Massively Multiplayer (7 page)

MadHarp joined him at the railing, flipping the dagger casually end over end. “Of course he will. You touched some nerves.”

Gil looked slightly ashamed. “I know. It’s true, though, too. The update is coming tomorrow, and a lot of players will ditch. Some people don’t like change. We’ve got to get more players.”

“Noble of you,” MadHarp smirked. He caught the dagger by its tip, then flipped it to his other hand without looking. “And your own plans for getting a job at Archimago have nothing to do with that?”

“Shut up, Harp.” Gil scowled and ground a fist into the balcony railing. “You know how weird this is. Quest zones are supposed to show up off the edges of the map. Not inside known areas. I bet it has something to do with the rollout of version four tomorrow and-“

“And if you figure it out first, that’s an in with the company,” MadHarp interrupted. “Show’s you pay attention to design and such.”

“Just make sure he keeps the newbies out of it,” Gil said quietly. “I’ve lost too many clients recently. Bad for business.”

“Such concern.”

“I said shut up. Register the contract with Justice. See that he gets the newbies – most of them, anyway – to Heron Rock. And then make sure he follows through on the scouting mission. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they won’t ever find the corpse.” He rounded on the assassin, scowling fiercely. “He pays off his debt, and maybe we get a new quest zone for clients. You’ve already told me what you think of Dru. So what if he doesn’t make it? What do you care anyway?” Gil asked fiercely.

“Nothing.” MadHarp shrugged, giving the dagger a final twirl. “You’ve got your game.” He sheathed the knife. “I’ve got mine.”

Druin found Wisefellow waiting for him by the time he got back to the Grinning Pumpkin tavern.

"Druin, there you are. Did you go shopping without me?"

"I wish." He quickly outlined his experiences since logging in, and the task which Gil had set for him.

When he had finished, Wisefellow was shaking his head sadly. "You have a knack for making enemies, my friend. So, Gil has not yet forgiven you for our failure in the Great Swamp Trek."

"Why does everyone keep calling it a failure? Gil went up a circle, so did you and so did Evil Albert. Where's the failure? Nobody thought we were going to clear the bloodsuckers out of the Swamp in one trip anyway!"

"That is true, but Gil still blames you. Perhaps he would have blamed you for something even if we had succeeded. But even that is not the extent of your troubles."

Druin's stomach sank. "What now?"

"I'm afraid Uriah did not survive our encounter with the sea-trolls. NPC undertakers carried his body back to the Inn where he lives, but the trolls had looted his corpse of his armor, his weapons, everything he carried. And, I am further sorry to say, he has dropped a full level, back down to the seventh circle..."

Druin groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"...And he blames you."

Druin began banging his head repeatedly against the table. "Why, why, why, why, why..." he chanted.

Wisefellow placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Look on the bright side. As he has dropped a full circle in rank, he'll have a harder time killing you."

Somehow this failed to improve Druin's mood. Wisefellow tried another tack.

"Perhaps your leaving town right away is not such a bad thing after all? You can avoid Uriah while he gets over his anger, and mollify Gil at the same time." He raised his finger as an other thought occurred to him. "In fact, the reward which Gil is offering could help you pay for new armor and weapons for Uriah! Yes, you could pledge some portion of the gold -- say, a third of it -- to Uriah upon completion of your task."

Druin peeked up through slotted fingers. "Do you really think that would work?"

"I am certain it would help. You could leave town at once, and I can tell him about your bargain. By the time you return, he'll be ready to forgive you, I'm sure of it."

Druin's face brightened. "Hey, that should work. Great thinking, Wise'."

"And besides," Wisefellow continued eagerly, "if you fail, Uriah will still be pleased that, at the very least, you are dead!"

Druin's face fell. He resumed banging his head upon the table.

Chapter Four – Dress-up

The napkins were spotless linen. The silverware was gleaming sterling. There were actual candles in the ornate candlesticks, not simply holograms. Wolfgang Wallace was vaguely apprehensive about this last item. Wasn’t there some sort of regulation against open flames or something? If there weren’t there ought to be. In his opinion it was an effort wasted on the majority of tonight’s guests anyway, who were mostly programmers who might have admired a particularly well designed holographic candle, but who would be just as indifferent to the real thing as they would be to the elegance implied by authentic silver, or authentic linen.

Still, Mr. Calloway’s instructions had been quite specific. Whether the ostentatious display was meant to cow his subjects, to impress his guests, or merely as another archaic gesture, was not Wolfgang’s concern. His concern was to make certain that the programming division arrived on time and cleanly dressed, no mean feat when it came to the notoriously sloppy habits of most of his subordinates. He’d be lucky if one of them didn’t knock over the candles and burn the place down around their ears.

And here came his motley crew now: a small band of men and women were shuffling out of the elevators, blinking owlishly in the candlelight. Most had remembered and obeyed Wallace’ instructions regarding semi-formal attire, although he noticed that Yeardley, from interface development, was clad in tan shorts and a T-shirt advertising a sci-fi convention.

The regular cooking staff had been dismissed for the evening and replaced by a chef and his entourage from one of Seattle’s better hotels, and the smell of strange French things simmering in herbs and wine wafted from the kitchen. It was this which drew Wolfgang Wallace’s troops forward from their shy huddle near the elevator -- trust programmers to be lured by the prospect of a free meal. They edged forward to join the throng of artists, actors, clerical staff, and guests who were already lined up for the buffet. Even Yeardley in his ratty T-shirt, its ever-shifting fractal patterns scrolling slightly, probably from a short caused by the man’s perennially sweaty armpits. Maybe someone could lend him an extra jacket.

A commotion from the front of the hall told Wolfgang that there wouldn’t be time for such last-minute measures. Their guest of honor had arrived.

At the front doors, Vitus and Bernardo Calloway were fending off the inquiries of a knot of local computer industry journalists. Calloway had invited several more from California and New York newscasts. Wolfgang counted almost twenty thronging the white-maned executive, and another dozen scattered throughout the buffet line, some of them impotently pressing the Archimago staff for previews of tonight’s release.

But Calloway, always the showman, was in command of his audience. “All in good time, my dear fellows, all in good time. Enjoy the buffet, and all will be revealed over desert, eh? Ah, here’s Mr. Wallace. Wolfgang, my dear lad, do come and save Bernie and myself from the sharks, will you?”

Wolfgang escorted Calloway through the hall to the head table. There, Calloway made a point of discussing the menu, the guest list, the weather in Britain, anything and everything other than business. Wolfgang allowed Calloway to make light conversation throughout most of the buffet, but as the dessert was served he couldn’t help needling his employer for a preview of coming attractions.

“Mr. Calloway, this is more than just a release party, isn’t it? I’ve overseen a lot of the new coding you had your people send us from England, and I have to say I didn’t understand a lot of the open modifications you incorporated into the new architecture. I can see how the new release will make Crucible even more expandable, allowing for new types of dynamic content, but…is that it? It’s a technological advance, but it doesn’t seem enough to merit all the press. What else should we be expecting tonight?”

To his relief, Calloway took the question in stride, simply smiling indulgently over his lemon crème. “Now Wolfgang,” he chided gently, “you’re almost as bad as the boys and girls from the media. You Yanks, no delicacy at all.” His smile broadened. “Still, you’ve been very patient until now, and I know you’ve had a lion’s job of it implementing those changes without the full picture. I suppose it’s time we got down to the entertainment.”

He stood and clapped his hands together twice, solemnly. Conversation died. The Archimago employees looked smug and well-fed. The reporters looked eager.

“My friends, ladies and gentlemen of the press, welcome. I am Vitus Calloway, head of Vital Enterprises, the parent company of Archimago Technologies, our host this evening. We are here this evening to celebrate the release of Crucible 4.0, the latest version of Archimago’s flagship product, the Crucible entertainment netvironment.”

Vitus spent a few moments outlining the history of Archimago and Crucible, a recitation nearly identical to the tour Wolfgang had offered his employer the evening before. There were few revelations during this speech, although it certainly underscored how clearly Calloway understood the operations of even so minor a part of his corporate empire. Wolfgang tasted his lemon crème thoughtfully, wondering if that were the entire point of the party, to remind press and employees alike that Vitus Calloway was still very much the “hands-on” master who had built Vital Enterprises into one of the great multinational corporations.

But even as he deduced this possibility, Vitus suddenly shifted gears, his voice now harsh, and his eyes piercing. “But I have not come to you tonight to speak of our successes. These are already known to you. What remains unexplored are the vast possibilities which have not been developed, the successes which have not yet been achieved, despite the resources which both Archimago and Vital Enterprises could be devoting to this project. We are, as stated, one of the most popular netvironments in existence, with an extremely loyal and stable customer base. Why are we not yet the most popular? More importantly, why have Archimago and Crucible remained only moderately profitable, in a business environment which rewards just such a customer base? Ladies and gentlemen, we have at hand one of the great resources, perhaps the only worthwhile resource in the modern business environment -- the undivided attention of loyal, enthusiastic customers -- and we are not exploiting that resource to its fullest. It is…a disappointment to me.”

He turned his gimlet eyes to his left, towards Howard Kipling and his management team. Kipling was Archimago’s CEO, and Wolfgang’s immediate boss, but right now Wolfgang wouldn’t have traded places with him for all the perks in Kipling’s portfolio.

“Mr. Howard Kipling and his staff have failed. They have failed Archimago Technologies, Vital Enterprises, and our shareholders. They are sitting upon a goldmine, and they have squandered their opportunities...
our
opportunities...for quite long enough.” Calloway smiled grimly. “During the past several months, we have discussed at length many of the changes which would be necessary for Archimago Technologies to achieve its true potential, and they have failed to take the steps necessary to achieve those goals. Perhaps more importantly, I have had our development team in Britain incorporating many of those changes into this most recent release of the Crucible project, and Mr. Kipling and his associates have failed to note this fact. Clear evidence, I think of their lack of interest in the development of our flagship product.”

Kipling had blanched, and even those of his toadies who were also being castigated were edging away from him as though suddenly discovering that he were radioactive. “Mr. Calloway, I-“

“Mr. Kipling,” Calloway continued, and his white hair now gave him the air of an extremely harsh schoolteacher. “Mr. Kipling and his staff have been a very grave disappointment indeed. Luckily, his limitations no longer concern Archimago, nor any other subsidiary of Vital Enterprises.”

He grinned broadly, leaning into the microphone. “Consider yourself sacked, Mr. Kipling.”

Kipling rose to protest, but at that moment he was tapped on the shoulder by a security guard who Wolfgang didn’t recognize, and who he had not seen enter the room. Another guard was standing nearby, pushing a dolly loaded with boxes which, presumably, contained Kipling’s personal effects. Several more security personnel waited in line behind the pair, each accompanied by a handcart stacked with boxes. Even as Wolfgang and the others watched incredulously, Kipling was ushered from the room.

He was followed shortly by the heads of finance, customer relations, and an assortment of executive vice-presidents who had been appointed by Kipling during his reign at Archimago. The guards were remarkably efficient, clearing away several years worth of upper management in just under two minutes flat.

Wolfgang swallowed nervously. It was the most severely public dressing-down he had ever witnessed. By the time the announcement hit the evening newscasts, Kipling would have difficulty getting a job managing anything more significant than a donut shop. It was also typical of Vitus Calloway’s business style, although Wolfgang had never seen the old man’s intimidatingly personal approach applied in the flesh.

He sincerely prayed that he would never become the target of the old man’s wrath. If, indeed, he wasn’t about to get the axe himself.

But Calloway seemed to be done with his victims for the evening. He returned his gaze to the assembled reporters and employees. The journalists were now looking excited, grateful for the opportunity to include the excruciating scene with the regular business news. Among other things, Wolfgang realized, Calloway had just ensured that a release party, which should have been a page-three article at best, would now be the lead item in every industry newscast for days. It was like watching a grandmaster sacrifice a rook in order to advance a pawn into the opponent’s rear rank.