His eyes are wide in the shadows. "You mean, this is government work? Like in Deus Ex?"
I nod. "That's it exactly, kid." Actually it's more like Doom III but I'm not ready to tell him that, he might start pestering me for a grenade launcher.
"So we're going to, like, set up a LAN party and log onto lots of persistent realms and search'n'sweep them for demons and blow the demons away?" He's almost panting with eagerness. "Wait'll I tell my homies!"
"Pete, you can't do that."
"What, isn't it allowed?"
"No, I didn't say that." I lead him back towards the well-lit corridors of the Ops wing and the coffee break room beyond. "I said you can't do that. You're under a Geas. Section III of the Official Secrets Act says you can't tell anyone who hasn't signed the said act that Section III even exists, much less tell them anything about what it covers. The Laundry is 100% under cover, Pete. You can't talk about it to outsiders, you'd choke on your own purple tongue."
"Eew." He looks disappointed. "You mean, like, this is real secret stuff. Like mum's work."
"Yes, Pete. It's all really secret. Now let's go get a coffee and pester somebody in Facilities for a mains extension bar and a computer."
****
I spend the rest of the day wandering from desk to desk, filing requisitions and ordering up supplies, with Pete snuffling and shambling after me like an supersized spaniel. The cleaners won't be able to work over Johnson's office until next Tuesday due to an unfortunate planetary conjunction, but I know a temporary fix I can sketch on the floor and plug into a re-purposed pocket calculator that should hold 'Slug" Johnson at bay until we can get him exorcised. Meanwhile, thanks to a piece of freakish luck I discover a stash of elderly laptops nobody is using; someone in Catering mistyped their code in their Assets database last year, and thanks to the wonders of our ongoing ISO 9000 certification process there is no legal procedure for reclassifying them as capital assets without triggering a visit by the Auditors. So I duly issue Pete with a 1.4 gigaherz Toshiba Sandwich Toaster, enlist his help in moving my stuff into the new office, nail a WiFi access point to the door like a tribal fetish or mezuzeh ("this office now occupied by geeks who worship the great god GHz"), and park him on the other side of the spacious desk so I can keep an eye on him.
The next day I've got a staff meeting at 10am. I spend the first half hour drinking coffee, making snide remarks in email, reading slashdot, and waiting for Pete to show up. He arrives at twenty-five to ten: "here." I chuck a fat wallet full of CD-Rs at him. "Install these on your laptop, get on the intranet, and download all the patches you need. Don't, whatever you do, touch my computer or try to log onto my NWN server - it's called Bosch, by the way. I'll catch up with you after the meeting."
"Why is it called Bosch?" he whines as I stand up and grab my security badge off the filing cabinet.
"Washing machines or Hieronymous machines, take your pick." I head off to the conference room for the Ways and Means Committee meeting-to investigate new ways of being mean, as Bridget once explained it to me.
At first I'm moderately hopeful I'll be able to stay awake through the meeting. But then Lucy, a buck-toothed goth from Facilities, gets the bit between the incisors. She's going on in a giggly way about the need to outsource our administration of office sundries in order to focus on our core competencies, and I'm trying desperately hard not to fall asleep, when there's an odd thudding sound that echoes through the fabric of the building. Then my pager goes off.
Andy's at the other end of the table. He looks at me: "Bob, your call, I think."
I sigh. "You think?" I glance at the pager display. Oops, so it is. "'Scuse me folks, something's come up."
" Go on." Lucy glares at me half-heartedly from behind her lucky charms. "I'll minute you."
"Sure." And I'm out, almost an hour before lunch. Wow, so interns are useful for something. Just as long as he hasn't gotten himself killed.
I trot back to the Slug's office. Peter-Fred is sitting in his chair, with his back to the door.
"Pete?" I ask.
No reply. But his laptop's open and running, and I can hear its fan chugging away. "Uh-huh." And the disk wallet is open, lying on my side of the desk.
I edge towards the computer carefully, taking pains to stay out of eye-shot of the screen. When I get a good look at Peter-Fred I see that his mouth's ajar and his eyes are closed: he's drooling slightly. "Pete?" I say, and poke his shoulder. He doesn't move. Probably a good thing, I tell myself. Okay, so he isn't conventionally possessed…
When I'm close enough, I filch a sheet of paper from the inkjet printer, turn the lights out, and angle the paper in front of the laptop. Very faintly I can see reflected colors, but nothing particularly scary. "Right," I mutter. I slide my hands in front of the keyboard-still careful not to look directly at the screen-and hit the key combination to bring up the interactive debugger in the game I'm afraid he's running. Trip an object dump, hit the keystrokes for quick save and quit, and I can breathe a sigh of relief and look at the screen shot.
It takes me several seconds to figure out what I'm looking at. "Oh you stupid stupid arse." It's Peter-Fred, of course. He installed NWN and the other stuff I threw at him, the Laundry-issue hack pack and DM tools, and the creation toolkit. Then he went and did exactly what I told him not to do: he connected to Bosch. That's him in the screenshot between the two half-orc mercenaries in the tavern, looking very afraid.
****
Two hours later it's lunchtime, Brains and Pinky are baby-sitting Pete's supine body (we don't dare move it yet), Bosch is locked down and frozen, and I'm sitting on the wrong side of Angleton's desk, sweating bullets. "Summarize, boy," he rumbles, fixing me with one yellowing rheumy eye. "Keep it simple. None of your jargon, life's too short."
"He's fallen into a game and he can't get out." I cross my arms. "I told him precisely what not to do and he went ahead and did it. Not my fault."
Angleton makes a wheezing noise, like a boiler threatening to explode. After a moment I recognize it as two thousand year old laughter, mummified and out for revenge. Then he stops wheezing. Oops, I think. "I believe you, boy. Thousands wouldn't. But you're going to have to get him out. You're responsible."
I'm responsible? I'm about to tell the old man what I think when a second thought screeches into the pile-up at the back of my tongue and I bite my lip. I suppose I am responsible, technically. I mean, Pete's my intern, isn't he? I'm a management grade, after all, and if he's been assigned to me that makes me his manager, even if it's a post that comes with loads of responsibility and no actual power to, like, stop him doing something really foolish. I'm in loco parentis, or maybe just plain loco. I whistle quietly. "What would you suggest?"
&nb
sp; Angleton wheezes again. "Not my field, boy, I wouldn't know one end of one of those new-fangled Babbage machine contraptions from the other." He fixes me with a gimlet stare: "but feel free to draw on HR's budget line. I will make enquiries over on the other side to see what's going on. But if you don't bring him back, I'll make you explain what happened to his mother."
"His mother?" I'm puzzled. "You mean she's one of us?"
"Yes. Didn't Andrew tell you? Mrs. Young is the deputy director in charge of Human Resources. So you'd better get him back before she notices her son is missing."
****
James Bond has Q Division; I've got Pinky and Brains from Tech Support. Bond gets jet packs, I get whoopee cushions, but I repeat myself. Still, at least P and B know about first-person shooters.
"Okay, let's go over this again," says Brains. He sounds unusually chipper for this early in the morning. "You set up Bosch as a server for a persistent Neverwinter Nights world, running the full Project Aurora hack pack. That gives you, oh, lots of extensions for trapping demons that wander into your realm while you trace their owner's PCs and inject a bunch of spyware, then call out to Accounts to send a black-bag team round in the real world. Right?"
"Yes." I nod. "An internet honeypot for supernatural intruders."
"Wibble!" That's Pinky. "Hey, neat! So what happened to your PFY?"
"Well." I take a deep breath. "There's a big castle overlooking the town, with a twentieth-level sorceress running it. Lots of glyphs of summoning in the basement dungeons, some of which actually bind at run-time to a class library that implements the core transformational grammar of the Language of Leng." I hunch over slightly. "It's really neat to be able to do that kind of experiment in a virtual realm-if you accidentally summon something nasty it's trapped inside the server or maybe your local area network, rather than being out in the real world where it can eat your brains."
Brains stares at me. "You expect me to believe this kid took out a twentieth level sorcerer? Just so he could dick around in your dungeon lab?"
"Uh, no." I pick up a blue-tinted CD-R. Someone-not me-has scribbled a cartoon skull-and-crossbones on it and added a caption: DO NOT READ ME. "I've been looking at this-carefully. It's not one of the disks I gave Pete, it's one of his own. He's not totally clueless, for a crack-smoking script kiddie. In fact, it's got a bunch of interesting class libraries on it. He went in with a knapsack full of special toys and just happened to fuck up by trying to rob the wrong tavern. This realm, being hosted on Bosch, is scattered with traps that are superclassed into a bunch of scanner routines from Project Aurora and sniff for any taint of the real supernatural. Probably he whiffed of Laundry business-and that set off one of the traps, which yanked him in."
"How do you get inside a game?" Asks Pinky, looking hopeful: "could you get me into Grand Theft Auto?"
Brains glances at him in evident disgust. "You can virtualize any universal Turing machine," he sniffs. "Okay, Bob. What precisely do you need from us in order to get the kid out of there?"
I point to the laptop: "I need that, running the Dungeon Master client inside the game. Plus a class four summoning grid, and a lot of luck." My guts clench. "Make that a lot more luck than usual."
"Running the DM client-" Brains goes cross-eyed for a moment: "-is it re-entrant?"
"It will be." I grin mirthlessly. "And I'll need you on the outside, running the ordinary network client, with a couple of characters I'll preload for you. The sorceress's holding Pete in the third-level dungeon basement of Castle Storm. The way the narrative's set up she's probably not going to do anything to him until she's also acquired a whole bunch of plot coupons, like a cockatrice and a mind flayer's gall bladder-then she can sacrifice him and trade up to a fourth-level demon or a new castle or something. Anyway, I've got a plan. Ready to kick ass?"
****
I hate working in dungeons. They're dank, smelly, dark, and things keep jumping out and trying to kill you. That seems to be the defining characteristic of the genre, really. Dead boring hack and slash - but the kiddies love 'em. I know I did, back when I was a wee spoddy twelve year-old. Fine, says I, we're not trying to snare kiddies we're looking to attract the more cerebral kind of MMORPG player-the sort who're too clever by half. Designers, in other words.
How do you snare a dungeon designer who's accidentally stumbled on a way to summon up shoggoths? Well, you need a web site. The smart geeks are always magpies for ideas-they see something new and it's "ooh! shiny!" and before you can snap your fingers they've done something you didn't anticipate with it. So you set your site up to suck them in and lock them down. You seed it with a bunch of downloadable goodies and some interesting chat boards-not the usual MY MAG1C USR CN TW4T UR CLERIC, D00D but actual useful information-useful if you're programming in NWScript, that is (the high-level programming language embedded in the game, which hardcore designers write game extensions in).
But the website isn't enough. Ideally you want to run a networked game server-a persistent world that your victims can connect to using their client software to see how your bunch'o'tricks looks in the virtual flesh. And finally you seed clues in the server to attract in the marks who know too damn much for their own good, like Peter-Fred.
The problem is, BoschWorld isn't ready yet. That's why I told him to stay out. Worse, there's no easy way to dig him out of it yet because I haven't written the object retrieval code yet-and worse: to speed the development process up I grabbed a whole bunch of published code from one of the bigger online persistent realms, and I haven't weeded out all the spurious quests and curses and shit that make life exciting for adventurers. In fact, now I think about it, that was going to be Peter-Fred's job for the next month. Oops.
****
Unlike Pete, I do not blunder into Bosch unprepared: I know exactly what to expect. I've got a couple of cheats up my non-existent monk's sleeve, including the fact that I can enter the game with a level eighteen character carrying a laptop with a source-level debugger-all praise the new self-deconstructing reality! The stone floor of the monastery is gritty and cold under my bare feet, and there's a chilly morning breeze blowing in through the huge oak doors at the far end of the compound. I know it's all in my head-I'm actually sitting in a cramped office chair with Pinky and Brains hammering away on keyboard to either side-but it's still creepy. I turn round and genuflect once in the direction of the huge and extremely scary devil carved into the wall behind me, then head for the exit.
The Monastery sits atop some truly bizarre stone formations in the middle of the Wild Woods. I'm supposed to fight my way through the woods before I get to the town of, um, whatever I named it, Stormville?-but sod that. I stick a hand into the bottomless depths of my very expensive Bag of Holding and pull out a
scroll. "Stormville, North Gate", I intone ( why do ancient masters in orders of martial monks always intone, rather than, like, speaking normally?) and the scroll crumbles to dust in my hands, and I'm looking up at a stone tower with a gate in the base and some bint sticking a bucket out of a window on the third floor and yelling "gardy loo". Well, that worked okay.
"I'm there," I say aloud.
Green serifed letters track across my visual field, completely spoiling the atmosphere: WAY K00L B0B. That'll be Pinky, riding shotgun with his usual delicacy.
There's a big blue rectangle in the gateway so I walk onto it and wait for the universe to download. It's a long wait-something's gumming up Bosch. (Computers aren't as powerful as most people think; running even a small and rather stupid intern can really bog down a server.)
Inside the North Gate is the North Market. At least, it's what passes for a market in here. There's a bunch of zombies dressed as your standard dungeon adventurers, shambling around with speech bubbles over their heads. Most of them are web addresses on eBay, locations of auctions for interesting pieces of game content, but one or two of them look as if they've been crudely tampered with, especially the ass-headed nobleman repeatedly belting himself on the head with a huge, leatherbound copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream. "Are you guys sure we haven't been hacked?" I ask aloud. "If you could check the tripwire logs, Brain…" It's a long shot, but it might offer an alternate explanation for Pete's predicament.
Jim Baen’s Universe Page 11
