Massively Multiplayer (40 page)

“I have no idea,” Wolfgang sighed.

“I do,” said Marybeth’s computer. “And it’s why I need your help.”

Chapter Eighteen – Hide and Seek

Marybeth sat very still. Wolfgang exploded.

“Marcus! How long have you been listening?”

“Since you accessed your desk. What, didn’t you guess I’d put a trace on your computer? Don’t tell me you didn’t...I thought you were letting me listen in on purpose.”

Wolfgang took a deep breath then exhaled slowly. “No. I did not guess. Here I was just mentioning you weren’t a security expert and I forgot that I’m not one either. Alright, why did you think we were inviting you to listen?”

“I thought you were subtly alerting me that the Feds weren’t monitoring you. They aren’t, are they?”

“Not to my knowledge, but as I’ve just been reminded, I’m no security expert.”

“No. One moment, let me check...no, no agents have been to this floor.”

“How do you know?” Marybeth asked.

“Tagged their government i.d. cards when they registered with the front desk.”

“And how do you know some didn’t come in without registering?”

“I like you, Marybeth. You’ve got a devious mind. You should keep her, Wolf. I know because this is the FBI we’re dealing with. Not a sneaky bone in their whole bodies. They think they’re sneaky, of course, but next to truly sneaky people, these suits are strictly straight arrow.”

“But they aren’t all FBI,” Wolf put in. “You’ve managed to annoy a lot of people, Marcus.”

“Don’t I know it. That’s why I need your help. I’ve got a critical memory leak and I’m short on RAM.”

“Yes, let’s talk about that. What, exactly, do you want help with? No, wait, let’s start at the beginning. What are you doing?”

“Oh, just hanging out, eating junk food, drinking coffee...”

“You know what I mean!”

“Yes, I know what you mean, Wolf. Alright, let me be straightforward: I can’t tell you.”

“That’s being straightforward?” Marybeth asked.

“As much as I can be, please believe me.”

Despite the hissing distortion of Tenser’s artificially multiplied voice, Wolf detected an underlying strain which convinced him. Whatever he was up to, Tenser was clearly exhausted.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Tell us what you can.”

“Thank you.” Like the exhaustion, the relief in Tenser’s voice was genuine. “You’ve already got most of it. It all has to do with those texture files.”

“Just these, or all the files from the rollover?”

“Just those. You already figured out that those vendors aren’t software providers. They’re manufacturers. Cosmetics, sports equipment...a paper products company in Ohio, a pharmaceuticals company in India, three different shoe companies...”

“No computer companies.”

“No. Because this isn’t about selling a computer product, like Crucible. It’s about selling shoes. And headache medicine. And hair color.”

“I don’t follow,” Wolf said.

“I do,” said Marybeth.

“Eh?”

“Hair color. Texture files. These companies are providing texture files taken from their products.”

“True, but it gets better. You apparently haven’t done any financial investigation of the companies in question, but I’m sure you’d get around to it. A single, massive holding company owns all of them. Three guesses which one, and the first two guesses don’t count.”

“Vital Enterprises.”

“We have a winner! You know, you really should keep her, Wolf. You’re such a kind-hearted guy I’ve always been afraid people will take advantage. Ms. Langridge’s Machiavellian bent could really—.”

“Can we leave my love life out of this? So. Vitus Calloway is using Crucible for product placement.”

“Not Vitus. Bernardo. Bernardo sold this project to his father, convinced him that covert advertisements placed in interactive netvironments were the advertising platform of the future. Gaming ‘vironments were emphasized in his proposal because of their immersion factor – people lose focus on the real world. They turn off their critical faculties. It turns out that the receptive mindset necessary for solid immersion in a fantasy netvironment is the same one for optimal advertising effect.”

“Wait a minute,” Marybeth interjected. “The new content. The new sensory protocols – those work because they flash peripheral messages directly to the hindbrain.”

“Yes?”

“But that’s subliminal advertising! That’s totally illegal!”

“Only probably illegal. And only if you get caught.” Tenser sounded seriously depressed now. “Have you read the End-User License Agreement on most software these days, including Crucible? In order to keep from getting sued by someone the EULA now basically forces users to sign over pretty much any legal rights they might have. Ours specifically states that in order to achieve some netvironmental effects, Archimago reserves the right to insert subliminal messages into the content. Nothing in there specifically states these can’t be commercial in nature.”

“Is it working?” Marybeth asked.

“I don’t quite know. I’m not a psychologist, like Rudi Singh was. I’m only partially aware of how it works. Effects and textures were always Brian’s thing. In theory, look at the list. See Taefun Auto’s, the Japanese car company? Calloway picked it up about six years ago. They’ve been having troubles selling domestically and in Europe because they’ve got a rep. for being weakly constructed. So, the techs down at Taefun take a bunch of digital specs of their cars – the curvature of their frames, the reflectivity index of the surface, their trademark colors. Then the Vital Industries techs dump those into Crucible’s texture-file. A player buys a new suit of armor – let’s say some heavy stuff, steel plates. He doesn’t recognize that this suit is in a Taefun color, with a subtle echo of Taefun’s design. What he notices is that it’s tough – he’s shrugging off blows that would have killed him back when he was wearing leather armor. So he associates these shapes, that color of steel, with protection, with strength, and when he’s out looking for cars on the net, he sees a Taefun display that reminds him of that feeling, and...”

“That seems awfully slow,” Marybeth said skeptically.

“For cars, yes. But what about the perfume company that associates its scent with the incense in a temple, a safe zone in the game? Or with a brothel? Think about market saturation – only a tiny fraction of consumers are really available for an advertiser to snatch up. In their minds, any time people aren’t watching ads is wasted time. Now, not only will they be watching ads, they’ll be smelling them. and feeling them. All without even knowing it’s happening.”

“But...that’s just wrong!”

“Glad you feel that way, Wolf, but you’ll feel even better to know what happens if the authorities do decide to prosecute. Vitus and Bernardo Calloway have already set up an emergency transfer of Archimago stock to a dummy corporation in Angola. If the Federal Trade Commmision, or the FCC, drop the hammer, it’s going to pulverize Archimago. And not just the company. After word of this reaches the gaming community, no employee of Archimago will be able to get a job programming vacuum cleaners at another software company. And Vital Enterprises, and the Calloways, will get away untouched.”

He paused while Marybeth and Wolfgang absorbed this information.

“So.” Wolfgang said finally. “What are you doing about it?”

“Part of it’s already working. I needed to get the authorities here fast, and Bernardo’s panicking. His cronies in finance are dumping the files and replacing them with the vanilla versions which cleared our techs before the rollover.”

“Well then. We win, right?”

“Not quite, Wolf. Because while I’ve checked the Calloways, now I’ve got to deal with the Feds. If they investigate this, if they prosecute, Archimago is finished. Game over.”

“You’ve got the surgeon’s dilemma,” Marybeth murmured. “You’ve got a handle on the disease, but the cure might kill the patient.”

“Exactly. But I have a solution – I’m working out something which could be big enough that the Feds would take it and leave us alone. A trade.”

“You’re talking cagey again, Marcus,” said Wolfgang edgily. “What are you hiding?”

There was a pause, brief, but significant enough to ruin Wolfgang’s confidence. “If you’re playing us again, Marcus...”

“It’s not that...truly. It’s just that I don’t even know if I’ve got the right answer yet, and if I bring you in too soon...”

“Skip it, Marcus.”

Tenser’s response was agonized. “I can’t tell you! God, I wish I could, but I can’t! Not until I’m sure...the whole thing hinges on me being the only one who knows.”

“The only one...” Marybeth mused. “This is another game, isn’t it Marcus? And there’s some kind of rule about who can have what kind of information. I think I know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t.”

“Then just trust her, Wolf. Trust me. Help me.”

There was another long silence. Finally Wolfgang shrugged.

“I’m not sure if I do trust you, Marcus. I’m really not. You’re playing games, and I’m not sure whether I’m on your side....”

He glanced across the deck at Marybeth, took in her quiet gaze, and knew she’d support him no matter what his decision. That was enough.

“...But I’m definitely on hers. What do you need us to do?”

“Right! That is the third time you have stepped on my foot, mate. You want to go a round with me?”

“Patience, Ghostmaker,” Dinah chided. “We’re all frustrated. Malcolm’s actually holding up better than you are, since I don’t hear him complaining.”

Ghostmaker shot a venomous look at the elderly woman, who met his eyes serenely. At last, he shook his head.

“Gah! Not worth it. What do we have, then?”

“A good question. Let us go over our findings once more.”

Druin figured that “findings” was a bit too generous a word. Their explorations had yielded only a few meager scraps of information, and little of interest or value.

It had yielded three small coins of unknown denomination, several candlesticks which might or might not be silver, one sword with a large chip missing from its rusted blade, and a collection of bones, including a skull. Grimly, Druin added his take to the pile. Another bone, some scraps of cloth, what might have been a belt buckle, and a dusty bottle with the cork still in it. By common consent, they’d organized the junk in a heap at the base of the altar stone which had presumably once held the sarcophagus which was scattered across the floor.

“Anyone fancy a drink?” Ghostmaker kicked at the bottle, which clanked against the pile of bone fragments. “Bit sour by now, I reckon.”

“I confess to not understanding,” Butterfly muttered.

“Me neither,” Druin admitted.

“S’ obvious enough to me, mate. Yon floatin’ bugger’s having us on. There ain’t no key here. You sure you got everything?”

“Everything other than the wood fragments and the rocks themselves,” Druin confirmed. “Whoever looted this place did a thorough job.”

“More than one band has been through here, I suspect,” Dinah supplied. “I have been investigating the damage. Some of it is quite old, and some of more recent vintage. If the key to the second tomb is here, it is not apparent.”

“Like I said, having us on.” Ghostmaker kicked the bottle again.

“Just because it is not apparent does not mean it is not here,” Dinah insisted.

“Go on, please,” Butterfly said curtly. “I have already attempted to locate secreted doors...”

“Not secret, Princess,” Dinah shook her head. “I mean that we have not considered our findings in light of the immaterial token which we already have.”

“Immaterial...what?” Druin hoped the others weren’t as confused as he was. Then on second thought, he hoped they were.

“I...think..she means the poem.” The voice was one Druin hadn’t heard all day, and when it came, it was much quieter than he knew was normal.

All eyes turned to Malcolm, Dinah beaming as though he were a bright student, the others mystified. “Poem?” Druin asked.

“What the guy said...that is, the words of the guardian specter. Sirrah,” he ended lamely. “By my troth, I think it was a hint.”

“Indeed,” Dinah smiled. I had thought the same. Did none of you others hear how odd they were?” She glanced upwards as she recited, and Druin knew she was consulting notes she must have made as the specter had welcomed them to the tomb. Elderly, Dinah might appear, and ruthless, by reputation. But she was damned well organized.

“
This, the tomb of Duster, who raised the storms and was master of all the elements of the world, was ransacked entirely. There are no treasures remaining here but one
,” she intoned. “
It is the gift of knowledge, the understanding of intentions. There is no treasure more valuable, and none so likely to be overlooked by thieves. Sorting true gold from false is not in their nature. Prove you are no mere grave robbers. Understand how Duster was ordered, and progress onwar
d.”

The echoes of her voice rang away throughout the tomb, echoing from its plain gray walls. The party considered the riddle carefully.

“Bugger that,” said Ghostmaker finally. “I say we blow the second tomb’s doors off.”

“I will require a moment to prepare,” Princess Butterfly agreed.

“Hold it!” said Malcolm unexpectedly.

The others paused, surprised.

“Isn’t that what ‘grave robbers’ would do?” he asked quietly. Butterfly sniffed, offended, but Ghostmaker was more direct. He planted a finger on Malcolm’s breastplate.

“You got a better idea, mate?”

“I don’t know,” Malcolm admitted. “and I know you – all of you – are more experienced at this kind of thing than I am. But I know something about telling real gold from fake.” Druin remembered, suddenly, Malcolm’s revelation that he held a business degree from Harvard. It was easy to underestimate him on the basis of his gung-ho innocent routine. Maybe he bore watching as much as the others.

“There ain’t no gold here, false or otherwise,” Ghostmaker reminded them, indicating the pile of debris they’d gathered from the tomb.

“No,” Malcolm agreed. “But there is disorder. Something un-ordered. Something which grave robbers would ignore. Something which needs ‘knowledge,’ and ‘intention,’ to put in order again.”