Something about this last one resonates ever so slightly.
There’s nothing like the endorphin bath you get in reward for making a successful guess. My mind wallows in pleasure upon reading the first sentence of the history section that appears when I click through:
Lacoste is best known for its most notorious resident, Donatien Alphonse Francois comte de Sade, the Marquis de Sade, who in the 18th century lived in the castle overlooking the village.
The identity of the town’s favorite son fits with enough contrived perfection that I know I’ve solved my riddle. The Louis Markey of Billy’s verse isn’t a real person, it’s his NODName. Via “Lou Markey,” you arrive at “Le Marquis.” Sade enthusiasts often style him the Divine Marquis. A curious title for one of history’s most infamous villains.
To find out where Billy’s going with all this, I guess I need to take a trip.
NOD’s geography is based on our real-life Global Positioning System, so I just type the coordinates of Lacoste into the teleport box. Before hitting return, I make sure to mask my IP address so it looks like any session I start with Jacques comes from GAME’s open wifi network.
Jacques materializes on top of one of the few remaining walls ringing the ruins of the Château de Sade. The little town of Lacoste, with its cobbled streets and ancient buildings sagging under red tile roofs, nestles into the forested Provençal hill below. A roman bridge spans a small stream as it meanders through the village.
Billy’s castle, which I see matches his virtual destination at the end of Jacking Out, is a limestone husk with a crumbling curtain wall rising to the east. A maze of walled ditches and open cellars surrounds the empty courtyard, and only a two-story side building attached to a stubby tower remains intact. I walk in there and see that Billy has created a modest presentation of biographical artifacts commemorating Sade’s exploits.
His biography disappoints at first blush. Sade was really more of a persecuted writer than anything else and spent much of his life in prison at the behest of his formidable mother-in-law. The crimes for which he was actually convicted consisted primarily of some minor assaults on prostitutes. Poor behavior, of course, but hardly the stuff of enduring infamy.
The tour begins with a display of the bloody shirt taken off the Prince of Conde after the ferocious beating Sade gave him when they were childhood playmates, an incident that would prefigure a lifetime of conflict with authority. We then move to the box of anisette candies he used to allegedly poison three prostitutes with Spanish Fly in the Marseilles affair, which resulted in one of his many stays in prison. The associated info card points out that Sade most likely had them eat the candy solely intending to make them copiously flatulent. Which was apparently how he liked his courtesans.
There’s a collection of props from the plays he staged at Lacoste once he escaped prison for the first time. Then the dreaded lettres du cachet his mother-in-law obtained that condemned him to the Bastille.
Next up are the giant glass dildos he had his poor wife Renée procure for him while he was imprisoned. These “engines,” or “prestiges,” as he called them, used in his superhuman jailhouse masturbatory regime, were the source of considerable marital strife.
The last exhibit is a straitjacket of massive proportions that conveys how grossly fat he had become after the revolution, when he was jailed again for obscenity and confined to the lunatic asylum at Charenton. Thus did Donatien Alphonse François, comte de Sade, die: fat, impoverished, and officially insane.
But he left an immortal legacy due to the body of written work he created in life. The château’s exhibits end in a library up a narrow spiral staircase into the castle’s lone remaining tower. There I find volumes that, when selected, offer to download PDFs of all Sade’s major works: his plays, essays, and novels. These writings explore the pleasures to be found in cruelty at such length that the word “sadism” was coined in his honor. Furthermore, his books serve as the foundational documents for the genre of sex practices known as “bondage.” The line in Billy’s rhyme “Let my word be your bond” could refer to no one else. Indeed, all the submissives right now tied up in dungeons across the city surely have him to thank for their restraints.
I download all of them and point my av out of the room. But right at the exit there’s a tasteful placard written with a calligraphic font that says:
I hope you enjoyed my small exhibition,
And that you’re inflamed past all thoughts of contrition.
If now there is more that you desire to know,
Then find and explore my eternal château.
—Louis_Markey
If the Château de Sade isn’t his eternal château, then what is?
For that matter, why would Billy want to send his players to this place? Judging by some of his work, I can see that he might harbor an affinity for Sade, but the renowned rake doesn’t seem to have much to do with either GAME or the Randall family. Still, the card suggests an obvious next move, alleviating any doubt that I’ve discovered a space on Billy’s game board.
I feel a rare tingle of excitement as I start sorting possibilities. Though I haven’t so much as stood up in hours, finding this place in virtual France makes me feel like I’m getting somewhere.
Minutes later, an even more exciting aspect of my investigation demands cycles. I get an email from Olya expressing with the charming formality of a non-native writer her gratitude for my help last night. A quick look at the header tells me she sent it from GAME’s internal network.
Rather than reply, I jog downtown in the hopes of catching her. Of course I’d like to question her about the incident and her relationship with Billy, but my overriding motivation is that I want to accept her thanks in person.
And to see what more I can do for her.
11
But she’s not there. I must have just missed her.
Irritated, I start scouting locations for the hidden cameras I’ll install to better monitor the GAMErs’ movements, on the off chance that Billy decides to drop in on his old friends.
As my eyes trace the moldings above the main elevator, I’m surprised to find a small video camera on a gimbal mount already focused straight at me. This must be the detritus of a surveillance game called Gotcha someone last night told me took over the building during the previous spring like some form of voyeuristic kudzu. I’m amazed the other residents tolerated it, but for me the remaining network is a blessing from above.
It’s only a few minutes’ work to track a couple cables to a file server dumped in an otherwise abandoned rack room. I glom its address and network ID and head back to my office to probe the box.
Whoever set up the project lacked any notion of network security. I find their server riddled with yawning orifices, and I have root-level control over it within the hour. The box contains about a terabyte of compressed video streams captured at irregular intervals over the past several months.
The last image recorded in many of these is Olya’s stunning countenance, squinting angrily. Then static. She represents a Ringu-like supernatural force for them: the last thing the cameras see before they die. Why would such a broadcast-quality woman be so protective of her privacy?
I don’t have time to wade through all this video. Luckily Red Rook has availed itself of a Defense Department development grant to explore robust facial recognition. The software is called ProSoap, from a combination of “prosopon,” Greek for “face,” and its ability to “scrub” non-useful frames from a video file. I train the engine with photos from the GAME website’s profile pages. The goal here is to see if the cameras can tell me the last time Billy was at GAME, and with whom he spent time before he disappeared.
While I’m waiting for results, I get up in search of a bathroom. As I’m passing by the steel door across the hall from me, Andrew Garriott peeks his head out. He offers a disappointed, “Hey, mate,” before ducking back in.
It takes quite a while, but ProSoap picks out some interesting action.
>
As I click through videos starring Billy, they paint a pretty clear portrait of a guy not well liked. He sets down a plate of takeout in the upstairs dining area, and his neighbors promptly get up. He joins a conversation at a bank of vending machines, and the group disperses until he’s left staring at a girl who’s too stoned to acknowledge his presence. He leans over the shoulder of a fellow resident working at a computer, making what seems like a well-intentioned comment. But the guy gives him the bird without even looking at him.
This ostracism feels strange to me. Normally any number of people would be willing to make nice with someone like Billy simply due to the gravitational pull of his bank account. Although his name-change indicates that he was tired of that sort of attention and wanted to be taken on his (apparently dubious) merits. After about a month, almost all of Billy’s appearances consist of his entering at the front, going down to his workspace in the POD for a few hours, and leaving without speaking to a soul.
One of the most recent feeds shows him carrying a stepladder down the hallway outside my office. He stops right in front of my door. His other hand holds a tiny piece of electronics, which he carefully places on top of the doorjamb. Then he checks his iPhone’s screen and makes a twisting motion with his finger on the gear he’s setting up. Finally satisfied, he departs.
Looks like the surveillance gamers aren’t the only ones installing hardware around the building. And if a wireless camera was sitting on my doorjamb, then it must have been pointed at the door behind which Garriott is currently working. The one Xan seemed slightly nervous about when I chose my office.
So Billy was eavesdropping on Garriott? Now, why would that be?
I gathered from their group champagne bath at the party that Olya, Garriott, and Xan are working on some joint endeavor. And if Billy’s paying them special attention, so should I.
Hours pass as I sift through more results. I linger on a selection that shows a cocktail party for the summer’s new residents, at which there is a lot of handshaking and convivial chatter. I see Olya has already made friends with Xan and Garriott, and the three stand in a circle conversing. Billy steps into the frame, causing them to stop talking. Olya glares at him like an angry wildebeest, while the other two look away in discomfort.
As Billy shuffles off, shoulders slumped, a small brunette puts her hand on his arm. She says something in his ear and then kisses him on the cheek before skipping away. Billy’s gaze follows her, abject devotion in his eyes, his face growing a fragile smile.
I rewind and zoom in on the girl: Gina Delaney.
So Billy had at least one friend, though evidently there’s some bad blood pulsing in from PiMP between Billy and Olya. Yet in the clip it seemed like he was trying to edge closer to his former classmate. That’s not surprising given her gale-force sexuality. But she despises him. So maybe it’s something else between them.
Which brings me back to that guy who accosted her. He said, “Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.” And tried to give her that necklace. The street asylum of New York is replete with Delphic utterances and aberrant behavior, but the guy following her just as Billy starts his new game? And sidewalk crazies don’t normally employ cameramen. Is it possible that Billy would have recruited someone to attack one of his colleagues as an opening move? For a guy willing to create a dangerous stampede in a haunted house, I’d have to say, “Sure.” But if so, why?
Then I realize I’m looking right at the answer. I zoom in again on the shot of Gina kissing Billy and sharpen the area around her neck. Hanging there is a purple twenty-sided die. So the necklace I found was either Gina’s or a replica of one she used to wear.
What’s the implication? That the necklace was some kind of trophy? Maybe “Don’t pretend you didn’t want it” was an accusation. But of what?
It’s clear I’m going to have to crawl inside Billy Randall’s head to get through his game. Digging into what goes on in this building will help. But where he made mostly enemies, I want to make friends.
I get my first opportunity half an hour later when I hear an outburst of plummy cursing through the door of Garriott’s work space. After a brief interval of quiet, there’s some keyboard banging accompanied by “Bloody arseing swine-fucker!” The bump of his chair being kicked against the wall. I go to his door, which opens slightly at my knock.
“Everything okay?”
As I step into the room, I see it’s a raw but spacious studio dominated by five large worktables arranged in a U shape. Garriott is bent over in front of his computer clawing his head. Hearing me, he jerks upright. “Oh, yeah. You know these damn retromingent machines.”
I have no idea what that means, but I ask, “Anything I can help with?”
Garriott resumes his seat, and I notice one of his windows minimizing without him touching the keyboard. He’s got a series of foot pedals below his desk. These are used by very serious programmers to replicate the CTRL, ALT, SHIFT, and TAB keys.
“Oh, I’m okay, it’s just—” He examines me with a sense of desperation. I can see him mentally dismiss my offer as coming from an ineffectual “video artist.”
He says, “That’s all right, mate. I think only God can help me at this point.”
I nod slowly, reading the code remaining on his screen. On a hunch, I say, “Okay. But you know our God is a jealous God and responds to the recursion of fathers by dealing buffer overflows unto the third and fourth generations.”
He looks from me to his monitor. “Wait, what? How do you know that?”
“I don’t. But it’s often a problem when you’re starting from scratch.”
“I’m a bot jock. This networking shit . . . How is it you know so much about—”
“I wasn’t always a video drone. Mind if I sit?”
Garriott pulls over another chair, and I start scrolling through his code. For someone who’s spent the better part of thirty years getting reluctant or even hostile systems to follow orders from a distance, it’s pretty elementary. I haven’t done much real programming in a while, but I’m sure I can assist him.
“What’s all this for, anyway?”
“Sorry, mate. Can’t really say. I mean, I’d tell you, but my team is sensitive to—”
“You’re working on this with Xan and Olya?”
“Yeah,” he says with a slight wince at the disclosure.
“Right on. Well, I respect that. Sometimes things need to gestate until they can spring upon the world fully formed.”
“This brat is like to kill her mother in the process.”
“Anyway, all this stuff is pretty abstracted. I’d be happy to help you with it.”
He’s clearly torn, but I guess the late hour and his frustrating lack of progress combine to force his assent.
A little after two AM, Garriott hits the compile button and says, “It better work this time.”
We’ve scrapped most of his original code, and I put him onto an open-source library that rigorously implements the bulk of what he’s trying to do.
We see our test data start whizzing through various monitoring programs. After about a minute, we cut it off and get a readout of “exceptions: 0.” This elicits more keyboard banging, but now in unrestrained joy. These are the occasions engineers live for: when hours of tedious effort result in a lone number that means success. Seeing that simple flag come up is better than all the slot machine cherries in Vegas. Because you know your baby has taken its first step. Garriott slaps my back.
“Thanks, mate. That could have taken me weeks.”
“No problem. It’s nice to stay sharp on this stuff.”
He checks his watch. “Well, I’m not going right to sleep after this; why don’t you let me stand you a—I mean several—pints?”
So here’s the perfect chance to establish trust with someone using the most time-honored of methods: get drunk with him.
“Done.”
We walk over to Foo Bar, an underground cocktail fetishist’s joint south of Delancey. Gar
riott texts for part of the walk, perhaps extolling his recent triumph. As we enter, it’s clear that he spends enough time in this place to have achieved a Vulcan mind-meld with the staff. A waitress delivers three Guinnesses just after we sit down.
A minute later, Xan slips into our booth. She says, “My fierce warriors retire to the mead hall to sing of their great victory.”
Garriott raises his glass. “I propose a bumper to it!”
Guinness isn’t my normal choice for high-volume drinking, but I follow the other two in draining my glass. These children of the Commonwealth were probably fed stout in their baby bottles. I prepare myself for a long evening.
Shots of Jameson and more beer appear unordered. Garriott and Xan grin at each other and then make a series of hand gestures: first a V-sign, then they point at themselves, and finally, a pinkies-extended pantomime of sipping from a cup. Then they drop their shots into the beers and chug them. They look at me, and I do the same, finishing with a contented gasp as the ethanol and oxygen deprivation set about working their sweet magic.
“I take it y’all served in some kind of alcoholic militia together.”
Xan says to Garriott, “I’m sure we’re not supposed to tell him.”
“Luv, tonight he earned the juice, and it has to be consecrated. So, he might as well do it properly.”
“What does it mean?” I ask.
Xan repeats the gestures, saying, “Two, I, tea. That’s the toast.”
“I like Information Technology as much as anyone—”
“No, no. Not the acronym. The neuter pronoun: ‘it.’”
“I’ve never lifted my glass to grammar. Why do we do that?”
Xan says, “We mean ‘it’ in the sense of ‘the thing of the moment,’ like an it-girl. Or the sui generis, if you will. As in, ‘That is it!’”
I shake my head. Their toast lacks the gravity of “God save the king” or “Viva la revolución.”
Strange Flesh Page 8
