Patch 17 (Realm of Arkon) Read online

  At the final party on Friday, after the brass gave their speeches and the final round of revelry began, I headed up to my room to change my shirt, whose sleeve had been smudged with some exotic sauce by a certain colleague of mine with soft lips and a C cup.

  Walking past a door leading to the terrace, I heard a commotion and a woman's sobbing. Deciding to take a look and see if my help was needed, I came upon the following scene. Standing with his back to me about ten feet away was a man, holding the chin of a sobbing girl in a gown with two fingers of his left hand, and hissing lazily through clenched teeth:

  "Do you realize who you're refusing, slut? On your knees, and start working off your debt." Lowering her chin, he slapped her hard across the face. "Now, bitch!"

  Now, I'm far from a knight in shining armor, but I but don't like seeing women harmed. And I really, really don't like rapists. Putting my left hand on the bastard's shoulder, I spun him toward me hard enough that his chin came crashing head-on with my right fist. As he began to topple over, I sealed the deal with a left—purely on instinct. The would-be rapist collapsed to the floor. I was about to kick him in the gut for good measure (as I said, I'm far from anyone's version of a knight), but then I recognized the victim as Adam Cheney—a real asshole who also happened to be on the company's board of directors—and decided against it. That, however, turned out to be a mistake...

  Cheney stirred, then scrambled up from the floor. His eyes were two pools of rage; he spat some blood on the white marble, and spoke in a tone of bitter frost.

  "You're an idiot, Roman. Or rather, a dead man," he drew a finger across his throat, fixed his blazer, and was gone from the terrace.

  An unpleasant course of events, to be sure, though I didn't regret my actions in the slightest. My time in this friendly country had clearly come to an end, since my employment termination was all but guaranteed. As for the dead man comment, well, we would see about that. We weren't in Africa, after all, but it would be good for me to consult with a certain someone who might have useful advice for my predicament. I turned to the girl.

  "You all right?" I asked her.

  Her mouth agape and big brown eyes opened wide, the girl shifted her gaze from me to the door into which Adam had disappeared with barefaced horror. Finally, seeming to arrive at a decision, she uttered:

  "We have to get out of here! Can you give me a lift?"

  "Meet me in front of the main entrance in twenty minutes. I'm Roman, by the way."

  "I'm Jane. And, Roman... Thank you," she spoke softly.

  We drove in silence for thirty minutes. I was in my thoughts, contemplating the road, while Jane was checking something in her mirror. She was a real looker, with huge eyes the color of chestnut, almost black, raven hair fashioned in a bob style, and a slender figure that even the denim pants and jacket she'd changed into couldn't ruin.

  As for me, I was sulking over the fact that I really didn't want to go back to Russia. Let the nationalists curse me all they want, but I liked living here. Have you ever seen the mist envelop the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge? The feeling you get when observing the phenomenon from the bridge itself is indescribable. And then there were the Yosemite mountains with their glaciers and waterfalls, and the ancient sequoias in the Mariposa Grove! I wasn't particularly enamored with America as a country and its exorbitant ambitions, but Americans themselves were pretty decent folk.

  But what could a simple graphic artist do? Even in the Realm of Arkon, a single character had incomparably more control over their fate. Perhaps that was why so many people were living their whole lives online?

  "How does Cheney know you?" Jane's voice interrupted my contemplation.

  "We met about a year and a half ago," I glanced at her concentrated face. "He was personally managing a project the details of which weren't disclosed to me. I designed the zone: a castle, ten or so villages, landscapes and environs. It was an unusual order—had to be a recreation zone. A lake in the middle, yachts and mansions, a woods, and the castle itself was nearly twice the standard size, clearly of the level ten variety. Cheney's assistant was all over me the whole time..." I creased my brow, trying to remember the name. "McLean, I think it was. See, there are certain rules. For example, RP-17 would never allow contemporary buildings in the game. Or making a zone that wouldn't be accessible by foot. I tried to explain these things to that shit-for-brains, but it was useless. In the end I gave up and did as instructed, then handed over the art to the designers. What should have been an easy job—an almost perfect circle twelve miles in diameter—turned into a nightmare. So much headache, you'd think I was drawing the Great Forest."

  "McLean left the company seven months ago," Jane put the mirror away into her purse. "I'm scared, Roman! Very scared. Cheney is not the kind of man to forgive something like that. I don't want to work here anymore." She looked at me, alarm splashing out of her eyes. "I'm on vacation starting Monday. I'll mail in my resignation, lay low for a while and hope he forgets about me. The company is going through tough times—hopefully that will keep him busy."

  "How did you end up there, anyway?"

  "Because I'm an idiot! I needed some paperwork signed, and Adam hasn't been in his office for weeks, always traveling or in meetings. I finally caught him after his presentation, and he suggested we go up to his room and iron out some points of contention. When he started hitting on me, I slipped out of the room, but he caught up to me and pushed me out onto the terrace. It was stupid of me to go up to his room, wasn't it?"

  I grunted. It was the eternal women's question, and if you answered it honestly, you could forget about getting any. And since I actually really liked the girl, I gave the politically correct answer: no, she wasn't at fault whatsoever, it's just that sometimes our circumstances overwhelm us.

  We dropped by her place to pick up her stuff, then headed to a hotel she was planning on holing up in, unwilling to stay in her own home. Along the way she asked me to stop the car, got out and made a call to someone from a pay phone.

  "My girlfriend will pick me up Sunday evening," said Jane, climbing back into the car. Then she added, "You're not going to leave a helpless woman alone, right?"

  The weekend flew by. Jane ended up being a surprisingly pleasant conversationalist; we spent our days sightseeing, going to the movies and dining at cafés, and our nights making love. It wasn't love or anything of the sort—we simply had fun together. At least I thought so, even though our interactions carried a measure of tension. We made a tacit agreement not to bring up work or the incident from Friday. And it wasn't until Sunday evening, as I was loading her things into her girlfriend's Volkswagen, that she pressed herself to me and whispered:

  "Promise me you'll leave this place. I have a... premonition."

  I lifted her chin and kissed it, gave her a wink and said:

  "Everything will be fine, darling." And then, for some reason, I added, "If anything happens, my character's name is Krian. The first two letters are my initials spelled backwards—easy to remember. Take care of yourself..."

  I didn't like parting on such an uncertain note. The whole story stunk, with its lack of a beginning and an ambiguous end. Would I ever see Jane again? I had no idea. And if I did, would we remember these two days fondly and want to rekindle them?

  My musings were interrupted with a phone call.

  "Hey, Ivan, I was just about to call you," I said excitedly.

  "Hey, Roman. There's a French café right off Market Street, I'll tell you the address... It's about fifteen minutes from where you are. Give your name at the door and they'll take you to me. Hurry, I'm already here."

  "Wait, how do you—" I started to say, but suddenly there was only dial tone.

  It was all super weird. Ivan knew full well that I lived in the suburbs, and it would take me at least an hour to get to Market Street. Although... I glanced at the phone in my hand. Right, we lived in a world of high technology! Fine, then, this was even better.

  I met Ivan Barnes a year an
d a half ago—exactly five minutes after I'd pulled his kid from under the wheels of a moving vehicle. His wife Sarah had driven up to meet her husband, and their son—four-year-old Sam, a facetious little guy—ran out onto the roadway after a soccer ball. I was just leaving the office and, luckily, happened to be nearby. No one got hurt, and later that evening I was having dinner with the family at their home. I found out that my new pal was named Ivan in honor of his Russian great-grandfather who had immigrated to Canada many years ago. We would get together on many occasions since, and had even gone fishing a few times. But when the company entered its stretch of turmoil, Ivan pretty much disappeared. It had been three months since I saw him last.

  Ivan held a fairly important post on Arkon's cybersecurity team, though his appearance—light skin, blond hair, high forehead—defied all my past stereotypes. Weren't representatives of his profession supposed to have an entirely unremarkable appearance? I could easily draw Ivan's portrait from memory even now. Sure, the company's cybersecurity guys weren't exactly CIA, but trust me when I say they were far from pushovers.

  Following the bell's melodious ringing, a comely young woman in a conservative black skirt and white blouse walked up from the front desk. Cocking her head slightly and giving me a most welcoming look, she said:

  "Is the monsieur expected?"

  Naturally, having arrived on the last Parisian stagecoach, the monsieur smiled and took a look around. The café was small but cozy, with the customary French wine-colored tones...

  "Yes, my name is Kozhevnikov," I said to the young woman.

  "Please, follow me."

  Ivan was sitting in a far corner, facing the entrance, over a cup of coffee and a lit cigarette. Upon seeing me, he rose to his feet and flashed his signature, picture-perfect American smile. For a moment, his eyes seemed warmer.

  "Hey, buddy, long time no see!" he said. "How have you been?"

  "Hey, Ivan!" I smiled back, answering his firm handshake. "How's Sarah and Sam?"

  The young woman who had escorted me took my order of one espresso and withdrew.

  "We're all right. It's you who's been having adventures," he shook his head.

  We sat down. I produced a pack of Lucky Strike, put a cigarette between my lips and took a drag. As I exhaled, I asked him:

  "As I understand, your phone call wasn't an accident? Or did you find out that I was nearby and decided to have some decency and finally see a friend?"

  "Riddle me this, Roman, was it really necessary to punch out a Board of Directors member? Now, sure, plenty of people wanted to punch out this particular member. My guys were green with envy, watching that footage."

  "Footage?" I asked with surprise.

  "Can you really be so naive?" he winked at me. "The hotel is equipped with cameras all over—everything gets recorded. And a guy of Cheney's stature is nearly always under surveillance."

  "So, that means—" I began to speak.

  "It means nothing," Ivan interrupted me mid-sentence and fell back in his chair. "If that security footage hadn't accidentally," he emphasized the word, "landed on the desk of FBI Special Agent Foster—and I'm sure you've noticed the FBI sniffing around in Arkon's affairs—you, my friend, and the damsel you've rescued from the monster's paws, would be feeding fishes on the bottom of the bay."

  I sat there, quiet and dispirited. This was indeed a jam.

  "Thanks, Ivan. I didn't recognize him until it was too late." I took another drag and put the cigarette out in an ashtray. "So, what do I do now?"

  "Don't thank me yet," said Ivan, completely ignoring my question. "My guys will lose your damsel somewhere along the way." He grinned and shook his head reproachfully. "Some conspirators you are! She'll be fine for the foreseeable future, and it should all blow over after a while."

  "You were watching us the whole time?"

  "What did you think? The FBI has the footage. They're going to want to interview you privately, by the way, so stay tuned. Anyway, on that footage Cheney is seen threatening you, and that's your get-out-of-jail-free card. If anything happens to you, that gives the FBI an upper hand on the company. Everybody gets it, which is why we were ordered to keep an eye on you. And only that."

  I was finally brought my coffee. I took a sip and nearly choked from the thought that popped into my head.

  "Were there also cameras in the hotel room?" I asked. "Cause we were, err..."

  At first, Ivan was giving me a blank stare. Having finally understood my meaning, he burst out laughing.

  "No, not in the room. But even if there were, it's not anything we haven't seen before," he assured me. "Though it wouldn't have killed you to be mindful of your neighbors as far as noise... Anyway, let's get serious. You need to understand that what I'm about to tell you transcends the bounds of even official secrecy."

  I put my hands out in front and did the gesture of locking my mouth with a key and discarding it.

  With a shake of the head and a sigh, Ivan asked me:

  "What do you know about Arkon?"

  "Only what everyone else does. It's a game world with full immersion. The world's most popular game, worth around two hundred billion. Roughly ten million daily connections, if memory serves me right."

  "And yet, your own character is a measly level thirty five. Arkon is a world of possibilities. Wizards, warriors, elves and fairies. It offers the chance to become truly epic and achieve things you could only dream of in this world," Ivan peered at me with his eyes of cold gray steel, expecting a response.

  I fell back in my chair and fired back without thinking:

  "You know that I'm an artist, so I can spot fake from a mile away. My level thirty five warrior is there for work purposes—to roam around the different zones, check out the fruits of my labor. And when you know that it was all drawn by you... They can scream all they want about immersion and realism, but I think it's all crap. There's a disconnect between what the brain says and what the hands feel. For instance, you know the establishment near the Square of Heroes in Vaedarr, The Black Violet?" Ivan gave a confirming grunt, and I continued. "I was there only once. Picked up a girl for the night. And yeah, it feels good and all, but you can still sense that you're having sex with a rubber doll. Albeit an animated rubber doll. The tactile sensations aren't the same. Lilies may smell like lilies, but there's something off about them. I don't know how else to explain it. The point is," I produced another cigarette from the pack, "I think I want a normal life. To find a woman, settle down and start a family. And that's not an option in the game," I spread my arms.

  "I didn't peg you for an aesthete, brother," Ivan smiled, "carping on lilies... I'll have you know that those who spend a lot of time online have a totally different perception of the world; for them, lilies are lilies. And the women are real. The analysts forecast that in another six months RP-17 will enter a whole new level of control. He's always learning, improving the degree of sensory authenticity so that even nitpickers like you wouldn't be able to tell the virtual world apart from the real one. Not that it would do you any good—there are plenty of women, but none of them can give you kids, that's just a fact. But I digress," he shrugged and creased his brow. "The truth is that things are dire."

  "What the hell is going on?!" I couldn't take it anymore. "What's with all these spy games?"

  "Remember the two girls from our PR division that disappeared? Monica Reed and Sarah Price?" He took out another cigarette from the pack. "Well, both of them had attended receptions at Cheney's mansion on several occasions." Ivan took a deep drag. "The cops only care so much about these things, but you know that the company can't afford to sit back. Any potential leaks must be plugged, and here you've got two employees with a level three clearance drop off the grid. When we started looking into everyone that was present at those parties, we dug up information on a project called Paradise—some kind of recreation zone in Arkon that's been placed outside the AI's control."

  "But that's impossible," I objected. "Nothing can happen in Arko
n without 17 knowing about it. He's a veritable demiurge—all changes to the system must be approved by him, and you can't change his settings without a shareholders' council and at least seventy five percent of votes." I looked at my frowning friend. "You read the news, don't you, Ivan? Arkon holds only forty one percent of the shares."

  "I don't give a crap what's possible and what isn't." Ivan leaned forward, "Not when Hayes calls me into his office and orders me to stop digging, and then one of my guys brings me this," he slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, took something out and put it on the table, then pushed it toward me.

  Resting on the table in front of me was a typical cheap video player of Chinese manufacturing, barely the size of a cigarette pack.

  "What's this?" I inquired.

  Ivan fell back in his chair and crossed his arms, then nodded at the player.

  "Turn it on and see."

  I shrugged and pressed Play.

  The picture came on right away. Spread out on a table, bound with chains and whimpering pitiably was a Light Elf female—obviously a player, name Prissy, level 15, health bar in the yellow, numerous cuts on her body, wearing nothing but bra and panties. The decor abounded in blood-red tones, though only several pieces of black furniture and a huge mirror fit in the frame. Standing next to the table was a Dark Elf, level 178, name Kuwaz. He was holding an ordinary kitchen knife and standing sideways to the camera, keeping his face out of the frame.

  "Don't worry, sweetheart," he said with the voice of a good doctor, "we'll play a little more, and then we'll patch you right up." Cutting the bra with the knife, he tossed it aside, put his hand on the girl's left breast like he owned it, and asked, "how's this?"

  Then he turned to the videographer.

  "The hell are you recording for, idiot!" he screamed, his handsome face warped with rage.

  "Relax, Ronnie, don't be so—" the other's voice sounded, but then the footage ended.