“The question isn’t where Team Red got the keys to the realm from: Hayek Associates have a copy of the one-time pad, because they’re sniffing on everything. The question is, Who inside Hayek Associates leaked the pad, via the blacknet? Barry’s gotten through to the disaster planning people. They’ve generated fresh master pads, and they’re pushing copies out to the main switches by courier—they’re implementing the national zero-day exploit plan. The goal is to throw the switch at noon, at which point all Team Red’s careful work goes down the toilet. Then they’ll reboot CopSpace completely and load freshly signed certificates for the dot-sco domain by hand on the root servers, and a bunch more fiddly stuff. But the main thing is, once they change the one-time pads for admin access to the national backbone routers, Team Red will be unable to tap traffic at will. Zonespace will go down at noon, too, and that won’t be coming back up for a wee while: When it does, they’ll be frozen out. Our problem is to locate Team Red’s avatars and kill them repeatedly until they stay dead—that should tie them up in PvP until it’s too late, and sends them the message: We know who they are, and if they fuck with us, we’ll take them down. And whoever their inside man or woman at Hayek Associates is, will probably bolt…So get co-ordinating, okay?”
“Right.” You shuftie over to your own laptop and blink at the screens until you stop feeling cross-eyed. “Don’t you have macros for this?”
Jack gives you a toothy grin. “Macros for combat would be a breach of the T#amp#Cs, wouldn’t they?”
“I knew you were going to say something about that.” Grind, grind, grind your foes…Something about this whole set-up doesn’t add up, but you can’t quite put your finger on what feels wrong.
“That’s what I was digging out of Lovecraftland.” He pulls his phone out and sets it on the desk next to his laptop. “It’s a stress-testing framework I wrote, ages back. Give it a bunch of Zone character accounts, and it’ll run them as a swarm, targeting whatever you put in their path.” He rolls his eyes.
“That doesn’t sound right.” You stare at him.
“Dead right it’s not.” He stares right back. “That’s why I buried a backup copy out in the boonies: insurance.”
“Insurance—”
“It’s the flip side of a coyote tunnel they wanted installing. You find a bunch of gamers who’re not having any fun, and you lure them to your new setting, see? Come play with us, we’re more fun. Give us your account, and we’ll migrate your players into our new game and give you three months extra time, free. Which is where the stress tester comes in. Because if you give it a bunch of moribund characters in the old game, you can, uh, stress-test it. Just to make it even less fun for the stay-behinds.”
“You wrote that?” The more you think about it, the less you like the sound of it.
“Yup. On instructions from management at LupuSoft.” He grins humourlessly. “For stress-testing our own products, honest. This sort of thing happens all the time in a mature market—it’s all about ensuring your customers have fun, and the other side don’t. It’s all okay, as long as you don’t actually use it for immoral, illegal, or fattening purposes: It has entirely legitimate applications. And it’s not the sort of thing you can easily explain not wanting to write in front of an employment tribunal. So there I was, thinking there was some mistake about Dietrich-Brunner Associates needing my particular skill set after all.” He clicks on a button, and another window opens, more text scrolling. “Look in your controls, under DM, options, stress.”
You bring up the pie menu and see it at once. “Now, let me just load the bunch of accounts that Barry beamed at my phone this morning…”
His phone is blinking its wee sapphire light for attention. Transfer in progress. A whole bunch of blue dots are showing up on the map of Zonespace, like a toxic rash infecting it from Jack’s mobie. You move your cursor towards them—it’s got a funny lasso icon now—and herd them all together. This is a god mode—you can drop in behind their eyes and drive them, one-on-one, or you can string a whole bundle of them together in a mob and tell them to follow the leader. Who can be another zombie, with an assigned target, or you can run them yourself. It’s a deeply ugly trick, a custom-built griefing tool, but it’s just what you need right now and you have to ask yourself, How much of this did Barry Michaels expect?
You drop into Stheno’s eyes. It comes easily. You’re standing in the middle of a dirt track, woods to one side and a mountain range just visible in the distance across a field of maize to the other. You look round and see the most bizarre assortment of thuggish allies you can imagine. Orcs, humans, dwarfs, ice elves, a couple of giants, and a solitary dalek: They’re milling around like a flock of sheep. “Listen up!” you yell, trusting the rudimentary speech-to-text capabilities of the mobies they’re running on. “Follow me! Kill anything that’s wearing this!” You hold up the scroll Jack hands you and show them the design inscribed on it in blood, an ideogram of chaos. “Get moving!” And then you hit the GM menu and drop god-level privileges on every last one of Jack’s zombie horde.
It’s Zonespace, and there’s a city here, a city built on the glacier-rasped basalt plug of an extinct volcano. Huge lumps of steep granite rear from the pine-forested flanks of a huge loch, and the swampy slopes down to a rough timber-crafted coastal harbour in which galleons and triremes swing at anchor. Someone’s obviously been having fun with a bunch of historical maps, because you recognize bits of it from context—a huge castle looming from the top of a basalt spine, a proud royal palace sprawling at the opposite end of the Royal Mile—but you’re pretty certain the real Dunedin never had a mangrove swamp where now the railway station sits, nor was there a rain forest in Leith or an Aztec step-pyramid out by the Gyle.
But that’s all by the by. You’ve got an army of hundreds and a sword in your hand (not to mention snakes in your hair) and a job to do of killing every Orc you can see, repeatedly, until they stop coming back from the dead. Maybe it’s going to work out, you think. Now all I need to do is figure out how to run god mode in SPOOKS and establish a perimeter. And so you flip back to the desktop and log in to the call-centre application Michaels gave you, just as the office door opens.
JACK: In the Box
You’re watching over Elaine’s shoulder to see if she’s got the hang of riding the horde of zombie griefers you’ve just unleashed, which is why you’re puzzled in the extreme when she zips out of the game interface and flips over to the laptop’s other screen to start messing with some other application. “What are you—” doing? you begin to say, as the door opens and you look round expecting to see Sergeant Smith or her big goon of a trainee, and instead find yourself looking at Marcus Hackman, who is staring at you with an expression of concentrated loathing that is rendered even more frightening by what he’s pointing at you: an extremely illegal black-market automatic pistol.
“Don’t move,” he says. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Both of you,” he adds, as Elaine begins to turn round to see what’s going on—her back is to the door. He steps sideways, out of the doorway, and kicks it shut, keeping his back to the wall.
What the fuck? you think, a sick, sinking sensation loosening your guts. A lot of things come into abrupt focus. Hackman is wearing his usual expensive suit, but he hasn’t shaved recently, and his normally lacquered hair-style is giving way to minor chaos, strands and tufts out of place. His left shoe, highly polished, has a scuff mark on its toe. And the gun, a Yarygin PYa if you’re any judge of such things (and you swallowed the Zone Weapons Bible whole during your probationary period, lo those many years ago, as young men are wont to do) has seen better days since it fell off the back of a Russian army lorry and into the hands of some blacknet-connected mafiya scumbag.