Growing increasingly frustrated with her total lack of progress, she growled as she noticed the number of safe spots tick down. It was preposterous; people had to be cheating to solve these puzzles so quickly. Her stomach rolled as she remembered Burner’s failure to solve Petanja’s puzzle, something to do with different coloured bears in a tearoom. She berated herself for even thinking about it while the safe spots counted down in her own puzzle. As the number ticked below 3,000 she held her hands up and wiggled her fingers, as if attempting to tease inspiration out of thin air. And then the gong sounded. What had changed?
She ran up and down the aisle, desperate to find out. The number ticked below 2,500. The walls were the same, the ceiling and floor were the same, the notice and wastepaper bin were the same. The base, you stupid girl. She grabbed the nearest figure and upended him. There it was, a new stamp. But what the hell did it mean?
“Made with CRS.” Things were made somewhere. Usually China. Or they were made with love. But she’d never heard of something being made with ‘CRS’, and couldn’t think how the letters related to the United Kingdom. The Council of Royal Surgeons, maybe? She didn’t know whether such a thing existed, or how it could possibly relate to the little flute player even if it did, but it was the only thing she could think of.
Her panic intensified. She couldn’t stop looking at the dwindling number of safe spots. Perhaps ‘CRS’ was one of those things that everyone in the entire world knew about except for her. Like the time people had been discussing the ‘Arab Spring’ at school and she’d asked whether it was similar to an ‘Indian Summer’ and they’d laughed in her face until she cried.
Her heart raced. It was time for a pep talk. She was a puzzle master, and there was no way Petanja — stupid name for a start — was going to defeat her. Sometimes it was funny the way the brain worked. She whistled before she was aware of any conscious desire to do so. It was as if her brain knew how urgent the situation was and acted first, to save time, then followed up with its reasoning afterwards.
The instant the sound left her lips, the entire room erupted with the mellow piping of a thousand flutes, echoing her whistle. ‘Made with CRS’ was ‘Made with Cockney rhyming slang.’ The man was playing a flute, and wearing a suit. The only thing missing was a whistle: Whistle and Flute — Suit. That was the culturally specific knowledge she needed — and she knew it. Yes!
But how did it help? The little guys repeated the tune you whistled. So what? The number ticked below 1,000 and she could already feel her euphoria ebbing away. Find the defective product. It had to be a figure whose flute was broken. But in a room of thousands how could she locate him? She whistled again while looking round: 750 and counting.
Another whistle, another frantic search. Where was the gong when she wanted one? Another whistle, this one longer as she walked up and down the aisle. That was it. Three things happened simultaneously every time she whistled, but the other two had been imperceptible at first.
She took a deep breath and let out the longest whistle she could manage. 500 spaces. The men started playing their flutes that very instant, but it took a couple of seconds for the lights in the room to dim and the little blue lights to appear at the end of their flutes. She wasn’t going to locate the defective guy by sound, but by sight. When the number ticked below 250 she wanted to scream rather than whistle.
What would Sushi advise? Less haste more speed. Nova halted her frenzied search at once. Method, not madness. Deep breath, whistle, side step along the row, examine each shelf in turn. Ignore the number of safe spots, even if they did just tick below 100. Next row, rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Gotcha! At last she found him, tucked away at the back of a shelf in the middle of the room. While the blue lights on the flutes around him flared into life, his own instrument remained unchanged.
She snatched the little fella clean off the shelf and darted round to the wastepaper bin as fast as she could. 50 and counting. She slam-dunked him hard into the bin, wanting to break his sorry ass. As the melodious jingle of victory sounded, she let out a victory cheer. She had just completed Petanja’s puzzle with fewer than twenty spots left.
Chapter Thirty
Nova removed her Booners and placed them on the rock next to her. Since her first visit to the caves on the night of the Star Wars party she’d been back regularly. It was beautiful and peaceful there; these weren’t qualities she associated with the hustle and bustle of halls or lecture theatres. Sometimes she sat and talked to Sushi, sometimes she played. Sometimes she just sat there, doing nothing at all, just being. And sometimes she disappeared into an augmented wonderland.
When she turned on the Forest of Fun augmentation, the real-world leaves on the trees overhanging the caves became imbued with jokes, just like they did in Solarversia. She’d wait for one to fall from its branch and make a stab at its punchline, awarding herself points for accuracy.
Her favourite augmentation was a simple one: player watching. She liked to mark out the gravelly path that ran in front of the caves as the augmented zone, and would sit back and watch as players from around the Solar System travelled up and down it, some on joyrides, others running for their lives, fleeing from one of the increasingly common monsters set out to kill them.
These augmentations made the real world more magical, more like the way it had seemed when she was little. That morning’s White Dwarf had mentioned a crowdfunding campaign where the residents of a small town wanted to repave the high street with hexagonal tiles that worked like the ones in The Game. She hoped it would be successful. She loved it when the virtual world spilled over into the real.
She also loved the way VR was able to transport her to places in an instant. First she’d been in a virtual games room, then whizzing around Jupiter’s Red Spot, then dashing around a stockroom cupboard, and now, a few minutes later, she was back in the real world by the lake on campus. The real world. The thought was an unwelcome reminder of the two chores that awaited her attention.
She stared at the cursor still blinking by the title of her essay and groaned. Then she scrolled through her contacts until she was looking at Jockey’s number on her phone. Apparently their last call had been over ten months ago, something to do with the arrangements for her Krazy Karting heat. Come on, Nova, one or the other. Apologies or cognitive bias. She took a deep breath and pressed the number. Today was the deadline she had set herself for the task of apologising to him, its outcome attached to that stupid penalty. Never again would she agree to the punishments with Burner when she was drunk.
It seemed to ring forever without being answered. A horrible thought presented itself. What if Jockey had changed his number? Perhaps he’d lost his phone? Jesus, it might be something as innocent as him having left it at home. As she was about to admonish herself for leaving it too late, the line clicked through.
“Miss Negrahnu. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Jockey, hi,” she said, in a quiet voice, suddenly aware that despite many months of opportunity, she still hadn’t prepared anything meaningful to say.
“Has something bad happened?” he asked, sounding worried.
“No. I’m fine. Nothing bad. All good with me. Actually, something bad did happen, but it was awhile ago. Something bad that I said. To you. And I’m phoning to apologise.”
He was silent for a second. “I have to admit that I wasn’t expecting you to call like this.”
“If it’s a bad time—”
“Not at all, now’s great, let’s do it. First, let’s recap the details of our conversation. You know, so we remember who said what and exactly what’s being apologised for. Correct me if I’m wrong — I often am — but I’m pretty sure that the last time we spoke, you called me a fat prick? And Fraggers a shithole? Or have I got that wrong?”
She could tell from his tone that he was enjoying himself. As difficult as it was to hear him repeat what she had said, it felt good to hear his voice again.
“No, you have that right. Like
I said, that’s why I’m calling. To apologise. Really, really, really apologise. Not because anyone told me to or because it’s the thing you’re supposed to do. I really am sorry. I was way out of line. A total bitch.”
“And it’s only taken you half a year to realise. Not bad.”
She giggled as tears welled in her eyes.
“It’s good to see that you’re learning something at uni anyway. Perhaps you could say it one more time? It had a rhythm to it.”
“I, Nova Negrahnu, hereby apologise unreservedly to Mr Dettori for calling him a fat prick and his awesome gaming cafe a shithole. I was way out of line.”
“That was glorious, thank you. I was sorry to hear about the Karting final, by the way. You deserved to finish the race, if not win it.”
“Yeah. That totally sucked. I reckon I would have won if I’d raced at Fragging Hell. You know, if I hadn’t been banned.”
“What’s prompted the call then? It sounds like you’ve stopped being an entitled brat, is that right?” She wiped away the tears with the sleeve of her jacket and broke into a smile as Jockey continued. “Because I operate a strict no-brats policy these days. And I’d be happy to remove your ban if you’ve changed your ways.”
“I think so. I hope so. I’m trying anyway.”
“Are you back in the ’Stone over Christmas or what?”
The ’Stone. It felt good to hear someone refer to Maidstone like that again. “Definitely. I haven’t escaped for good, you know. Parents wouldn’t let me, for a start.”
“Why don’t you come down for New Year’s Eve? Everyone misses you. Including me.”
“I’d love to. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Nova ended up having the longest conversation she’d ever had with him. She told him all about her visits to Sushi and her Super Nova project. They spoke about Project Drone, about how Jockey had been right about her getting into trouble, and about how she didn’t regret it, although she did concede that she’d do things differently if given a second chance.
And he told her the latest gossip from the cafe: which regulars were still in The Game, the failed attempts to beat her darts score, and who was shagging who. She was already looking forward to New Year’s Eve, and catching up with the old crew.
As she went to put her phone away, ecstatic at the prospect of not being Burner’s servant for the week, she froze. Walking along the gravelly path was Charlie, hand in hand with Holly. She might not have been wearing her golden bikini, but she still managed to look like a total slapper. Nova made a weird guttural sound, a cocktail of burp and hiccup. She couldn’t let them see her like this, tear-stained and alone like a right Billy-no-mates. It was bad enough that she had seen them. There was nowhere to hide. The terrace in front of the cave was barren, save for a few rocks, and she was already sitting on top of the largest one.
She grabbed the front of the rock and tried to slump behind it by lowering her bum down the other side. She half-succeeded. Which meant that she half-failed. Her bum reached the ground, but her back was now wedged between the rock and the cave wall behind her. She was stuck fast. Over the top of the rock poked her feet, her shoulders and her head.
At that moment Holly looked over and caught her eye. She stared for a second as if trying to work out what she was seeing, and then began to pull at Charlie’s arm and shriek with laughter. Every spare drop of blood surged to Nova’s cheeks. She gave an uncomfortable little wave and wished for a quick and painless death.
***
The sixth floor of Spiralwerks HQ had kicked off, big time. To an outside observer it might have looked like a battle to generate the biggest racket, humans versus machines. The machines had resorted to beeps, bleeps and bells, the humans to yells and fists thumped on desks. Whatever you called it, the result was an unholy, migraine-inducing cacophony.
Loudest of the humans was Carl Stedman, Spiralwerks’ CTO, who was repeatedly slamming his palm onto his desk, turning the air around him a vulgar shade of blue. The technical team called, “Yes, Carl,” like obedient sous chefs, and hollered responses to his questions when they could, but they all lingered a way back from his desk, keeping, what looked to Arty, like a fearful distance.
Arty worried about Carl. The late nights had taken a toll on all of them, but Carl had been affected more than most. He spent such long hours at the office that he frequently didn’t go home at night and was still at his desk come the morning. Whenever something technical went wrong, he seemed to take it personally, beating himself up for weeks after the incident. Or, more recently, taking it out on one of his team. At first, Arty thought it was good, having someone so dedicated at the company. But just lately, he’d worried that Carl was working too hard. The bags under his eyes were so puffed he looked like he needed a month’s worth of sleep rather than the usual week’s.
“What’s up, Carl?” he asked.
“Server 451 is under attack. They’ve exploited a weakness we only discovered two days ago and were in the middle of patching. It’s left us wide open. They’ve already tunnelled through two firewalls. If they get through the third, they hit pay dirt.”
“Who’s they? Do we know?”
Carl shook his head. “We don’t know much. Looks like a professional job. Elite hackers. That probably narrows it down to about ten thousand people across the planet.”
“What happens if they get through the third firewall? What damage can they do?”
“Theoretically they’ve already gained access to certain processes. Read-only access, but still, not good. Graham, kick off those cron jobs we spoke about. Maria, get the inbound payloads over to security and get them scanned ASAP. God knows what’s in them.”
“What’s the worst-case scenario?”
“If they do get through, we’d need five minutes to isolate their bots. Failing that we’d have to reboot the server, which would log players out. Only the people on that server, but it would take a few hours to bring back up.”
“How many people would get logged out?”
“It’s the server that compiles the code for the planets and the spaceships. Probably in the low millions. On the plus side, it’s unlikely that anyone external has visibility of what’s going on. So far, anyway.”
It was the kind of situation that Arty deplored, a technical disturbance that he had no control over. The worst part was not understanding what was going on. It was like being back in France on the school exchange when his host family had taken him out for the day. An almighty kerfuffle had ensued in one of the back streets on the way home, some strange men shouting at the father of the family. He’d stood there, watching, not understanding what was being said or why, not knowing how serious the situation was or whether he was in any personal danger. He’d never felt so scared and alone in his life.
At least he didn’t feel scared now. Worried and confused, maybe, but not scared. He hated all the jargon involved in IT, the acronyms and abbreviations. They were all so misleading. He’d always thought pretty highly of firewalls, for instance. They sounded so cool: baddies send bots to attack you, and you react by erecting a wall of fire, blowing the fuckers sky high. Take that, ’bots. Totally badass. The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. A load of gibberish displayed in an interface that Microsoft would have been ashamed of. Firewalls, schmirewalls.
Suddenly the monitors on Carl’s desk went wild, and he spasmed into rage. The veins on the side of his head looked ready to explode. “Graham, where are we with those cron jobs? They haven’t? Why the hell not? Jesus, what is it now? Maria, any news? Work with me people, not against me. Graham, update please? Well, sync them to the main screen so that we can all monitor them. Do I have to do all the thinking around here?”
Carl’s team translated his requests into computer code as fast as possible, then yelled back their answers, competing to be heard over one another. A list of planetary spaceships appeared in a table on the main screens at the front of the room. Data in the ‘Status’ column updated
, one row at a time, from ‘Active’ to ‘Frozen’. Even Arty knew what that meant: spaceships at a complete standstill in deep space.
“Players will know something’s up now. Their distance counters will have stopped updating. I wouldn’t be surprised if … there you go, people have already started to tweet about it.”
“Issue the press release, and tell the teams to remain on standby,” Hannah said to one of her guys. Her team had assembled nearby and were in constant liaison with country managers from around the world. She and Arty turned to Carl, who was rocking his head from side to side like he was weighing up their options. “As soon as we repair the firewalls the spaceships will continue on their way. The hackers can’t interfere with the players themselves, not their lives or their items. All of that information is stored on a different server. Graham, what have you found? Bring it up on screen.”
An image of a bookshelf in the games room aboard one of the SS Plutos appeared. Carl zoomed in until the spines of the books were clearly visible. Everyone on the floor went quiet and stopped what they were doing. Bookshelves were programmed to contain a mix of titles that spanned the classics right the way through to recent releases. Many of them were self-published titles, written by players themselves, included because they’d won some quest or other. But this bookshelf no longer contained a literary pick ’n’ mix. Instead, Arty saw only one title on the shelf, repeated in endless identical editions. In a gold Gothic font embossed on a black leather cover, he read the words over and over: Sacred Singularity The Holy Order.
Solarversia: The Year Long Game Page 24