This Is Not a Game

by Walter Jon Williams

  Do you think you might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? he’d asked.

  Her answer had been less than serious, but she’d give a different one now. She’d seen dreadful things in Indonesia, but she’d had the consolation of going home afterward and looking at them from a safe distance.

  The atrocities were no longer at arm’s length. They were right in her lap.

  “Murdoch asked me,” Dagmar said, “if Austin had any enemies. And when I said he didn’t, they didn’t believe me.”

  “Would you? ” Charlie’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “They asked me if he had any connection to organized crime.”

  Dagmar was overwhelmed by a feeling of disgust at the question.

  “Christ,” she said, “that’s stupid.”

  Charlie gave her an irritated look.

  “It was a drive-by shooting,” he said. “A contract killing, most likely. Murdoch was only asking the obvious questions.”

  Dagmar felt herself dig in her heels. Austin was not some kind of mafioso or drug dealer, and he didn’t deal with them, and any investigation aimed in that direction was not only wrong, it was a waste of the time that could be spent finding the killer.

  “If it was a contract killing,” she said, “they hit the wrong man.”

  An idea brushed against her mind, but she was too weary to catch at it, and it faded.

  “Listen,” she said. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Charlie turned again to Pinky and the Brain, gazed at them bleakly, then closed his eyes.

  “Oh yeah? ” he said. “Is it important? ”

  “I’m afraid so.” She gathered her strength, then spoke. “A video of the killing turned up on Video Us, along with pictures of the shooter. They were taken with a zoom lens from-I don’t know-across the highway, maybe.”

  Charlie’s eyes were wide open and staring at her. “Do the police know? ”

  “I called Murdoch and gave him the URL. I had to explain about the game-I don’t think he quite understood it.”

  “If they catch the guy,” Charlie judged, “what Murdoch understands doesn’t matter. Who took the pictures? ”

  “A new gamer who uses the handle Consuelo. But I think she’s a sock puppet for someone like Hermes or Joe Clever-one of our Dumpster divers.”

  “Jesus.” Charlie sagged in his chair again. “At least one of those bastards finally did something useful.”

  “It means we’re being stalked by someone pretty serious,” Dagmar said.

  Charlie flapped a hand. “Who cares? We’ve been stalked before.”

  “But not by a contract killer,” Dagmar said. “If we look in the rearview mirror and see someone following us, is it Joe Clever or is it somebody with a gun? ”

  Charlie gave her an unreadable look. “We are not the targets here,” he said.

  “Crazy people exist,” Dagmar said. “None of the people we work or play with are exactly models of middle-American thought and behavior.” She banged a hand on the arm of her chair. “Someone killed Austin, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Right. Shit. Damn.” Charlie hesitated. “Do you think I should put out a warning to our employees? ”

  “They might overreact.” Dagmar thought for a long moment. “But if you failed to put out a warning and someone got hurt, then you might be liable.”

  That decided it.

  “Right. I’ll have Karin send out an email when she gets back.”

  Dagmar hesitated. “There’s another problem,” she said.

  “Can it wait? ”

  “No.” Again she hesitated. She didn’t want to acknowledge this.

  “The Video Us site,” she said, “has had nearly half a million hits since the video was posted.”

  Charlie’s lip twisted. “Sick fucks,” he said.

  “No,” Dagmar said. “Confused fucks. Consuelo’s a gamer-she posted the link on Our Reality Network and nowhere else. Nobody knows whether the video is real or a part of the game. The Our Reality people have been speculating on their live feed continually since eight o’clock last night, and they’re not slowing down.”

  “Jesus.” Charlie rubbed his eyes.

  “The buzz is huge,” she said. “It’s spreading outside the usual channels. And normally we want buzz, just not the kind we’re getting.”

  “Screw the buzz,” Charlie said. “You’ve got a subscription to their live feed, right? ”

  “Yeah. Under one of my handles.”

  Anger edged Charlie’s tones, burned in his eyes. He jabbed a finger into the laminate surface of his desk.

  “So go online,” he said, “blow your cover as Dagmar, and tell them that Austin’s death was not a part of the game but a real-life tragedy. And they should shut the fuck up already. Got that? ”

  “Right.” Again she hesitated. “But it might be too late.”

  “Too late for what? ”

  Dagmar looked at the savagery crackling behind Charlie’s eyes and decided not to answer.

  “Never mind.” She rose. “I’ll go post the announcement.”

  Unspoken objections still clattered in her mind, objections that had nothing to do with Austin’s death or the investigation.

  They had to do with the shape of the game.

  When Consuelo had posted the video and linked to it from Our Reality Network, the shape of the game had changed. The players had shifted their energies in an unanticipated direction.

  Alternate reality games worked in a complex synergy with the player community. During the course of previous games, Dagmar had been forced to change the game when players moved in an unexpected way.

  TINAG-this is not a game. The game only worked when both players and puppetmasters acted as if everything was real. When Dagmar, as puppetmaster, addressed the players directly, it shattered the illusion-it broke the fourth wall, as in theater when an actor turns to the audience and speaks to them directly.

  If Dagmar posted a notice telling players that Austin’s death was real, all the player momentum that had been generated by the release of Consuelo’s video would come to a screeching halt.

  Dagmar was loyal to her creations-to their integrity, their own internal sense. She wanted their shape to be logical, their interior purposes fulfilled. She didn’t mind changing her work if the change was for the better, but arbitrary changes made her crazy, and she completely hated changes that destroyed the illusion she had worked so hard to create.

  But, she then realized, in this case her loyalty was ridiculous. What was the game-what was a mere story-against Austin’s tragedy?

  Charlie was right. Dagmar had to make the announcement. Austin’s real death could not become a part of Dagmar’s alternate reality amusement.

  She mentally composed the message as she walked to her office. As the executive producer for Great Big Idea she had a spacious corner billet and a desk filled with high-powered hardware. The rest of the office featured desks and shelves filled with souvenirs of Dagmar’s frenetic, complicated life. There were books, disks, manuals, file folders, and toys. There were posters from gaming conventions, graphic designs from the past four years of Dagmar’s games, portfolios of actors, technicians, and software designers, maps of areas where live events had taken place, books about the history of Los Angeles and other cities, and lists of the go-to people in half the cities of the world.

  On a coat stand near the door hung her panama hat, the one she had worn in Jakarta.

  She had always assumed that when she had some free time, she’d systematize her room into a streamlined, efficient, highly organized office that reflected her personality. But then, as the years passed and the clutter only grew, she’d finally conceded that the room already reflected her personality, and then stopped thinking about it.

  She sat at her desk. Her computer was already logged on to Our Reality Network under one of her aliases, and she checked the message boards to see if there had been any developments in the last half hour.

  And there it was.
<
br />   Oh Christ.

  FROM: Chatsworth Osborne Jr.

  For once I am not going to demonstrate how I learned this, as I very much like my day job and want to keep it. But thanks to Consuelo’s excellent snaps, we’ve got a ton of biometric data, and it gives us the identity of the shooter.

  Our man is one Arkady Petrovich Litvinov, age 28, a Russian national born in Latvia. He is a member of Russian organized crime and is suspected of a string of murders in Russia and Western Europe.

  This is his first appearance in North America. I doubt he arrived in the U.S. under his own name.

  I’ve posted his rap sheet here-sorry, but it’s in Russian. You might have better luck with his sheet from Interpol.

  I’m afraid this will end our long and ultimately fruitless discussion of whether the killing Consuelo caught on camera is part of Motel Room Blues. Great Big Idea is known for its innovative approaches to gaming, but I very much doubt they would hire a genuine Russian killer to play an assassin.

  Maybe it’s time to leave this issue behind and return to the actual game that GBI is giving us.

  FROM: Corporal Carrot

  Damn, Chatty! What are you in your other life? Some kind of spook?

  FROM: Chatsworth Osborne Jr.

  I’m afraid I can neither confirm nor deny.

  FROM: Desi

  Are you a cop?

  FROM: Chatsworth Osborne Jr.

  Let’s just say I have access to biometric data, and leave it at that.

  FROM: LadyDayFan

  I think we should stop harassing Chatsworth and thank him for his first-rate work.

  FROM: Corporal Carrot

  Amen! Most excellent detection, dawg!

  FROM: Hippolyte

  Customs should be able to ID him from biometric data and find out the passport he’s used to come into the country.

  FROM: Corporal Carrot

  It’s not our problem any longer.

  FROM: Hippolyte

  I’m just sayin’.

  FROM: Chatsworth Osborne, Jr.

  I’m not in a position to alert Customs myself. But perhaps someone reading this is better situated.

  FROM: Desi

  (At least we now know that Chatty doesn’t work for Customs!)

  FROM: Hippolyte

  You know, we’re not devoting every minute of every day to Motel Room Blues. If we could solve a real-life murder, we could earn a lot of good karma. Like we did by helping Dagmar.

  FROM: Corporal Carrot

  But the victim won’t give us all a thank-you dinner, the way Dagmar did.

  Dagmar looked at the bulletins lined up on her screen and simply stared for a long moment. Then she let out the air she’d been holding in her lungs and reached for the phone on her desk.

  She had Lieutenant Murdoch’s number somewhere, if she could find his card with her trembling fingers.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN This Is Not a Detective

  Charlie had showered and changed and as a result now looked like a homeless person who had been taken off the street and dressed in someone else’s clothes. He was slumped, motionless, over his desk, hunched over a mug of coffee. He seemed to have aged twenty years in the past twenty-four hours.

  Probably Dagmar had, too. She should probably avoid mirrors for the next several days-she didn’t want to know how ragged she looked.

  As Dagmar entered his office, Charlie looked up, and said, “Did you post the message? ”

  “I didn’t need to. The Group Mind figured it out on its own.”

  He shrugged, slumped again. Dagmar seated herself.

  “But listen,” Dagmar said, “they figured it out by finding out who the killer was.”

  Charlie looked up.

  “He’s a professional hit man,” Dagmar said. “Russian Maffya.”

  Charlie stared. Dagmar sensed his mind working behind the weary facade.

  “Did you tell the police? ” he asked.

  “Yes, but Murdoch already knew. They had Consuelo’s uploads and the same biometric data that the Group Mind had.”

  “Do they know where the guy lives? ”

  “He smuggled himself into the country under a false identity. I imagine they’re going to wait for him to fly out on that identity, and nail him at the airport.”

  Charlie looked down, frowned for a moment, then glanced up. “Do you know what false identity he’s using? ”

  “Murdoch wouldn’t say.”

  Charlie leaned back, stared into the far distance, and tapped a thumbnail against his coffee mug. “I wish,” he said, “that I was one of those millionaires who knew all the politicians, and I could call Murdoch’s superior and get the name. But I’m not politically connected. I’ve never needed favors from any of those people. I don’t even know who my state senator is.”

  “Do you know anyone who is connected? ” Dagmar asked. “Anyone who owes you a favor? ”

  “I know lots of people. Favors are another issue.” He looked at Dagmar and narrowed his eyes. “We’re thinking about the same thing, aren’t we? ”

  “Set the Group Mind to finding the killer? ”

  “Yeah.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “That is like totally crazy, isn’t it? ”

  Dagmar felt anger clenching the muscles in her jaw.

  “I want Austin’s killer found,” she said.

  “So do I.”

  “So if we make Austin’s killing part of the game…”

  “Yeah.”

  Dagmar put her hands on her head. “And give rewards to anyone who gives us answers.” She passed a hand over her weary eyes. “I’ll have to think about how to do all that. How to work it.”

  Charlie stood, hitched up his brand-new khaki trousers.

  “In an hour,” he said, “I’ve got a meeting with Austin’s partners. We’ve got to try and figure out a way to keep his company going.”

  She looked at him. “Why are you involved? You’re not part of his company.”

  “I’m one of Austin’s original backers. I still own a piece.”

  She stared at him in surprise. He looked irritated.

  “What’s wrong? ” he said.

  “It’s just that I didn’t know that.”

  Charlie flapped one arm. “I made my millions first, so I gave Austin a hand. It’s not as if I haven’t been repaid a dozen times over. He had the golden touch.”

  “What’s going to happen with the company? ”

  He shook his head. “He’s got partners, but they’re junior partners. None of them are ready to move up to the Show. So we’re going to have to hire a honcho with a good record, and hire him fast, and that’s going to cost.”

  “Good luck.”

  He waved a hand. “Thanks.”

  She stood, and she walked with him to the elevator. As he reached for the button, she put a hand over his.

  “Charlie,” she said, “I have to know something.”

  He looked at her. “Sure. What do you need? ”

  “I need to know if Austin was connected with the Russian Maffya,” she said. “You’re a part of his company, maybe you know.”

  Charlie looked at her in astonishment.

  “No,” he said. “No, in fact I’m sure he wasn’t. I don’t know every start-up he was involved with, but I know he had plenty of options, and there’s no way he’d touch anything that looked hinky.”

  Hinky. Now there was a word Dagmar had never before heard in conversation.

  “Okay,” she said. “Next question.” She looked over her shoulder, made certain the corridor was empty. “Are you involved with the Maffya? ”

  Charlie was beyond astonishment. The question left him openmouthed.

  “Me? ” he managed.

  “Yes.”

  He put a hand on her arm.

  “Dagmar,” he said, “I make software. I make autonomous agents to help business and government manage complex systems.” He gave an incredulous laugh. “I help ordinary people make shopping decisions. I help filte
r spam, for Christ’s sake.”

  Dagmar licked dry lips.

  “You have these foreign backers,” she said. “None of us have ever met them.”

  Again he gave a laugh.

  “No,” he said. “None of them are Russian.”

  Then he stepped back, put both his hands on the sides of his head in a parody of astonishment.

  “Dagmar! ” His voice rose to a kind of geeky shriek, unusual in a man of his height and dignity. “How long have we known each other? I can’t believe you’ve been thinking this!”

  Dagmar felt heat rise to her cheeks.

  “Sorry,” she said. “But it occurred to me that the killer might have been after you, not Austin.”

  He looked at her in sudden silence, and lowered his hands. “What do you mean? ”

  “You’re the same physical type. You wear glasses and he didn’t, but he was wearing shades. Your faces are different, but behind the cap and sunglasses, that might not have been apparent. You were even wearing the same color shirt.”

  Charlie raised his arms again and looked at his new shirt.

  “Jesus, Dagmar,” he said.

  “Okay.” Dagmar waved a hand. “I’m clearly out of my mind. Go to your meeting, okay? ”

  “Sure.” He reached for the elevator button and pressed it, then shook his head.

  “Damn,” he said. “You’re fucking scary, you know that? ”

  Dagmar ventured a tight little smile.

  “PTSD,” she said. “But I’m learning how to manage it.”

  Exhausted, Dagmar went home in midafternoon. On the way she stopped at a Beef Bowl drive-through, and the scent of the beef, rice, and ginger rising in her dented old Prius rekindled her faded appetite.

  It had been a long time since that piece of toast.

  Dagmar lived in a two-room apartment in the valley, less than two miles from AvN Soft. The building had been built in the 1970s, was three stories tall, and surrounded a courtyard with palm trees, a swimming pool, and a clubhouse with a couple of Ping-Pong tables and humming soda machines.