MULTIPLAYER
PlotForge, Ltd.
U.S.A.
Other Books by John C. Brewer
The Silla Project
and coming soon
Viridius
The Shriveling
Non-Player Character
The Multiplayer Saga, Book 2
www.johncbrewer.com
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Copyright
Cover design by Daniel Brewer
Copyright © 2012 John C. Brewer
Published by PlotForge, Ltd.
1650 Lake Shore Drive Suite 225
Columbus, OH 43204
www.plotforge.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system, without the written permission of the publisher.
Multiplayer
ISBN: 978-1-937979-01-0
Rendered to ePub in the United States of America
Acknowledgement
Where to begin? First and foremost I have to thank my wonderful wife April for enduring this journey without complaint and always believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. My sons Joseph, Benjamin, and Daniel for being my inspiration, my joy, and my sounding boards. My amazing writing partner Terri Smiles, who brings my characters to life and fixes my commas. Beyond those directly involved in the project there are too many to name, but I’ll try a few. Joey for being a great fan and his mother Michelle Palumbo for proofreading an error-filled document over her Thanksgiving holiday. Thank you Michelle. John Brooks for showing me that I don’t have to be an employee. Ron Phillips of Digital Radiance for teaching me about the Singularity. Paul Wright for his boundless energy. Jim Ashburn, Kim Daugherty, Temple and Heather Estopinal, David Smith, and Bryan Laue for remaining interested in my dream even when it was a nightmare. I’m sure I’m forgetting about a hundred people here so if I have, all I can say is, if you know me well enough to have been a part of this, you know I don’t remember things well.
John C. Brewer
Huntsville, Alabama
Dec. 2011
For
Joseph, Benjamin,
And Daniel.
Prologue
pwn (pōn) v
1. An act of dominating an opponent.
2. Great, ingenious; applied to methods and objects. Etymology: Dates back to the days of the original WarCraft, when a map designer misspelled “own” as “pwn”. What was originally supposed to be “you have been owned,” was “you have been pwned.” Now used throughout the online world, especially in online games and MMOGs.
-UrbanDictionary.com
The cave had been hewn over two thousand years ago. Since then, countless bodies passing through the narrow passages had worn their once rough surface smooth as glass. The people living in this region had survived thirty centuries of invasions by disappearing into their stone labyrinths, some of which penetrated miles into the rock, interlinking with natural caverns as old as the planet.
When Alexander the Great had been the enemy, the only light that pierced the eternal shadow came from torches and oil lamps whose memory echoed in the stone roof as glistening black soot. But no more. Wires were now stretched over the ancient dust, carrying electricity which brought light and powered fans to circulate the damp air. More recently, pipes to carry water had been installed. And over the last few years coaxial cables and optical fibers were added, carrying an even more precious commodity: information. The caves might lie in one of the most remote and dangerous places on Earth, but modern technology allowed the new inhabitants to see far beyond the snow-capped peaks that concealed them.
“They can monitor that,” said a tall, lean man. He had a long beard of mixed black and white that hung over the front of his alabaster robe. On his head was a simple white turban. Just beneath the white strips of cloth were set two dark, intelligent eyes that drew information from all they saw. He was seated on an ornate rug in a stone chamber far beneath the ground. Unlike the stone passages that led to this place, it had been carefully prepared to feel like an ordinary room. On the finished walls around them hung flat-panel monitors and computers that displayed up-to-the-minute news from around the world. Only a telltale mustiness betrayed their location. He went on as if addressing a child. “Perhaps, el-Baraha, you have forgotten that every time we try that, American special forces greet us with guns.”
Surrounding him were a dozen men dressed in variations that reflected their countries of origin as Morocco to Pakistan and everything in between. It was clear from their eyes and manner of speech, however, that these were not peasants but learned men. Guarding them, even in this stronghold deep beneath the Hindu Kush mountains, were two armed fighters at the door. Their eyes spoke of a much different education.
“Are there no new ideas?” the leader went on, with a rising voice. “Nine-eleven was a masterstroke. We used the very infrastructure of the infidel to punish their iniquities. Since then, what have we done? Kill women and children in markets?” His voice rose suddenly in rage that reverberated in the stone chamber. “That does nothing for our cause!”
“But your Excellency,” said a black-bearded man seated near the front. His headscarf identified him as Moroccan. “As you said, we have no way to organize. The Americans, the British, even the French and Chinese. There is no secure channel. Here in this mountain fortress,” he motioned toward the monitors on the walls, “we are neither blind nor deaf, but we are mute. If we use our digital connections, we are met with bombs. If we try to go overland, we are intercepted. Cell phones bring missile strikes. Telephones invite Special Operations. What can we do?”
The leader looked over them with contempt. “The most brilliant minds in the Ummah… Where am I to turn?”
“There is a way, effendi,” came a voice from the back.
“Who said that?” snapped the leader, his dark eyes passing over his subordinates.
One of the guards stepped forward so that the light fell on his face. There was a gasp. His skin was light. His eyes were blue. The only thing he had in common with the others was the thick beard that hung past his chin. And the fanatical gleam in his eye.
“And who are you?”
“I am known as Mukhtar Malik. Who I was is not important.”
“You are American,” said the leader. His voice held not contempt, but wonder.
“Yes.”
“And you have an idea that…” he motioned flippantly to his entourage, “my learned advisors have missed.” A grumble passed through their ranks as they turned to view the American.
“I am not a man of books,” said Malik, “but was taught in the forge of the Army that now opposes you, and in the land from which they spawn.”
“So, why would an American soldier want to help us?”
“In the eternal city of Baghdad, I found a jewel of the prophet.” His eyes passed over those seated on the floor and came to rest on the leader at their head. “She bore me a son and showed me the Way of Submission. I now hold true to the Five Pillars.”
“An exemplary woman,” said the leader. “How did she die?”
A shadow passed across Malik’s face. “The hand of the infidel is no more precise than that of the martyr.”
“Your sacrifice will see you rewarded in Paradise. So what do you have for us, Malik?”
Malik paused and looked over his now enraptured spectators. “When we meet the Americans in battle, they always win. Why?”
The group erupted. Curses flew from rage-twisted lips. Knives flashed from belts. They leapt to
their feet and surged forward, demanding death for this blasphemy.
“Awqif!” rang through the chamber and echoed from the stone walls. The maddened mob froze. “He is right, you know,” said the leader, still sitting with his legs crossed. “Now be seated, my loyal friends. Perhaps we should hear what he has to say before killing him.” Grumbling, they returned to their seats, gazing out from beneath dark brows furrowed in anger. “Continue, friend.”
“They win, because they train,” Malik said, licking his lips with satisfaction. “By the time we meet them, they have already fought the battle a hundred times.”
“We cannot train!” snapped one of the spectators. “Have you not been listening? All of our camps are destroyed and the instant we build a new one, cruise missiles appear as if by magic. The infidel has eyes in the very sky!”
“Yes, he does,” Malik went on, smiling in grim determination. “He sees much. But there is a way. It is said that to hide in the desert, one must become a grain of sand. Just as our great victory on nine-eleven used the decadent technology of the west as our weapon, so a new technology has arisen in America that will once again give us the advantage. You may not have heard of it before. A pastime of children. It is called a ‘massively multiplayer online game.’”
Ch. 1
Izaak squinted to sharpen his vision and took a deep breath to dampen the beating of his heart. He let it out in a slow, measured hiss, the way his father had taught him to do with a real rifle. He felt his hands steady as he moved Vera’s crosshairs squarely onto the pale, blue turban, just a tiny dot emerging from the enemy base at the other end of the level. One practiced squeeze of the sniper rifle’s ‘trigger’ and the figure dropped to the ground at the end of a long, wispy vapor trail that stretched the length of the ruddy gorge. You Killed Mal-X flashed in Izaak’s Heads Up Display.
“Yes!” Hector West punched the air from his seat on the family room couch, grinning at his character’s success. Then the words were gone, blocked by a bobbing blonde head that had appeared between him and the TV. “Halie! Get out of the way,” Hector yelled at the six-year-old. “You’re blocking my game.”
“I want to play,” his sister whined, setting her legs in a determined stance. Hector didn’t have time for this. His clan, the Reavers, was in the midst of a five-minute Hostage match – and counting on his character’s sniper abilities to rescue one of their own from enemy territory.
“You don’t even like Omega Wars,” Hector barked, trying to see around her, but she kept herself in front of the TV. Finally, he rose and shoved Halie to the side. She gave a wail, but Hector knew it wasn’t real. “Don’t be a baby,” he said. As he dropped back to the couch, his eyes stuck on the photo next to the TV. The happy family. His dad, in dress uniform, smiling out of it with his little sister tucked on his lap. Mom, with eyes full of life, beside his other sister. Hector standing next to his father… A pang of guilt shot through him, but then, the flashing words, You Killed Mal-X drew his eyes. The guilt evaporated into a stony hardness. Mal-X was going down.
On the screen, Izaak came back to life as Hector returned to Omega Wars. Across the digital battlefield his team – a half dozen huge mercs, like walking tanks, trudged up a ravine toward the enemy base. Izaak activated his refractive camouflage and climbed the canyon wall to his favorite spot, well shielded by rocks but with a view of nearly the entire map. He had to get there before Mal-X reappeared at the other end of the level.
“Izaak?” came the voice of his teammate Darxhan. “We’re taking fire. You in position?”
“Just a sec,” he said quickly, climbing the rocks. He’d been here a hundred times before. “Okay. I’m in.” But he was more concerned with finding Mal-X than covering his team. It took a moment to locate the pale, blue dot after Mal-X respawned, but an instant later the tiny figure collapsed at the end of another vapor trail. Hector smiled from where he sat on the couch. “Pwned!” he chimed, as the game growled Double Kill!
“Dude?” came his merc comrade again. “We’re getting pasted!”
“Oh, sorry.” Using the telescopic sight on Vera, Izaak sorted through the melee at the enemy base and quickly eliminated two defenders, then went back to searching for Mal-X.
Mal-X appeared again, from another spot, and made it only a dozen steps before Izaak dropped him in mid-leap. Three kills already. He used the respawn delay to help his friends a little, but from the sound of their cries they needed him fully engaged. But this was more fun. And there would be other games.
One after another, the kills on Mal-X added up. Vera was amazing. There was no other sniper rifle like her. But Izaak got eliminated a few times, too. Their opponents were not stupid, and his initial position was well known by all serious gamers. He was taken out by a rocket once, and an enemy sniper twice, but each time he respawned, he moved to a new location and kept punishing Mal-X for wearing that turban, laughing as the game went from Double Kill, to Triple Kill, to Killicious, and beyond.
Eventually his team stopped calling for support. From the display he knew they were falling steadily behind but when the match time ran out, Hector sank into the couch with a satisfied smile. He arched his back, and cracked knuckles, which had grown stiff from the afternoon’s digital adventures. The Reaver’s, had lost but the Omega Wars’ post-game report displayed on his flat-screen TV awarded Hector’s vanguard, Izaak Ersatz, the Pwn Zwn for his domination of Mal-X. He nodded with approval, seeing that his own rating had gone from a thirty-eight to a thirty-nine and that Mal-X had been dubbed the Pwner. “How about another one?” he yawned into the mic suspended near his mouth.
“What happened to you, man?!” exclaimed his friend Deion, known and feared in Omega Wars as the merc Darxhan. “We got our butts handed to us!” Hector glanced at the stats. He was the only one with a positive kill ratio.
“Seventeen kills on Mal-X?” exclaimed another team mate, Tyra Bell, who played as the vanguard T-Reg. “Were you griefing on that guy?”
“Little grudge-match,” Hector giggled, feeling guilty about hanging his friends out like that, but relishing the satisfaction of the victory. He glanced at the photo next to the TV. Dad would have understood.
Deion huffed and Hector could tell his friend was angry. “Well, next time you’re part of the plan, don’t run off like some choad.” Deion’s unaltered voice was about an octave higher than his alter-ego’s. “Well I got to go. Need to finish that algebra sheet.”
“It’s only eight-thirty.”
“You finished it yet?” Deion asked harshly. “It looks pretty hard. Polynomials.”
Hector frowned. He hated algebra. “I’ll do it later. How about a round of slayer?”
“See you tomorrow, Hector.” Deion’s avatar disappeared from the lobby.
“Ty?”
“You need to get a life,” T-Reg announced. A second later she dropped off too and, one by one, the other clan members signed off, leaving Hector the sole remaining Reaver in the digital lobby.
He was moving Izaak to a slayer lobby when he heard his mother’s voice call him from down the hall. His hands froze on the controller. “What!” he yelled back, hoping the sound would carry to the kitchen.
“Groceries,” came the muffled reply.
He glanced at the matchmaking lobby to make sure the game wouldn’t submit him to a new match without his confirmation, sprang over the back of the couch in a single bound, and raced through the dining room where homework lay scattered across the table, shot through the kitchen noting the grocery bags already collecting on the counter, and skidded into the garage where he collided with his older sister Helen.
“Nice of you to join us, game-boy,” she spat, pushing past him.
“We saved the heavy stuff for you, Hector,” said his mother from behind an armload of brown plastic bags. She gave him a tired smile.
With his biceps straining, he managed to stack everything into one load and stagger into the house where he dumped it all onto the counter. His mother turned on
the kitchen TV, already set to the news, before tackling the mounting pile of groceries. Halie trounced in dragging a ball of pink fluff by what had once been an arm. “Why doesn’t princess have to help?” Hector asked.
“She’s six, Hector,” Mom shot back. “And stop calling her that.”
“I was helping Dad when I was six.” The moment the words left his mouth, Hector knew he shouldn’t have said it. The whole family froze for an instant, as if silence would take back the words.
“You pushed a plastic bubble-mower around in the yard,” Helen snorted. She smoothed her long blonde hair as she settled back in at the dining room table, but she was watching Halie’s reaction from the corner of her eye.
“So,” said his mother in a strained voice, “how was school?”
“Boring,” he muttered. “We don’t learn anything useful. Just…”
A long, low wail from Halie stopped his words. His mom dropped to her knees and bundled the six year-old into her arms.
“Way to go, dork,” Helen muttered. “You just had to go and mention Dad. Now she’s going to cry for the rest of the night.”
“Why don’t you shut up?” Hector fired out of the corner of his mouth. He hated this part of his life. Their dad was dead. Blown up in Iraq by an improvised explosive device. An IED. Thinking about it made his stomach tighten and his chest ache, but this tiptoeing around and pretending it didn’t happen was worse.
“Why don’t you make me, prince,” Helen countered.
Hector bowed up for battle when his mother turned around holding his little sister. The guilt that gripped him for an instant only made him angrier. Everybody needed to stop wallowing and move on. Like he had. Above his mother’s head, the television showed a charred and burning body lying on a dusty street somewhere in the Middle East. Below it, at the bottom of the screen, a stock-ticker rolled. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed. His dad had been right about that.
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