Massively Multiplayer, page 20
At the stroke of a single key, Jeffrey the Hut’s angel would manifest, perform a dazzlingly complex search pattern which would locate the nearest player character trapped in a rock, a wall, or other architectural defect, teleport that character to the nearest uninhibited space, deliver a stern lecture on the responsibility implicit in the game’s end-user license-agreement, and flag the offending chunk of geography for repair at the next update.
Another keystroke would send the avatar hurtling over an area in search of large concentrations of NPCs, who tended, despite all AI programming, to cluster in dead-ends, in alleyways, and on the edges of cliffs. When located, the huddled NPCs would be randomly distributed throughout a virtual five-mile radius. True, that often left them incongruously halfway up trees, hanging in space, or at the bottom of the ocean, but Jeffrey the Hut wasn’t interested in beauty; he was interested in efficiency.
And, truth to tell, his shortcuts were no more offensive than those followed by many programmers. The great virtue of the digital medium is the ability to store and to duplicate, endlessly, any pattern, whether an accounting record or a line of code. Most programmers were notorious plagiarists and pack-rats, because you never knew when a chunk of well-written code might come in handy on a later project.
Thinking about shortcuts led Marybeth back to her current problem, accurately cataloguing the fragmentary bits of geography which had been illicitly parked on the Crucible game platform. Her present target, for instance, was located down a short-cut of sorts, a secret passage hidden behind the throne in a ruined castle located in the Heart Kingdom. If players simply marched down the tunnel, they would eventually come to a hive of giant wasp-people, the cause of the castle’s fall.
It was slickly done work, Marybeth admitted. Glyphs carved into the tunnel walls provided a translation key to the tablets found in the lower temple, but only if characters went slowly enough to notice them. It was excellent design, pacing the quest without artificially slowing it, a maneuver which also allowed the tension to build before the final revelation of the cavern’s insectile inhabitants. It was artistic, with great attention to internal consistency, down to the steady progress from the rough-hewn human stonework of the upper tunnel to the geometrically perfect bricks which made up the insects’ inner hive, repeating row upon row in inhuman precision.
Precision of design. Repetition. The efficiency (or laziness) of computer programmers. Modular code design. Thoughts suddenly swirled in Marybeth’s head, fighting for dominance. She regarded the massive silhouette of Jeffrey the Hut. She looked back at her desk.
“Holy crow,” she said. “It can’t be that simple.”
Ignoring the sleepily curious gazes of her remaining program team, she dove from her chair to the nearest virtualounge, trembling with anticipation so badly that she had trouble snapping the harness leads around her ankles and wrists. Leaning back, she whispered the codes which would launch her personal interface, and transport her into the game.
Amitra opened her eyes to the dull red glow of the sun setting behind the ruins of the House of the Bitter Lotus. The gold braid hem of her white blouse fluttered in the twilight breeze, constrained by an ornately knotted sash which held her bow, her pouches of herbs, and flasks of various crushed crystals.
Jogging ahead, she soon reached the ruin itself, the crumbling remains of a one-time pleasure palace. Weed-choked cisterns and fragments of mosaic told of the ornate baths which had filled much of this wing of the building. Even as she rushed purposefully forward, she couldn’t help admiring the attention to detail evident in each chip of gleaming marble peeking through the whispering grass.
After a brief pause to orient herself, she made her way along the remains of a wide corridor indicated by the low ranks of remaining stones. At the end, what appeared to be a large clearing in the weeds indicated the former audience chamber of the palace. A squat dais denoted where the throne itself had stood.
Amitra knelt in the weeds. She knew what she was looking for, but was disoriented by her new perspective. Annoyed, she brushed her hair out of her eyes and cursed herself for not bringing along a companion. Oh well, she had been in a hurry, and this minor irritation was the price she paid for it. Still, someone with scouting skills would have already spotted...there!
On hands and knees she scuttled to the spot where the floor tiles lifted, betraying hidden pressure plates. Pressing them simultaneously, she was rewarded with a sharp crack as the ancient mechanism activated, then a sullen grinding as the dais slid backwards, revealing a wide opening descending into the earth.
Once more she hesitated, wishing she had brought a thief along. But if this didn’t pan out, she wouldn’t want anyone else to see her embarrassment. And, of course, if it worked she wanted to make sure she got credit for it.
Amitra stood, and rummaged for a moment in the pouch at her side, finally withdrawing a handful of small stone chips of such flawless clarity that they seemed to catch the little remaining light from the sun and magnify it, shining with their own intense light. Silently she counted: nine. It would be tight, but she thought that might be enough. She whispered a word to the stones, which flared momentarily in response, then tossed them straight up into the air. The pebbles arced overhead, then halted, flared once more, and exploded silently into shimmering sparks, which fell onto Amitra. Everywhere the sparkling motes passed, they left a transparent smear, carving away bits of her until nothing remained.
Now thoroughly invisible, for a while anyway, Amitra unslung her bow and carefully knocked an arrow. Her invisibility should protect her, but it would be embarrassing to die here before recovering her prize. Of course, using her programming avatar, Marybeth could have easily dropped a horde of healing ointments, impenetrable armor, cosmically powerful weapons and magical wards just outside the shadow zone, but she hadn’t thought about it in her excitement. If this worked, she thought, she would definitely have to get back into the habit of thinking like a gamer.
Hefting her bow, and mindful of the time limit on her invisibility, Amitra crept into the tunnel. Wolfgang was going to be happy with her. Briefly, she wondered why that mattered to her. She shook her head, concentrating on her goal. She only had a few minutes, and she had a mission to do.
As Amitra descended into the earth, Druin Reaver descended the gangplank. Unlike the ramshackle quay at Heron Rock, the docks at Hasport boasted an orderly array of well-maintained docks, lit at this dark hour by regularly spaced lanterns set on tall poles.
There was a thin fog scudding over the water, which had not been enough to obscure them from the watchful eyes of Hasport’s massive guard towers, set high up on the cliffs overlooking the entrance to the harbor. Captain Thunder had been hard pressed by the harbormasters, who wanted to know the reason for their visit and seemed intent on inspecting every crew member and passenger present, and had only been prevented from poking their noses belowdecks when the Captain started hinting at high connections in the Antiquan naval authority. He had produced imposing looking papers, and the harbormasters had suddenly found pressing business across the bay.
“Forged,” he’d confessed to Druin as they waved away the cutters. “Learned the trick back when I was a lawyer.”
From Hasport’s waterfront, the overall impression Druin got was of a well-organized city, older and perhaps wiser than any he’d seen in Westerly, laboring under some vague but constant threat. Where Westerly’s towns were noisy at night, this one was eerily silent. In the distance, he could see the high towers of the curtain wall which bordered the city inland. The sense of menace was borne out by Captain Thunder’s warnings as they had made their way carefully to their assigned berth.
“Antiqua is old country,” the Captain had growled around the stem of a long pipe. “It’s civilization is older, but so is its wilderness. You said you’ve never been outside of Westerly, so you’ll be used to the way things are there. The nasties in Westerly ain’t too bad, once you get to know ‘em. Most of ‘em aren’t too far off of being people anyway – slave outfits, and savages, and dead folk, mostly. What we might call ‘yer small-scale villain. And the cities in Westerly are built accordingly, generally open to the world, few with city walls save those on the frontiers. Hell, some quests you’re hard pressed to tell the difference between the monsters and the city councilors what sent you.
He shifted the pipe to the other side of his mouth. “Antiqua ain’t like that. They’re organized, so their cities get to be huge – most impose mandatory taxes to keep up city defenses. They have a strong sense of duty, once they know you’re one o’ the good guys. But they got them a real firm definition of ‘evil,’ too, and a definite idea that it belongs outside the city walls. Very metropolitan, yer’ Antiquan.”
Trudging down the wooden bridge from the mid-deck now, he wondered briefly if the Antiquan metropolitanism was as substantial as the Captain thought. Certainly the dockside looked seedy enough – grimier, if possible, than a typical Westerly portside. “Metropolitanism” seemed to necessitate a lot of taverns, warehouses, and squalid shops sporting incomprehensible wooden signs. Maybe the deep soot stains were a respectable indicator of the buildings’ great age. Of course, that wouldn’t quite explain the tough looking customers who moved through the fog between the various establishments.
“Uh, sure you don’t want to come ashore? Drinks on me.” he hazarded.
“Not I, lad,” the Captain said with a shake of his head. “I’ve lost time this voyage already, and I’ve got to get the August back to sea. There’s a consignment I’m due to ship from south of here back to Westerly. And I’d better be off before one o’ the harbormaster’s begins to wonder why our papers were signed by the wrong Heptarch.”
He clapped Druin on the back. “Has been a pleasure though it has, to have you aboard son. You go to that Tavern I told you of, the Fouled Anchor, and ask for the carriage schedule. You’ll make the Whetstone Pass in no time, lad.” Thunder waved cheerfully, and stumped back up the impromptu bridge to his ship.
“What about you?” Druin asked, turning to Jenna.
“Thanks for the offer, Dru’,” Jenna said. “But for an experience that was supposed to be relaxing me, hanging out with you has proven, well, not relaxing. Don’t take it wrong.”
“I don’t,” he assured her. “Dodging forest sprites and almost being eaten by zombies isn’t my idea of a relaxing time either. But what are you going to do for the remainder of your time?”
Jenna gazed back up the gangplank to where Captain Thunder was supervising the arrangement of the rigging. “I thought I might go sailing for a while.”
Druin followed her glance. “Of course you will.”
“Fear not, I shall accompany thee, good Sir Druin” Malcolm proclaimed in ringing tones.
“Of course you will,” Druin said, carefully keeping the regret out of his voice.
Jenna had found a hanky somewhere and was waving it madly from the taffrail of the August Rose. Malcolm and Druin saluted the departing vessel solemnly, then turned back to the fog-shrouded streets of the city. The streetlights, far from creating a sense of security, created jagged wedges of shadow in every alley, in which furtive shapes could be only dimly seen. Despite Captain Thunder’s assurances of the area’s basically civilized nature, Druin reasoned that their best course was to get off the streets as soon as possible. Preferably into somewhere well lit.
The Fouled Anchor tavern fit the bill nicely, and would have been Druin’s natural objective even without the Captain’s recommendation. It was the largest public house in sight, dwarfing even some of the smaller warehouses, and hearty yellow light blazed from its many windows. A steady stream of dockhands, sailors, beggars, and likely criminals issued back and forth through its double doors, a stream of drab gray and brown punctuated by the frequent flash of more brightly clothed adventurers. Druin made for the welcoming glow and the sound of music, Malcolm trotting dutifully at his heels.
All the anxieties Druin had experienced when confronted with the dark city of Hasport vanished the moment he entered the Fouled Anchor. If the exterior was sinister and foreign, the inside was sinister and utterly familiar.
The doors opened upon a large central chamber, flanked by a bar on one side and a short stage on the other, upon which several musicians were scratching out cheerfully shrill music on a collection of battered instruments. Three drunken sailors bawled off-key accompaniment, while beating their wooden mugs against the table, the walls, and each other. Directly opposite them a cavernous fireplace beat back the fog and chill of the outside world. Rickety steps near the bar led down to a cellar and upwards to the tavern’s rooms. A vomit-crusted wino lay at the foot of the stairs in a pool of beer.
In short, the establishment was so homely that Druin nearly wept tears of relief. Grim the Antiquans might be, and beset by the strange perils of their country, but apparently a taproom was a taproom everywhere in the world.
Druin angled his way confidently across the crowded room towards the bar. In the darker corners, strangers conducted covert business, as had been done in various seedy bars since the beginning of time. Druin didn’t notice the two of them, sitting at different tables, who marked his entrance and followed him with their eyes.
“What’ll it be?” grunted the barman, an enormous specimen of his particular beer-stained species.
“The carriage schedule,” Druin replied.
“End o’ the bar, on the board.” The barman gestured his rag-filled hand toward the fireplace. Sidling that way, Druin and Malcolm found a tall rectangular slate, on which were scrawled destinations, departure and arrival times, and fare information. A bored looking clerk snored underneath.
Running his finger down the board, Druin found the information he needed. “We’re in luck,” he confided to Malcolm. “There’s a carriage to the Whetstone Pass leaving tomorrow morning.”
“I shall be honored to accompany you,” the gangly youth replied.
“Keep in mind that these times are local,” Druin cautioned him. “The whole country of Antiqua is housed on a server out of Europe. Paris I think, so you need to account for that. You’re not experiencing any lag, are you?”
“Indeed, the morning is an auspicious time to embark.”
“I could send you a reminder at your net account. What time zone are you in?”
Malcolm had lost his usual confident grin. “Never fear, I shall not delay thee.”
“No, look, I mean it. Really, what time zone?”
“I assure you I shall not—“
“Don’t you know your zone? Where do you live in RL?”
“Stop it!” Malcolm hissed, angry now as Druin had never seen him. “Just keep your...I mean, ‘thy concerns are unwarranted. I. Shall. Be. Ready!” He glared fiercely at Druin, as though daring him to utter one more word about time zones, net addresses, or pretty much anything other than a hearty confirmation.
Druin stepped backwards, hands raised in a placating gesture. “Okay, sure, whatever. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Malcolm acknowledged his capitulation with a curt bow, then stalked off to arrange a room with the barman. Druin watched him go, nursing a sinking sensation in his gut. In his careful attempts to get along with the brittle Jenna, it hadn’t occurred to him to really worry about the heretofore cheerful Malcolm. Now, realizing that he was committed to sharing a long journey, and what promised to be a deadly challenging venture, with a possible nutcase, he was troubled.
Committed: that might be a crucial word in this situation. Was Malcolm actually a case of Computer Induced Schizophrenia? Or was he just a very dedicated role-player? And was there a difference? Was it dangerous to be around him? And, perhaps more essentially, what disappointment or desire had driven Malcolm to such extreme behavior in the first place?
So intent was he on the problem of his traveling companion that he didn’t even notice the thin, hooded figure which had crept up next to him until he felt the prick of a knife gliding across his ribcage.
“Good evening, m’lord,” the little man hissed. “Let us step outside.”
Given the circumstances, there wasn’t much else Druin could do. If he resisted, the hooded man might well jab his knife home. Druin hadn’t yet signed up for a room, and thus hadn’t transferred his account to this establishment. If he were slain here, where would he wake up? In an alleyway, with no possessions? Outside the city walls? Back on the August Rose, or all the way back in Westerly? He frankly had no idea how the European Crucible server handled indigent accounts, and he couldn’t quite afford to find out.
Nodding in what he hoped was a compliant manner, he preceded the little man back towards the main doors.
On their forced march across the room, they passed right by Malcolm, who was making arrangements for a room with the enormous barkeep. Druin rolled his eyes, urgently trying to attract his companion’s attention, but Malcolm had his back turned resolutely to the room. What a time to alienate his only backup.
The streets appeared even darker after the gritty hospitality of the Fouled Anchor. Druin hesitated under the tavern’s sign, reluctant to abandon the pool of light which spilled from the doors.
“This way,” the little man gestured, his face now completely hidden by his hood. Sighing, Druin obediently turned into the alley between the tavern and the tenement next door.
Once they were well within the dim passage, he stepped a few paces away from the man, who didn’t protest, and turned around.
“Alright,” he sighed. “I have about five-hundred in cash on me. I also have what are supposed to be some silver bracers, but I haven’t had them identified yet. Can I keep the armor and my weapons? I promise they’re not worth much.”
To his surprise, the man laughed. “I’m not after your money, lama, although I do get to loot your corpse. One of my perks. I’m going to kill you.”
Druin blanched. “But why? I swear, that’s all the money I’ve got. What is this, some thrill-PKing thing? I thought Antiquans were supposed to be the civilized ones.”
