"Listening."
"Maximum number of characters played by any one Sarxos user."
"Thirty-two."
"What's the user's name?"
"That information is not available to you with your present concessionary token. Please consult Chris Rodrigues for further information."
"Yeah, yeah. Access the records of player Lateran."
"Records accessed: holding in store."
"How many other characters does the person playing Lateran play?"
"Five."
"Is one of them 'Wayland'?"
Silence for a moment, then: "Yes."
Megan flushed hot and then cold with the confirmation. "Listen," she said, as a whole group of horrible possibilities started opening up in front of her. Now her job was to start limiting them. "With this token, can I access Chris Rodrigues's file of attempted and successful bounces on Sarxos players?"
"That access is allowed."
"Access the file, please, and hold it in store."
"Done."
"Display the bounce periods on a similar bar graph. Star each one."
The computer did so. Each bright star of a bounce "timing" was superimposed on a dark translucent bar corresponding to the graphs above.
"Pull down the graphs for Lateran and Wayland. Superimpose them on the 'bounce' chart."
Obediently, the computer did so. All the bounces, including the latest one with Elblai, fell inside time periods when both Wayland and Lateran were reported to be in the game.
But it's impossible, Megan thought, horror and triumph beginning to rise in her together. It's impossible. Both those logs for Wayland and Lateran can't be true. They can't both be there at once. But if one of them was--
"Computer!"
"Listening."
"Is it possible for a player to play two characters at once during the same game period?"
"Only sequentially. Simultaneous play of multiple characters has been ruled out by the designer and is illegal in the system."
They're the same player. They're both there at the same time. They can't be. And the computer hasn't noticed, because it's not trained to notice.
Someone's found a way to fake being in the system.
"It's too important," she whispered. "Computer, I need to talk to Chris Rodrigues right now. This is an emergency."
There was a moment's silence, and the computer said, "Chris is not answering his page. Please try again later."
"This is an emergency," Megan said. "Don't you understand me?"
"The system understands 'emergency,'" the computer said, "but has no authority from a concessionary token of the type presently in your possession to contact him at this time. Please try again later."
It's him, she thought. The bouncer. It's him.
Oh, shit...!
"Do you wish to leave a message for Chris Rodrigues?"
Megan opened her mouth, then shut it again as another thought occurred. "No," she said.
"What other services do you require?"
Megan sat there looking at all those bar graphs. "Show me the other server logs," she said, "the same period, for all the other characters played by the player who plays Wayland and Lateran."
"Working." Three more graphs appeared. The first and the third very closely matched the patterns of Wayland's and Lateran's. There were some minor differences in the timing, and the patterns were slightly more elaborate, but again, these characters spent too much time in the system to be realistic, and again, they cycled slowly backwards over the four-month period. Automatic, Megan thought. No question of it.
The middle usage-graph looked more real. Three hours in, twenty hours out. Four hours in, thirty-five hours out...a more scanty usage pattern. Not a dillie, but not obsessed either.
Megan let her eyes go unfocused again, a good way to make sure you were seeing the pattern you thought you were. The similarities were too strong among all the questionable graphs to possibly be a coincidence.
"Store display," Megan said.
"File name?"
"Megan-and-Leif-One. Can I copy this display to e-mail?"
"Yes."
"Copy to player Leif Hedge-wizard."
"Done. Holding for pickup."
"Copy it to him out of the system as well."
"Message dispatched to the Net at 0554 local."
Now what do I do?
Megan swallowed, had to do it again. Her mouth was dry. Lateran. We were right. I know we were right. The new up-and-coming young general... She smiled a little grimly. Something of an analyst. And something of a danger, to judge by this. Anyone who could invent a way to fool a virtual-reality system into thinking they were there when they weren't...
More to the point, Megan thought, why would they waste the technique in here? It's only a game. True, there were people who felt that Sarxos was a life-or-death matter, who spent almost all their waking hours in it, who lived it and slept it and ate it and drank it and, as Chris said, wanted to move in. But this, though...Megan shook her head. This is someone willing to use, or possibly invent, a technology whose whole purpose is to exploit the basic issue of presence in a virtual environment.
She had always believed that the "fingerprint" you left in the Net by your presence with an implant attached was indelible and uncounterfeitable. It was one of the truisms on which safe use of the Net was built: that you were who your implant said you were, that you were where you claimed to be, when you claimed to be. The implant hooked to your own physicality supposedly made authentification of your actions in the Net final and certain. But somebody--Wayland? Lateran? Whoever this person really was had found a way to be "there" when they weren't there. While their genuine physicality was somewhere else, doing something else. Breaking into someone's house and smashing their computer...running a middle-aged grandmother off the road and into a pole.
What next?
And all for the sake of a game.
Or was that all it was? For the implications of such a technology were horrific.
Megan shuddered, swallowed again, her mouth still dry. There's still no proof. This is still circumstantial evidence.
But it's real good circumstantial evidence, and it's gonna raise a lot of questions.
Now what?
To the computer, she said, "Store the graphs...remove them from my workspace. Copy the file to James Winters at Net Force."
"Done."
Megan sat and looked at Saturn out the window.
He'll know, of course. We told him to his face, what we were investigating, what our suspicions were. Even about Lateran. He knows we're onto him.
It's not Fettick and Morn we should be worried about. It's us.
And it's not like we're that hard to find either. Megan thought. Schedules that we don't vary. Known addresses. She smiled a wry smile.
I need to get hold of Winters right now. But--
And then she stopped.
What was in her mind was the image of Wayland, Lateran, whoever ran him--coming here, coming after her. Or coming after Leif. It was all too easy to get addresses and phone numbers and all kinds of "personal" information off the Net. But at the same time--
Why do I need to worry? Megan thought, her mouth starting to undry itself a little. We've got the standard number of defensive firearms here, and I know how to use them all. Someone comes up to me in the street, or tries to get physical with me--She smiled grimly. No, I think I'd like to hand this one--we'd like to hand this one--to Winters, on a plate....
Well, I can't do that. Gotta go by the book. But that doesn't mean I should just sit here waiting for it to happen, for Wayland to come after me....
She looked again thoughtfully at those attempted chat contacts. J. Simpson, she thought. Where are you, J. Simpson?
"Sarxos computer," she said. "Thank you. Log out."
"You're welcome, Brown Meg. Enjoy your day." The copyright notice came and went in a flash of crimson.
"Computer," Megan said. "Access e-mail address for
J. Simpson. Open new mail...."
And she smiled.
Leif popped into his stave-house workspace and sat down on the Danish Modern couch, rubbing his eyes. "Mail?" he said to his computer.
"Loads of it, oh, my lord and master. How do you want it? Important first? Dull first? In order of receipt?"
"Yeah, the last," Leif said, and rubbed his eyes again. He felt deathly tired.
He had thought he would sleep like a log (however logs slept) when he got out of Sarxos last night. But instead he'd tossed, and turned, and hadn't been able to get settled. Something was bothering him, something he couldn't identify, something he'd missed.
Not Lateran. Sukin syn, it's not Lateran. He couldn't get rid of the thought. And he was thinking about Wayland, too. What Megan had been saying. "A 'canned' quality..."
An e-mail about some event his mother wanted him to attend was playing. "Look," he said to the machine, "put it all on hold for a moment."
"Okay."
Leif thought back to other encounters he had had with Wayland, right back to the very first ones he'd had with him. The man had seemed a little eccentric...but you got that with people in Sarxos, sometimes. The more Leif thought about those conversations, though, the more what Megan had said began to ring true. And a player could play back his own experiences, if he'd thought to save them.
Leif smiled grimly. He was something of a packrat, and tended to archive everything, until his father started complaining that there was no room left in the machine for business. "Listen," Leif said, "get my Sarxos archives."
"Their machine's on the line, Boss," said his own computer, "and the things it's saying about you, I wouldn't want to repeat. The storage space you use--!"
"Yeah, I pay for it. Never mind. Listen, I want to hear all the conversations I've had with the character 'Wayland.'"
"Right you are."
He started listening. By the third conversation, he had already begun to pick up repetitions of phrases. Not just because they were familiar--but because they were spoken in exactly the same intonation every time. The hair began to rise on the back of his neck. Another phrase: "Now that is very interesting." Repeated again, a couple of months later: "Now that is very interesting." The very same intonation. And a third time: perfect, the same timing, to the second.
But then...he played the record of his and Megan's conversation with Wayland. "Now that is very interesting."
A different intonation. Much more amused...and definitely more aware.
He swallowed, and looked up at something vibrating just off to one side. It was one of the pieces of e-mail...and it had Megan's address on it.
"Dammit. Open that!" he said to the computer.
It did. Leif found himself looking at a series of stacked bar graphs. They were people's server logs, compared by time. They were--
His mouth fell open as he looked at the last logs at the bottom of the stack: two sets, superimposed over one another, and the stars, which marked the timings of all the bounces there had been in the last few months, laid over them.
Leif's throat seized. He couldn't even swear. There were no words bad enough for what he saw there.
We were right. It was Lateran.
And Lateran is Wayland, too. And Wayland is "canned," somehow. We've been hearing preprogrammed phrases....
Except last night. Now this is very interesting...and Wayland's smile.
Where's Megan?!
He didn't have her voice com-code. They'd never needed it; all their contacts had been through the Net.
"Computer! Get Megan on chat."
"She's not available, Boss."
"Log in to Sarxos. Look for her there."
He waited through intolerable seconds while the machine logged in, while the logo and the copyright notices displayed. After a moment, his machine said, "Not there, Boss."
He couldn't find out when she'd last been there either, because he didn't have the token. She had it.
With the weight of the information in front of him, the data that she now had--with the memory of their meeting last night with Wayland, the information that he now knew they had--and the fact that Leif couldn't find her--it all came together, and suddenly Leif knew what had happened: what, if he was lucky, was just now happening.
Then he started to swear, calling first Megan, and then Wayland, things in Russian that would doubtless have sent his mother straight up the wall if she'd heard them. He was seized with the complete helplessness of being virtual when you desperately needed to be concrete: his total inability to be in Washington, right then, when he was actually stuck in New York.
Leif shouted at the computer, "James Winters! Net Force emergency! Immediate connect!"
A slightly bleary voice said, "Winters--"
Leif gasped for breath, and then shouted:
"HELP!"
She sent the e-mail, and she waited...and nothing happened. Some sensible person is still asleep at seven in the morning, she thought. Why not?
Finally, Megan gave up on waiting. It was getting late. She went upstairs and had her shower and got dressed, keeping as quiet as she could because her dad had plainly been up late, working in some other room besides the office, and had turned in. Her mom, as so often happened, was already gone. The brothers hadn't stayed over last night--one had had med-surg nursing rounds early the next morning, and the other had been complaining about an impending final exam in a course called Advanced Stressed Concrete 302. They had both made themselves scarce after dinner.
She came down again, thought about another cup of tea, and decided against it. There was nothing happening at school today that would really be important...but that was no reason not to go. All her schoolwork was ready. The portable was charged up, all the necessary data solids carrying her reference texts were in her bag. And her ride's horn sounded outside.
Megan grabbed the bag and the portable, dropped her keycard in her pocket, slapped the front door to lock-behind, and breezed out, heard the door clock closed and the lock set, tested it to make sure it was shut tight, turned--
--and simply found him there, standing in front of her, reaching out with something black in his hand.
Reflex saved Megan, nothing else. She flung herself off to one side as he grabbed for her, and threw her bag at him, knocking him back a little. Megan felt the subdued hiss and sizzle of a body-field deranger close by. One solid touch and her bioelectricity would go briefly crazy, enough to drop her where she stood, "shorted out." The thing's effective range was about four feet. Megan hit the ground rolling, rolled to her feet, got up, and danced away from the man across the front lawn, intent on keeping him far away from her. He dashed at her again, and again Megan backed off, though it really annoyed her to do so.
Half of her was scared out of her wits. The rest of her was absorbed in the business of the dance. Don't let him close, stay out of range--and behind, in her brain, a leisurely running commentary seemed to be going on. Heard the horn, where's your ride, that's not the right car, same make, though, maybe even same year, how did he--
How long had he suspected that she and Leif were on his trail? How closely had he been watching them? Leif, she thought, why didn't I--!
The man jumped at her again, not speaking. She almost wished that he would shout, would say something. About five-foot-nine, said another part of the mind, clinical: medium build, gray sweatshirt, jeans, black loafers, white socks--white socks?? Jeez--big nose. Mustache. Eyes--eyes--She couldn't tell the color from here, and she wasn't going to get close enough to find out. Big hands, very big hands: a face surprisingly slack and still for all the action they were going through, dancing around on the lawn at seven-forty-five in the morning, and why isn't anyone noticing this, why aren't the neighbors--?! Megan opened her mouth to scream as loudly as she could--
And then she realized that he had thrown away the deranger, and had something else in his hand, with which he was taking aim--
She never felt the blast from the sonic hit her. T
he next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground and couldn't move a muscle in her body. All this was making something of a mockery of all the training she'd had, all the good advice from her self-defense instructor. Locked out of the house, nowhere to run, no time to get away, no time--
The man leaned over her, his face not quite expressionless--just somewhat annoyed at the trouble she had caused him--as he started to pick her up, haul her up to a vaguely seated position, preparatory, she knew, to him picking her up and putting her in that car to take her away. Never let an attacker take you anywhere, one of her self-defense instructors had said, in a tone more urgent than she could remember him ever having used before. The only reason someone wants to take you somewhere is to make you a hostage, or to rape or kill you in private. Make them do it in public, if they're going to do it. It may be awful, but it's better than being dead--
Do something, she said to her throat, her lungs. Scream! Big breath, now scream! But the big breath just would not come in, and the scream came out "huh, huh." The scream was all in her head, only in her head, and Megan was briefly lost in a paroxysm of rage and fear, but only briefly because--this was strange--the scream was in the air over her head--
The man looked up, startled, at the dark shape dropping toward him like a stone from the sky. He glanced down at Megan again, his eyes just briefly narrowed with intent, and moved his hand--
--and then fell sideways, hard, next to her and partly on top of her. She heard the awful thick thud as his head hit the ground. It had been dry, the lawn was fairly brown and the ground was hard--
Megan fell back, staring straight up. She couldn't turn her head, could only hear the scream of the engine, the ringing in her ears. And then could have broken right down and wept, though not with fear, of course not, with relief, at the sound of all the footsteps all around her, at the sight, just out of the corner of one eye, of the beautiful black Net Force craft with its gold stripe down the side, and the police craft landing behind it--
--and the sight of James Winters suddenly looming above her, and saying to the medical people, "She's okay, thank God, she just took some sonic, come on, give her a hand. And as for him--"
the Deadliest Game (1998) Page 16
