’s batch processing, access codes. File names. More file names.

Sumter practically tapped her heels with impatience as Wolfgang struggled to understand what he was seeing. Suddenly his mind, which had seemed so fogged by the morning’s demands, was crystal clear, and operating at lightning speed.

“Ms. Sumter,” he said in a carefully neutral tone, “this is mostly book-keeping. You must understand that we have a lot of customers and a lot of files that are only irregularly accessed. We occasionally clear unused content to maximize efficiency. You’ll notice the last batch process is scheduled for one o’clock. If you can just wait until then...”

Sumter glared at him a moment longer, then snatched the paper away with a growl of annoyance. “If this gets in the way of catching Tenser, I’m going to go over Blanks’ head. You
will
be shut down if you hinder this investigation. Vitus Calloway’s influence isn’t infinite, Mr. Wallace.”

“Thank you for your understanding, Ms. Sumter.”

She snorted again, and whirled on one perfect stiletto heel, ready to click-clack her way back towards the elevator.

“Oh, Ms. Sumter?” Wolfgang raised a finger in afterthought.

“What?”

“You know, I could make sure those deletions are accelerated, so you techs can capture the system. I’ll take that list and oversee manual deletions instead of waiting for batch processing.”

Sumter scowled, but handed him the smartpaper. With ill-concealed impatience, she resumed her trek to the elevator, which whisked her away as Wolfgang smiled ingratiatingly.

Marybeth was watching him closely. “You just lied your ass off.”

Wolfgang nodded seriously, his eyes still glued to the elevator door, half afraid Sumter would re-emerge. “How obvious was it?”

“Pretty obvious. We don’t schedule batch-processing during the day. And your tone was...smarmy. Oh I don’t think
she’ll
get it.” Marybeth waved her hand dismissively. “She’s probably so used to making people cringe she didn’t know how phony that was from you.”

He turned to regard her warmly. “And you do?”

“I do,” said Marybeth firmly. She looked smug. “You going to tell me what that was really about?”

“Yes,” Wolfgang nodded. “But first, coffee. And some privacy.” He waved his hand to take in the public hallway.

Marybeth took the hint, but couldn’t resist asking him quietly, “you saw something in the file list, didn’t you? Something weird?”

“Weird,” Wolfgang agreed as they entered the elevator, “but familiar. I saw some of those files in a list just a few days ago.”

“What are they?”

“Texture files,” Bernardo murmured. “Third-party texture files. The new hypercodes that go right into people’s brains. Designed specifically for Crucible 4.0.”

“Where did you see them listed?”

“Ah, Grasshopper, that would be premature. I want to confirm something first. Meet me in the lounge in thirty minutes.”

“Oh come
on
! At least a hint!”

“Alright.” He lowered his voice. “If I’m right, I know why Marcus Tenser re-appeared at Archimago technologies.”

And with that, to Marybeth’s annoyance, he marched into the elevator, whistling a fragment of Mozart and wearing the smug look of a man who has just been dealt an unexpected pair of aces.

Druin awoke from the perfect sleep of offline to darkness. Brief disorientation panicked him as he took in the dank gray walls, still dimply illuminated by the blue glow of the wardstones. He began to sit up, but decided upon reflection that he should probably deal with the knife being held to his face.

“Good morning, bright eyes,” said Ghostmaker grimly.

“Uh...good morning?”

“Now then, how did I just
know
that you were gonna’ be the first one in?” Ghostmaker mused. “Bloody psychic, I am.”

Druin tried to concentrate on the knife but found his eyes were crossing. He looked up to where the warrior sat instead, perched above him as though he were sitting on Druin’s head, completely out of reach of hand or weapon, had Druin been foolish enough to attempt anything.

“What’s up, Ghostmaker?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual but not disrespectful voice.

“Just you and me, mate. Everyone else is fast asleep still, though I expect Dinah along shortly. Oh.” He looked at the knife in his hand as though it were a surprise to him. “You mean the knife, don’t ye? Well, consider this by way of some punctuation.”

“To what?”

“To this.” Ghostmaker became suddenly serious. “Look, I don’t know you, mate. Don’t know how you got in on this gig, you being low-circle and all. Maybe you got something the catalysts figure we need. Maybe you’re just a fortunate soul. But I know this: that arrow yesterday, what got Raj, that was a mistake. He just got in the way, poor bugger. That arrow was meant for you.”