Avalon Red

by Mark New

  ‘How much of the end of the world will happen Online?’

  ‘I assumed you would have been fully briefed by Argonaut by now. Our mutual friend told me they’ve been looking for you for some time.’ He meant Peter.

  ‘I don’t think I’d describe it as “fully briefed” given the half-assed way they’ve been investigating things,’ I complained, ‘They still haven’t been clear on what they want me to do either, although I imagine it has something to do with finding the killer and retrieving the codes, assuming it’s the same person responsible for both.’

  ‘According to our friend, the codes are unlikely to be disseminated further so it’s just a question of finding who has them now and destroying the information.’ Oh, is that all?

  ‘I have a problem with the idea that the bad guy hasn’t told anyone,’ I declared. ‘It isn’t so far-fetched to think someone who isn’t supposed to know about it might just have an inkling. For instance, I was told how many people know the sodding codes are compromised and the list didn’t include you.’

  He winced. ‘Fair point. However, if you have the power that possession of the codes gives you, are you really going to want to share? Besides, whoever it is can’t just use them and unleash oblivion. Give us some credit for insisting that Argonaut use proper security protocols.’

  ‘Are these the same protocols that allowed the bad guys to nick the codes in the first place?’ I asked sweetly. He raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Becky doesn’t seem convinced of the power of protocols,’ I went on, ‘she was thinking Naimittika.’

  He thought about it for a moment. I could hear footsteps in the hall behind me. Clearly the game developer had worked hard on aural ambience and verisimilitude. As a precaution, I flicked the menu on the door label so any other character approaching from outside would discover that the door was locked.

  ‘It seems to me,’ he said ‘that we should expect to receive demands from the thief in short order and if we don’t only then should we seriously consider the possibility that this is, indeed, a Naimittika event.’

  ‘I suppose that plays the percentages. Just like we did in Eastern Europe, remember?’

  ‘We have never had any evidence to suggest that was anything other than a localised test that went wrong.’

  ‘No, we haven’t. But it didn’t stop the horror, did it? What if he decides to test the codes to make sure they work?’

  ‘I’m sure Miss Kingston has emphasised that the codes are one-time only,’ he reminded me.

  ‘Yes, but you must be able to target them in smaller amounts than the whole lot at once otherwise what’s the deterrent here?’

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘I can’t see anyone would give up the advantage of having the codes if they were after material reward for the theft. As for smaller amounts: you could set off the whole lot even if they were in different parts of the world but you can’t indulge in letting off some now and some later.’

  ‘As long as the thief realises that - assuming it’s a ransom effort. Or maybe they really do want to kill everyone in the world?’

  ‘If Naimittika was the object, we’re probably already dead.’ Oh, that was comforting. ‘Our friends in this will closely monitor the facility and report if anyone tries to gain access Online or in person. You should bear in mind that there are still a few hoops for the thief to jump through if he intends to actually use what he’s stolen. He can’t just roll up there Online and plug straight in. He also couldn’t do it twice - with the caveat, as you point out, that he is aware of what he has.’ That was true enough. Any Online location had proper security. It was like if you had the code to the bank vault. You were still unlikely to be able to walk through the bank unchallenged on your way to use it. And if you

  succeeded in robbing them once, they would probably be quite firm about not letting you into the bank a second time.

  ‘It would seem that time is still of the essence,’ I said with conviction.

  ‘Oh, without a doubt. Where will you start?’

  He had me there. I hadn’t really had the chance to think about it. I wasn’t a leading investigator but I had to concede that I was probably the best person for the job. Even so, where to start? I was confident that if I found the thief, I could take him down. It was finding him that would be the hardest part. I wasn’t exactly a beginner. Targets for assassins don’t usually make their presence obvious so tracking people both Online and off was something I’d had extensive experience of doing.

  ‘I’m taking the job then?’

  He looked amused. ‘I appreciate the, ah, little local difficulties you have,’ I was tempted to tell Becky how she had been described, ‘but I’d consider it a personal favour.’

  ‘And you want to be kept out of it, of course?’

  ‘Of course. But if there’s anything you need..?’

  I thought he’d never ask. I gave him a list direct to his interface within about three milliseconds of him finishing the question. He laughed. Then he read it and raised his eyebrows. As I’d suspected, he wasn’t going to take issue where the end of the world was concerned.

  ‘All agreed. Are you going to unlock my office door now?’

  I nodded politely and opened the door for my good friend, and temporary clandestine patron, Guard Captain Sir Edward.

  As I collected Storm and rode out it occurred to me that I’d never asked him what the hideous bird device was supposed to represent.

  I galloped Storm in a random direction for a few miles looking for an opportunity to make a smooth exit. If I’d chosen to be a gamer when I came in I could have simply logged out. What I needed was a method of exit that a bot could use and that meant finding a willing candidate to take me out of the game. No point in attracting attention from ingame security bots or the seneschal by leaving in an unorthodox manner. It was only about five minutes before I came upon a clearing in a forest where a lone gamer was admiring the realistic detail of the foliage. Newbie. I checked his TAG and label. He was from Denmark and his character was called Sir Michael, The Knight-Errant, a stock character from chivalric tradition and he had clearly spent no money on it at all. Maybe he was poor and this was his escape from the horrors of life or maybe he was just a cheapskate. Whichever was the case, he was about to get lucky. I’d used the bot cover before and the simplest way to exit was to get killed. Naturally, this was a little counter-intuitive for someone who had spent pretty much his whole life in the military trying to prevent just such an end but I had come to look upon these scenarios as an act of charity. I had a habit of picking the closest newcomer or most poorly equipped and sacrificing myself to their advantage. I made Storm whinny to attract his attention and he duly turned around. His armour was only the basic kind but he gamely put his hand on his sword hilt and took in the magnificent sight of Sir Gary of London.

  ‘I have need of your gold,’ I said, ‘so hand it over.’ He looked a bit surprised. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting to find bandits in the age of chivalry.

  ‘I don’t have any, Sir Knight.’ I knew that, of course. I’d seen his inventory and considering he had been playing for a couple of hours, it was a pretty pathetic haul. The game bots are programmed to give newbies a bit of instant gratification to ensnare them into the game and they were failing with this one. According to his deep log, he’d declined to assist the fair maiden he had chanced upon at the edge of the forest – who was a princess in disguise – and his interest in the foliage meant he’d missed the treasure chest in the bushes. If the seneschal noticed me throwing away my virtual life on this dumbass, the only protocol it would trip would be wild applause. I got off my horse.

  ‘Then I shall have your life, varlet!’ Did people ever really call each other varlet? No matter, it was sufficient for him to draw his sword and wave it inexpertly in my direction. I drew mine. Amongst the advantages of implants is that I can undertake such things with a thought. I didn’t have to don gloves and lie on my bed waving my hands in the air, which was presumably w
hat he was doing in Denmark.

  The battle didn’t take long. I contrived to wound him a couple of times before he lunged stupidly and I moved over so he could run his sword through my neck. As I fell to the ground, I accessed his game control and raised his swordsmanship a few levels. It wouldn’t normally have gone that high after just one fight but he had Storm now and I didn’t want him losing to the first horse thief he met. Storm and I had been through not a lot together and I wanted him to have a good home. As I allowed my character to fade from the scene, I saw Sir Michael closely inspecting the mane and gooing over its realism. I sighed inwardly. I’m so glad I’m not a gamer.

  ◆◆◆

  It takes a couple of minutes to regain your sense of location when you exit a vir-game. Actually that’s true of a vir-show as well and mildly true about Online generally. Workers in a vir-office are very often vir-commuters and there is a whole range of health and safety advice on how to cope with the transition ‘out’ of Online. The quality of the advice depends on your jurisdiction. I’ve been to remote places where they think that balancing three crates of chickens on the back of a moped (in real life) is an acceptable method of cargo hauling so I have my doubts about the usefulness of the health and safety advice about Online there. Regardless of geographical location, most people can’t simply get up and move around immediately after exit. I was better than most as I’d had a lot of practice over the years. Fortunately, the meeting in the birdhouse (that was how I was going to refer to it, I decided, as it had made me recall the chicken incident) had occurred late at night for me so I could just sleep until the morning. I wondered if tomorrow would be as rubbish as today had been. I find that being pessimistic helps with the depression - it means that when things go belly-up, you really aren’t surprised. I rolled over onto my side as I sleep better that way and, out of bad habit, briefly checked my messages. There was another one from the bank. My last thought before sleep was that I fully expected when everyone got to their afterlife of choice they would find some deity wanted to offer investment opportunities or double-glazing. If the weaponised nanotech destroyed all junk mail along with the rest of civilisation on the planet, could anyone seriously argue that the apocalypse had been all bad?

  It was a beautiful day. At least, it was beautiful meteorologically speaking. The sun shone, the sky was blue, the breeze was sighing and the waves lapped gently on the shore. My companions didn’t look like they were enjoying either the weather or their breakfasts. We were on the terrace of the Canton Hotel at the front of the main building which was the focal point for the complex. The villas fanned out either side along the beach. Some guests chose to have their breakfast on the balcony of their villa but, as George (and his lady friend, currently enjoying a spa treatment, apparently) and Becky were in separate villas, they’d chosen to meet me here on the main terrace. It boasted a stupendous view of the lagoon which neither of them seemed to notice. It must be tough being rich and becoming so used to luxury that you no longer notice it. I wasn’t sure that Becky’s income would run to this place if she wasn’t on expenses but she seemed as oblivious as George. For some reason, their main concern seemed to be, oh, yes, the end of the world. Philistines. I was actually feeling quite upbeat, for the first time in a long time. It was a bit of a concern. I was used to feeling morose and covering it with snarky and annoying behaviour. Bordering on happy was a novel feeling. In fact, the last day I counted as a good day was the day that Frisque hired me back in March and the one before that was a distant memory. George had abandoned his hearty tourist persona though his awful dress sense remained intact. Becky looked like she hadn’t slept at all. Despite the rejuv treatment she was pale and drawn. It probably wasn’t the time to suggest that she had further treatment at Argonaut Cosmetics.

  ‘So you’ll take the job?’ George pressed. They’d flanked me when I got here, not that I’d cared. The island breakfast was terrific. I made a mental note to tell Joe. It was a simple mental note as I was still not going to turn on my implants in front of them. Instead, I’d brought my slimpad and stuck it ostentatiously on my hip so everyone could see. If they were monitoring, they’d see that I had engaged security mode to match their own settings. George was seated to my left and Becky to the right and from the moment I sat down they had been anxiously asking about my intentions. I was currently giving in with just enough reluctance to keep up appearances.

  So far I had secured a sizeable salary, unfettered access to any Argonaut system or facility and the complete and utter co-operation of any Argonaut employee for any reason I deemed appropriate.

  ‘There’s one other thing.’ I told him.

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘I want sole use of your trans-orbital jet for the day. You can have it back tomorrow.’ George looked puzzled.

  ‘You can use it whenever you want,’ he said, ‘though I assumed you’d want to come with us back to the States first to meet the security section.’

  Becky turned to me looking suspicious. I saw that she had barely touched her breakfast. I leaned over and took a slice of peach from her plate without asking. She regarded me with disgust me as I gobbled it down. Needless to say, my own plate was empty.

  ‘May I ask where you want to go in such a hurry?’ she asked. I nodded.

  ‘I have to see my psychiatrist.’ I told them.

  Chapter Seven

  Dr Rorke was old school. His office (in Harley Street, naturally) boasted oak-panelled walls, black leather furniture, a mahogany desk and a vir-window displaying a view of the Scottish Highlands. He wore a tweed waistcoat, consulted a gold pocket watch and gazed at you through spring bridge pince-nez spectacles. The fact that the spectacles were techwear didn’t detract from the overall look in any way except when he was reading something Online which had a tendency to make him appear to gaze into the middle-distance.

  It had been some time since I was last in London. Cities have never been my favourite places and compared to Rarotonga everything seemed to be drab and grey. That was probably unfair as the city was one of the more vibrant and forward-thinking of the European capitals these days. This was despite the UK government’s reluctance to exploit the reserves of shale gas which would have given them financial parity with their more enthusiastic fracking neighbours.

  ‘Trans-orbital jet?’ he stated rather than asked. If he’d added ‘laddie’ at the end of the sentence it wouldn’t have seemed out of character. I always had the impression that he restrained his natural Scottish burr for professional activities. I’d seen him drunk on fifty year old malt and I’d never been able to work out if he had been incomprehensible because of his intoxicated state or because he’d reverted to some obscure Highland dialect.

  ‘Borrowed, free of charge,’ I boasted. ‘Currently sitting on the tarmac at East London Airport awaiting my further pleasure.’

  ‘And was the trip the height of luxury that the brochures promise?’

  ‘That and more,’ I assured him. It was an accurate assessment. I’d flown all around the world in my time, mostly on military transport jets but on more than a few commercial airliners as well and I could honestly say that having your own fifteen seat private trans-orbital jet was an exponentially better way to travel. It had been just over three hours from Raro to London and some of that time included a stacking pattern over south east England. The seats were allegedly leather but I’d never sat in any leather seat that was so comfortable. It was almost a cocoon and the trip had been so smooth and turbulence-free that the seatbelt had seemed a frivolous accessory. The flight attendant had been gorgeous, sweet and charming and very quick to offer replenishment of the fine cognac to which I had reluctantly resigned myself. Well, you have to live the dream, don’t you? I’d even got a visit to the flight deck which was hugely interesting. My only regret was that I couldn’t turn on my implants to get a better look at the witchcraft on display for fear of tipping them off that I possessed magic of my own.

  My slight concern was that travelling in suc
h style was hardly inconspicuous. I couldn’t conceal that my point of origin was the Cook Islands, for one thing. I could have hacked the air traffic records and left people thinking that I’d taken off somewhere else, like Auckland, but it was pointless when there were witnesses who saw me board in the Cooks. Instead, I’d opted for a cover story that Argonaut had a serious issue with their systems and needed a specialist to sort it out. It wasn’t far from the truth, give or take the odd extinction event, and Joe had bought it hook, line and sinker. Frisque had granted indefinite leave of absence without commenting on the reason. The whole episode had already raised my profile above the parapet - it isn’t everyday that top executives from a global player turn up in a jet looking for a bartender - so the cover was the best of a bad job.

  So now here I was in Doc’s office doing precisely what I told Becky and George I’d be doing: seeing my psychiatrist.

  ‘The test results won’t be long,’ Doc said. ‘You know there’s been no long-term test for implanted subjects so we’re whistling in the dark here. Of course, most people don’t turn the bloody things back on again when they leave the service.’

  Doc was safe. Originally a Navy doctor specialising in head stuff he had been an early appointee as medico for the specialist cyber-unit of which I’d been a part. All right, which I’d founded. The implants were already in use in small numbers, mostly in Intelligence squads, but my team had a concentration of recipients so it was deemed appropriate to have a medical presence permanently attached. Not only were the implants new tech and untested on the scale to which we put them but our jobs were also highly stressful and having Doc and his people there was really useful. I hadn’t had to argue much with top brass about it. I’d even secured the funding that allowed retired unit members free access at any time to the medical team and especially to the psychiatric specialists within it. Doctor Rorke had retired from the military some years ago and set up his practice in London. One or two of us, with the blessing of the army, had remained under his care. He was right, of course. I was the only one who had been capable of reactivating the implants and I was the self-appointed guinea-pig for a long-term test. That wasn’t the reason I had turned them on again but it was an undeniable fact that I’d had working implants for at least five years longer than the next longest user and he was currently happily retired in Morocco with deactivated equipment. The unit no longer existed but there were still military personnel with implants, Doc said. Nobody had yet been able to improve on the specifications so mine were still state-of-the art.