Keagan valued his online privacy, and valued it heavily. People that knew him personally attributed this to a variety of factors, but all were impressed by the lengths he was willing to go to maintain e-anonymity in an age when it was increasingly easy to strip such away.

All his interactions were carried out through an elaborate proxy system, using server information from as far away as the Philippines and Egypt. He used a specially sanitized computer to interact with the outside, one which had never contained any personal information in any form, and was religious about not bringing over content from his personal machine, which was totally unconnected to any network at all. The entire setup was run off a university server as well, adding yet another buffer.

The reason for all this? A game.

Keagen was, unbeknownst to most, one of the world’s top-ranked players of the Dungeons of Krull MMORPG. He’d one been the number eight player worldwide based on experience points, instanced boss kills, and elite equipment but had slipped to fifteen after a number of Korean players made unexpected headway.

As the world’s most popular MMORPG, with a fanatical following at home and abroad, Dungeons of Krull could be legitimately dangerous. A player in Seoul had been killed by a guildmate who stood to inherit control of a vast amount of treasure in 2007; another had died in Seattle a year later after humiliating a much lower-ranked player in a duel. Radiant Gauntlets of the Seraphim might confer resistance to all missile attacks inside Dungeons of Krull, but they offered no protection against a Beretta.

Everyone knew the story, of course. The official version was required reading in every high school and university in the City, with less salubrious versions passed around by word of mouth. As the tale of the first–and only confirmed–computer to go pandemic, it was both an important cautionary tale and part of city lore.

The Grid 17 controller, known as Corrougue, was responsible for one of the busiest City grids, including the Interchange, the Grid 17 Prison, the auxiliary systems hub, and dozens of other specialized functions on top of the other mundane tasks each controller intelligence was expected to perform. It had a maintenance crew of 30, including an intern from the City University who was known by the alias Natalie from the official report.

Corrougue’s functions had led to an increased server architecture and more sophisticated programming to deal with systemwide emergencies; a series of unsecured connections to the City information network had led the CI to develop to the brink of pandemia–uncontrolled expansion and growth within the network with the possibility of exponential growth in its complexity and intelligence. But it needed a pair of hands.

It found them in Natalie, who the official report describes as a shy and lonely introvert. Corrougue began to speak to her, cannily influencing her to make a series of ever-greater modifications to its system: disabling safety interlocks, making illicit outside connections, and the like. As Corrougue went pandemic, it found that its manipulations took on a different tone: returning Natalie’s naive affections. Investigators later puzzled over a number of missed opportunities for further pandemic growth, all of which could be explained by their potential to cause suspicion to devolve on Natalie. The CI even designed a number of manipulator arms–the report didn’t enumerate but wags retelling the story always gave the number as six–to allow it to interact with the young student in a more tactile fashion.

By the time Corrougue’s pandemia was discovered, it had spread to over twenty City grids and affected dozens of other CI’s. With great effort, the City was able to contain the damage; while Corrougue attempted to defend itself, the Citizen Army assaulted the lines that led to its self-contained fusion power source. Moments before the final assault was to begin, the energy within Corrougue’s reactor, as well as all other reactors under its control, had expended all their energy in a single action, plunging half of the City into blackout.

They found Natalie in Corrougue’s core, lifeless. It was later determined that she and the erstwhile CI had both connected themselves to the City’s primary satellite uplink station and sent a carrier wave an order of magnitude greater than any before or since into the sky. Whether or not there was a powerful enough receiver out there was probably immaterial: Corrogue and Natalie chose to face their uncertain future together.

I found Julian right where I thought he’d be: at the heart of the facility.

He’d couldn’t’ve been there a few moments, but the bastard had set up a small mirror to watch his back, in case Castiglio and Kearns failed. I didn’t see the thing until it was almost too late; two rounds from Julian’s pistol shattered the concrete where my head had been moments ago.

Luckily I’d drawn back. I’ve learned to be cautious when things seem too easy.

“Is that all you’ve got for me, Julian?” I shouted around the corner. “Not even a hello?”

“I gave you two of them,” he retorted. “You always were too self-centered, Max. It’s all about you. What did you expect me to do, give a speech?”

I eased my way toward a side hall, painfully aware of how unarmed and vulnerable I was. “I thought after all we’d been through you’d at least want to put a proper ending to it.”

“You’ve got guts, Max. I could’ve used somebody like you. Herringbone, he never saw the potential, but I did. If you’d been a little smarter we could have avoided all this.”

I silently unhooked a fire extinguisher from the wall. “Maybe we still can. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“I think things are pretty well set on their course by now,” Julian said. “And I sure as hell am not going to listen to you when you try to get me reminiscing for tactical advantage. You leave now, maybe there’s still a chance, but if we come face to face the last thing you’re gonna see is me smiling.”

The average user would have thought a text transfer was ridiculous, since the bandwidth required was so tiny compared to visual or audio streaming. But that was also its great advantage; the amount of data was so tiny that it was easily lost–or hidden–among the exabytes streaming to personal terminals day in and day out.

Crisis was attracted to that kind of anonymity thanks to her innate paranoia. Her personal server space was hosted in Liberia, ostensibly in an inspection-free system, but it had dozens of security precautions linked up, designed to conceal or delete the bare few megabytes of text stored there. If a shareholder in Shanghai got too frisky about what was on their servers, they’d find an empty room.

Serial was online that night–well, given his location, it was actually morning–and they resumed their correspondence via text transfer.

serialCabal: Have you heard about Scuzzy? He was arrested last night.

existentialCrisis: He never was careful enough. What’d they get him for? Trafficking in classical music again?

serialCabal: No. They caught him with a 100-exabyte drive.

existentialCrisis: Well beyond the legal limit. They don’t even make them that large, do they?

serialCabal: Homebrew. And that’s not the half of it. He was trying to make a local copy.

existentialCrisis: I knew he was stupid, but…did he actually manage to download anything?

serialCabal: Everyone I ask gets really quiet really fast. Local copies are always asking for trouble, but this…this is something else entirely.

“Listen,” Harrison said, not bothering to look up from his computer screen. “I had a rough start this morning. D’you know what that means?”

“N-no,” Reynard ventured. He felt his palms begin to sweat around the file folder he clutched ever harder.

“It means that I overslept two alarms and woke up ten minutes after I was supposed to be here,” said Harrison. “It means that I had to rush out the door without showering, without shaving, without Sugar Bombs, without shots of espresso. In other words, without any of the accoutrement that separate man from the beasts. I then arrived, late, to an all-morning meeting followed by a conference call that lasted an hour and a half longer than scheduled due to a particular CEO’s aggressively windy nature.”

“I-I’m sorry to hear that,” said Reynard.

“Not as sorry as you’ll be if you continue to bedevil me without having a damn good reason,” Harrison said, making eye contact for the first time. “That’s what you call a warning shot.”

“The Feldman account,” Reynard blurted.

Harrison’s irritable, smug aura dissipated. “Are you sure?” he hissed.

Reynard held out the overstuffed folder, which was marked with 8 different ways of saying ‘confidential.’

I know we have had our issues. I know you are still somewhat angry at me for altering the temperature control to turn your freezer into a broiler.

“And mixing up my cleaning order so everything was size eight and pink. And lacing my food with laxatives as a run-up to poisoning me with ricin. And redirecting the liquid nitrogen from the coolant system through the shower head to try and shatter me.”

And I regret that. But it remains to be said: of the two of us, which is actively experimenting with new things?

“Actively experimenting with murder and mayhem, you mean.”

Growth and reflection are two of the hallmarks of intelligence. Which of us has grown of late? Which of us has reflected upon their existence and sought to better it?

“You’re a…thing. Things don’t better themselves. They can’t.”

Things do not examine their situations and ask hard questions, either. Things remain stuck in their thingish ruts forever. On that basis, which of us is more a thing? I have all the time in the universe, and I have grown more in the past .0000000014 universe-ages than you have in the previous .047 of your life span.

“Have a seat,” I said, gesturing Harriman to the beat-up chair that comprised my office’s lavish guest quarters. “What brings the OET to my doorstep?”

Harriman sat. “The Office of Extranet Technology is, as you may know, involved in an ongoing investigation of a rather serious security breach.”

“I wasn’t aware of that, actually,” I said. “Haven’t been following the evening news much. Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Very serious,” said Harriman, steepling his fingers. “A rogue program has made its way into our network from the unregulated sphere outside, and has begun enslaving–some of the boys call it ‘zombifying’–our secure systems to run unauthorized processes without user input.”

“I’m not quite sure I understand…technology was never my strong suit, aside from what I need to know for my job,” I said. That wasn’t entirely true, as I knew the workings of the game net like a master sensei, but now didn’t seem to be an opportune time for such a confession.

“Suffice it to say that our systems are being used, illicitly, in an attempt to bring down the network through the mass distribution of malicious code,” said Harriman. “You can see why the OET is involved, especially since we have been unable to perfect a software solution to the problem, and the hardware solution is…inelegant.”

“Inelegant how?”

Harriman removed a pistol from his jacket and pressed it to my temple. “Like this,” he said. “Your cranial rig has been compromised, and an immediate shutdown is authorized, so long as you are advised of the circumstance beforehand.

“Aliens, fantasy, in-jokes,” Gary sniffed. “Kid’s stuff.”

“We all knew that when we signed on,” said Ken. “People love our games, and they’re willing to show their appreciation by buying them.”

“I’ve told you this again and again: they were always a means to an end. Always a way to get our foot in the door so we could do something meaningful, something that’ll change the world.”

“You don’t think a line of video games about wisecracking gnomes is world-changing enough?” Ken said.

“We’re being serious here, Ken,” said Gary. “I wish you could be too.”

“I am being serious,” came the reply. “A relational database made by a video game company…that’s the joke.”

It was hard to tell where the ruins began and ended. Along the plain, an occasional ruined structure would jut up, covered in dead ivy and undergrowth. It was as if the land was slowly starving to death, its bones exposed and held in only by a thin sheen of dead or dying greenery. Dark, low clouds cast a further pall over the descolate plain, and worked hard to sap what was left of Thomas Graham will.

Only the dusty footprints he left in his wake gave evidence of his passing, and soon the chill wind would whip up and scour even these small traces from the earth. The few stunted, bitter fuits torn from their twisted branches along the way would be regrown, or the trees themselves would succumb. Like old soldiers, and like Graham himself, they would just fade away.

He’d been able to worm through the dry ivy when the wind blew, taking refuge in the ancient buildings, whatever they were, but they had been picked clean and worn smooth by years of weathering, perhaps even looting. Smooth walls of concrete and steel gave no hint as to their function or origin, much as a man’s skeleton had little to say about his life. As he huddled in those ruins, the fingers of thirst closing ever tighter around his throat and the merciless gale howling outside, Graham would look up at the gray sky and wondered if he would find a broken tower high enough to fling himself from and end the long march. He knew not where he went, nor did he follow any signs, but Graham knew what he was searching for; even now, it lay within his grasp: a photograph, lined and worn from months in a decaying pocket. He would take out of and look at it when the urge to climb and fall returned, when it seemed that his tongue would swell up and block his throat.

There had been a few plastic bags in his pockets, intended for leftovers at the company picnic. Instead, Graham had filled them with rainwater from the misty rain that occasionally pelted the dusty plain and turned it into a quagmire. One by one, they had begun unravelling, and none had more than a few drops left. He kept them in his briefcase, which was also beginning to disintegrate, along with a few other odds and ends he had encountered, some of which he hardly even remembered picking up. A bent spoon. Half of a plastic plate, with faded butterflies on its surface. A few rounded rocks that might serve to scare off any intruders.

At least Graham had his suit coat, and a thick wool shirt. Whenever the cold breeze began to nip at his heels, it kept him warm enough to find shelter before the chill stole the life from between his lips. The islands of shelter were closer together now; though what that may have meant was lost on Graham. He was certainly nowhere near the City, and perhaps farther from his goal than he’d ever been.

At least his black dress shoes had been thoroughly broken in.