88 Names

by Matt Ruff

  “Dee-licious!” Mr. Bungle says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Double-dee-licious, I should say!” Then he spins around, bends over, farts explosively, and jets out of sight with his coattails flapping.

  . . .

  . . .

  Mr. Jones says, “What.”

  Mr. Jones says, “What was that?”

  >SAY, “GRIEFERS ARE EVERYWHERE. I AM SORRY.”

  Mr. Jones says, “This is a very stupid game so far.”

  >SAY, “DON’T GIVE UP YET. TRY ONE OF THE ATTRACTIONS.”

  Mr. Jones looks around.

  Mr. Jones says, “Not the kissing booth.”

  >WALK SOUTH

  You approach the high striker. Mr. Jones follows you.

  Location: The High Striker

  A classic test of strength, the high striker is a twenty-foot-tall tower with a bell mounted at the top. The goal is to ring the bell by striking a lever at the tower’s base and propelling a puck up a metal cable. Vertical gradations painted on the tower indicate ascending levels of strength, from “90-pound weakling” near the bottom to “Man of Steel!” at the height of the bell.

  A Tout, who appears to have been cloned from the one at the front gate, is leaning against a guy-wire beside the high striker. “Step right up!” he calls. “Ring the bell and win a *PRIZE TICKET*!!! Cave Boy, show them how it’s done!” A young boy in a leopard-skin loincloth steps out of the shadows, holding a big wooden mallet. He strikes a pose, flexing his biceps, then winds up and slams the mallet down onto the lever. The puck goes flying to the top of the tower and rings the bell!

  “Well done, Cave Boy, well done!” The Tout steps forward to take the mallet, then shoos the boy back into the shadows. “All right,” the Tout says, “who’s next?”

  >SAY, “GO AHEAD.”

  Mr. Jones takes the mallet from the Tout.

  Mr. Jones swings the mallet at the lever. The blow seems at least as powerful as the cave boy’s, but the result is far less impressive: The puck ascends only a third of the way up the tower, to the level marked “Assistant furniture mover.”

  “It’s all in the wrists,” says the Tout. “Go on, try again.”

  Mr. Jones swings the mallet at the lever. The blow lands even harder this time, but the puck only rises to the halfway point, “Popeye’s understudy.”

  “Looks like somebody didn’t eat his spinach,” the Tout says. “But give it another try.”

  Mr. Jones swings the mallet at the lever. The thunderous blow sets the cable quivering, but the puck barely makes it past “90-pound weakling.”

  “Jeez,” says the Tout. “Are you low blood sugar or something?”

  Mr. Jones starts to swing the mallet at the Tout, but fearing he will only embarrass himself further, he decides not to.

  >SAY, “STILL NOT A COMBAT GAME. THINK IT THROUGH. SOMETHING CHANGED BETWEEN THE TIME CAVE BOY TOOK HIS SWING AND THE TIME YOU DID. WHAT WAS IT?”

  . . .

  . . .

  Mr. Jones examines the guy-wire.

  >LOOK AT GUY-WIRE

  The guy-wire is a length of metal cable that holds the high striker steady and keeps it from falling over . . . or at least, that’s what you’d expect it to do. Upon closer examination, you realize that the wire, which should be under tension, actually has some slack in it. The bottom of the guy-wire is attached to a peg in the ground, but you cannot tell how it is attached up top -- the wire just vanishes into a hole in the back of the tower behind the bell. This leads to a final observation: The cable that the puck rides on is the exact same sort of cable the guy-wire is made of . . . and it looks like it might be a bit slack, as well. Curious.

  . . .

  Mr. Jones says, “I understand.”

  Mr. Jones orders the Tout to lean against the guy-wire.

  “I’m sorry,” the Tout says, “carnival gaming regulations require me to stand here and observe while you make your attempt.”

  Mr. Jones threatens the Tout with the mallet, but the gesture is so ineffectual that, out of kindness, we are going to pretend that he does not do this.

  . . .

  . . .

  Mr. Jones says, “Are you allowed to help?”

  >SAY, “YES. YOU’VE GOT IT.”

  >LEAN ON GUY-WIRE

  As you approach the guy-wire, the Tout becomes flustered. “Here now!” he says, “this is highly irregular!” He doesn’t stop you, though, so you lean your weight against it. As the wire goes taut, you hear the creak of what sounds like a pulley hidden in the top of the tower, and the cable on the front of the tower goes taut, too. The puck should rise much more smoothly now, with less friction.

  >SAY, “GO FOR IT.”

  Mr. Jones swings the mallet at the lever. A mighty blow! The puck rockets up the cable and rings the bell!

  “HIGHLY irregular,” the Tout grumbles. But a crowd of onlookers has begun to gather, and fearing that his secret will get out, he quickly hands each of you a golden *PRIZE TICKET*. “Now scram!” he shouts, shooing you back to the thoroughfare.

  Location: Main Carnival Thoroughfare, West End

  Mr. Jones is here. You now have 1 *PRIZE TICKET*, out of a possible 30.

  Mr. Jones says, “Do all of the puzzles require the help of a second player?”

  >SAY, “NO. MOST HAVE MULTIPLE SOLUTIONS, AND IT IS POSSIBLE TO GET THE TROPHY SOLO. YOU *MIGHT* NEED SOMEONE ELSE’S HELP TO GET THE TURTLE WAX. I CAN’T REMEMBER.”

  >SAY, “THIS CARNIVAL IS A SUBZONE OF A MUCH LARGER MUD CALLED ‘PLANET I.F.’ THERE ARE OTHER ZONES THAT REQUIRE A TEAM EFFORT THROUGHOUT.”

  >SAY, “I KNOW OF AT LEAST ONE PUZZLE WHOSE SOLUTION REQUIRES A HUNDRED PLAYERS TO ACT IN TANDEM, PERFORMING A SPECIFIC SEQUENCE OF ACTIONS WITHIN A SHORT TIME PERIOD. VERY DIFFICULT, ESPECIALLY WITH GRIEFERS AROUND.”

  Mr. Jones says, “Interesting.”

  Mr. Jones says, “This type of game must be relatively easy to produce.”

  >SAY, “VERY EASY. SETTING UP THE SERVER CAN BE TRICKY, BUT THERE ARE DEVELOPMENT KITS THAT DO THE HARD WORK FOR YOU, AND LET ANYONE WITH A STANDARD BROWSER LOG IN AND PLAY.”

  Mr. Jones says, “Interesting.”

  Mr. Jones says, “I will look around some more. Follow me.”

  >FOLLOW MR. JONES

  You are now following Mr. Jones.

  Mr. Jones walks east. You follow Mr. Jones.

  Location: Main Thoroughfare, Carousel Intersection

  At this point, the thoroughfare intersects another pathway leading north and south. At the center of the intersection is a carousel, blaring calliope music. Looking around the corners of the intersection clockwise from the northeast, you can also see: a ring toss, a hot dog cart, a water pistol range, and a fortune-teller’s tent.

  Ms. Pang waves to you from the carousel.

  Mr. Jones walks east. You start to follow him, but something in the calliope music makes you turn around and walk back towards the carousel.

  Ms. Pang waves to you from the carousel.

  >WHO IS MS. PANG?

  I don’t know who Ms. Pang is.

  Ms. Pang waves to you from the carousel.

  >FOLLOW MR. JONES

  Mr. Jones is not here.

  Ms. Pang waves to you from the carousel.

  >WALK EAST

  No.

  Ms. Pang waves to you from the carousel.

  >GO CAROUSEL

  You climb aboard the carousel.

  Location: Aboard the Carousel

  You are riding on an old-fashioned merry-go-round. Teams of wooden horses bob up and down in time to the music of a steam-powered calliope. As the ride picks up speed, you notice a metal pole that has been erected beside the carousel. A mechanical arm extends down and inward from the top of the pole, so that its tip is almost within reach of the outermost ring of horses as they move past. Attached to the tip of the arm is a shiny brass ring with a *PRIZE TICKET* stuffed inside it!

  Never mind the brass ring. The brass ring is not important. You turn your full a
ttention to Ms. Pang, who sits on a bench between two rows of horses. She is a striking ethnic Chinese woman; though small in stature, something about the way she carries herself suggests it would be a fatal mistake to underestimate her. You should do whatever she asks.

  Ms. Pang assumes you have already recognized her, but to avoid wasting time, she points to a small blue pin on her blouse. The pin speaks in your voice: “It’s me, John Chu.”

  >SAY, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

  Ms. Pang says, “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  >SAY, “I’M WORKING. I’M BUSY.”

  Ms. Pang says, “Indeed.”

  Ms. Pang whips out a computer tablet and shows you the screen. You see yourself -- or, rather, a very convincing copy of yourself -- leading Mr. Jones into the carnival funhouse. The two of you are soon lost in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike.

  Ms. Pang says, “We have a few minutes. Why did you bring Mr. Jones here?”

  >SAY, “HE IS STUDYING MMORPGS. MUDS ARE THE FOUNTAINHEAD.”

  Ms. Pang says, “I know. I have done my homework. But why this MUD? Why not something more iconic?”

  >SAY, “I WANTED TO TRY A DIFFERENT THEME, TO SHOW HIM IT’S NOT ALL D&D AND STAR WARS. I USED TO PLAY PUZZLE GAMES LIKE THIS WITH MY MOM WHEN I WAS A KID. OUR VERSION OF BEDTIME STORIES.”

  Ms. Pang says, “That is touching. But I don’t believe you.”

  >SHRUG

  You shrug.

  Ms. Pang says, “I think you chose this MUD for the software it uses.”

  Mr. Bungle is here!

  Appearing seemingly out of nowhere, Mr. Bungle leaps onto the carousel, dressed in a heavy trenchcoat. “Check out MY trophy!” he cries, ripping open the coat to reveal a truly stupendous penis. You gape at it, awestruck, wondering how he manages to keep his balance while sporting such an enormous member. “But wait, there’s more!” Mr. Bungle says. Opening up a jar of Turtle Wax, he anoints himself and begins rubbing the creamy wax into his foreskin. The truly stupendous penis becomes even more stupendous!

  “We’re gonna go a gusher!” Mr. Bungle warns. You scramble for cover but it’s too late. He ejaculates, like a proverbial fire hose, spraying semen everywhere: onto the wooden horses, into the calliope, through the brass ring, and of course, all over you. Drenched from head to toe, you feel horribly violated, yet strangely aroused. If not for embarrassment about the inadequate size of your own manhood, you might even unzip your fly and join in.

  Mr. Bungle’s orgasm goes on and on. He begins to shrink and shrivel up as his entire body mass is converted into hot spunk. “Veni, veni, veni,” he croaks, until at last, turning completely inside out, he vanishes into his own urethra, leaving you to enjoy . . .

  Location: Cum-Covered Carousel

  . . .

  . . .

  . . .

  . . .

  Ms. Pang says, “Your little hobby attracts some sick fucking people, you know that?”

  >SAY, “YOU DON’T HAVE TROLLS IN THE PRC?”

  Ms. Pang smiles at your pathetically transparent attempt to get her to divulge information about herself.

  Ms. Pang says, “As I was saying. This MUD uses the MUDMAKER software suite. All versions of MUDMAKER have security flaws in the server, which is why griefers are so rampant here. But this particular build also has a critical client-side flaw that can allow hackers to gain root privileges on certain users’ computers.”

  Ms. Pang says, “I believe you are aware of this. I believe you brought Mr. Jones here so that you, or a confederate, can try to hack Mr. Jones’s system. This hacking attempt is futile and reckless. If Smith notices, he will terminate your relationship with Mr. Jones. Do you remember how I told you not to disappoint me?”

  >SAY, “I REMEMBER YOU PROMISED TO PAY ME TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS A WEEK. IS THERE A PROBLEM AT YOUR BANK?”

  Ms. Pang says, “Your money is coming soon. In the meantime, you need to stop your foolish sleuthing attempts. Smith is not an idiot, and you are not nearly as clever as you think you are. The fact that I am here now should be proof enough of that. If you screw this up, I will make you very, very sorry.”

  >SAY, “I THINK IT IS WEIRD THAT YOU’RE TRYING TO SCARE ME LIKE THIS. IF YOU ARE WHAT YOU SAY YOU ARE, THE EASIEST WAY TO GET ME TO DO WHAT YOU WANT IS TO PAY ME WHAT YOU PROMISED. IF YOU WANT TO FREAK ME OUT TOO, THEN HAVE SOMEONE KNOCK ON MY DOOR AND HAND ME A SACK OF CASH. THAT WOULD MAKE AN IMPRESSION.”

  . . .

  . . .

  Ms. Pang says, “Very well. You will get your money. And regret your words.”

  Ms. Pang says, “He is leaving the funhouse. He is bored and wants to quit. I am having your double tell him to meet you back at the Game Lobby. Go now.”

  >SAY, “WAIT. HOW DO I CONTACT YOU IF I NEE

  Ms. Pang leaves the carousel.

  >FOLLOW MS. PANG

  Ms. Pang is not here.

  Mr. Bungle is here!

  Appearing seemingly out of nowhere, Mr. Bungle bounds up to you, dressed in a heavy trenchcoat. “Who likes DONKEYS!?” he cries . . .

  Chapter 13

  * * *

  context fail — Confusing one social, political, or technological environment for another, with disastrous consequences. A popular, if apocryphal, example is the avid video gamer who gets hurt after forgetting that in real life there is no reset button. Other examples include acting as if you are anonymous when you are not; calling your spouse by your lover’s name; telling a racist joke to the wrong group of friends; or expecting a stranger to show the same patience and understanding as someone who knows you well.

  Context lag occurs when switching to a new environment after an extended period in an old one. Rapid switching or overlap between multiple environments can lead to context collapse. The practice of remaining continually aware of one’s environment and the rules that apply there is context vigilance.

  —Lady Ada’s Lexicon

  * * *

  Three days later, I still don’t have the money. And it’s not just Ms. Pang who’s delinquent—I haven’t received my second week’s payment from Mr. Jones, either, and neither he nor Smith is responding to my messages. I do have a brief conversation with Mom. She’s kind enough to not say I told you so, but I can tell she’s thinking it.

  Mom sounds better rested than the last time we spoke, which makes sense—the culprit in the Delhi plane crash has been apprehended. Instead of a terrorist mastermind, he turns out to be an emotionally disturbed fifteen-year-old boy, Sunil Gupta. Sunil was angry at his parents for making him stay home while they went to Goa on holiday. He decided to get even by hacking into the air traffic control system at Indira Gandhi Airport and messing with their flight. Sunil has told authorities that he didn’t mean to murder his parents; he just wanted to scare them, by engineering a near-miss between their small commuter plane and a much larger jet. But the commuter plane went down, killing all eleven people on board, and only quick work by the jet’s pilots kept it from suffering a similar fate.

  I would love to ask Mom for more details, but she can’t even confirm that she was working on the case, so like the rest of the world I am forced to rely on news reports and net gossip. The big question on everyone’s mind is, did Sunil Gupta act alone? On CNN, the pundits are reluctant to accept that a teenager could crack the ATC system’s sophisticated encryption without help. But after consulting Wikipedia and discovering that India is in Asia, they grudgingly acknowledge that Sunil is probably a whiz at math.

  There’s a lot of wild speculation about how the hack worked—other than a vague pronouncement that they have “identified and fixed the problem,” the authorities have no comment. But an unsourced rumor that goes viral says that the point of entry was a smart coffeemaker in the air traffic control tower. Rather than attack the ATC system directly, the rumor goes, Sunil used the insecure Bluetooth connection in the coffee machine to execute a “cyber bank shot” into the ATC computer. This strikes me as bullshit, but the CNN peop
le love it because it sounds cool and raises a host of other questions that they can fill time blathering about: Should internet-connected appliances be banned from sensitive areas like air traffic control towers? What’s a coffee machine doing in Delhi, anyway? Don’t Indians drink tea? Does the presence of the coffeemaker suggest that some of the air traffic controllers are foreigners? From a Muslim country, maybe? What do people drink in Pakistan?

  Idiots, I think, but the fact that I am watching this—and the commercials that come with it—means that it’s not just the TV people who are stupid. By the time I log out of CNN, the virus has infected me: I spend another hour wandering the net, looking for evidence that the coffee machine story might actually be true. I don’t find any, but my search leads me to Kowloon Bay Daily, a Hong Kong–based news site that specializes in virtual re-creations of crime scenes.

  They have a 3D mock-up of the crash. A crude simulacrum of Sunil Gupta hunches over a computer desk, beaming radio waves out of the back of his laptop. The waves strike an air traffic control tower, causing a red coffeepot icon to flash ominously. Overhead, a jumbo jet and a prop plane converge. At the last second the jet increases power and pulls up; the backthrust from its engines forces down the nose of the prop plane and sends it spiraling into the ground. The cartoonish nature of the graphics makes this even more horrific and tasteless than it sounds, but I don’t look away. When it’s over, I decide to check out the rest of the website.

  Which is how I end up in another airport, Suvarnabhumi International in Bangkok, watching a nervous Korean man enter the main terminal. A floating caption identifies him as General Han Yong-chol, “believed until recently to be a trusted member of Kim Jong-un’s inner circle.” As the general approaches the security line, a woman—“Unknown Female”—steps in his path and spritzes him in the face with the contents of a tiny spray bottle. The general clutches his throat and falls down convulsing. Unknown Female keeps walking, but she doesn’t make it far—by the time security guards intercept her, she is limping and gasping, and before they can slap cuffs on her, she collapses. Unknown Female looks surprised by this turn of events, but she shouldn’t be: The stuff in her spray bottle is VX nerve agent, one of the deadliest poisons on the planet. Though it was designed as a weapon of mass destruction, VX has been used in at least three political assassinations tied to North Korean intelligence, including the 2017 murder of Kim Jong-un’s half brother, Kim Jong-nam.