Civil War

by James A. Hunter

  “Mr. Shoemaker,” said the receptionist, a young man in a dark suit named Berkley, “they’re ready for you in the conference room.”

  Randy stood and nodded. “Thank you.” He absently adjusted his pocket protector, straightened his notes, then triple-checked that he had the holobutton in his pants pocket. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders as though preparing for a battle on the rolling grasslands of the Whispering Steppe. He could do this. He mustered every ounce of courage and marched toward the conference room, shoving his way in through the heavy mahogany doors barring his way.

  He gulped audibly, courage immediately melting away as he swept his gaze around the room.

  The entire far wall was endless glass, offering a spectacular view of the towering Rocky Mountains cutting across the skyline like jagged teeth. In the center of the room was a long rectangular table, all sleek glass and chrome. And around that table was … well, everyone. Everyone that mattered anyway. Danny, the vice-president of Marketing, sat off to the left, smiling his easy smile, hands laced behind a head of well-coiffed black hair. To the right was Susan Span, the head of HR, whipcord lean and wearing a black pencil skirt and a creamy blouse.

  The head of every single department was present and accounted for, and they’d even called in the top brass. There, Paula Menchaca, the CFO. Near the head of the table, Asif Kamal Totah, COO. And at the very end of the table wearing smart black slacks and a navy shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, was Michael Silva, CEO and majority shareholder at Frontflip Studios. Michael had thinning hair, cut short, a strong jawline, and eyes as hard and cold as cut diamonds.

  Frontflip Studios may have been a “casual” place to work, but even a glance at Mr. Silva revealed he was not a casual man. He was a shark. One who swum in the waters of business and ate lesser prey without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Welcome,” Mr. Silva said, a chilly smile filling his face. “I’m told you’ve been our lead engineer on the Dungeon issue.”

  “Erm. Well. Yes,” Randy said, shuffling forward, letting the doors swing silently shut behind him. “I suppose that is the case, sir.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself, going through the words he’d rehearsed in his head. “I’ve been working with Customer Service and a handful of other devs and engineers to understand the issue at hand and try to mitigate the effects until we can find a way to eliminate the problem entirely.”

  “And how close, exactly, are we to eliminating the problem?” Silva asked, his voice low and pleasant, though there was a hint of threat lingering just beneath the words. You are costing me money, this had better get fixed. Fast.

  “Well.” Randy shifted nervously from foot to foot and cleared his voice. “Not close at all, sir. In fact, we are no closer than when this first started. At all. The situation is actually …” He faltered, pushed his glasses up. “Much worse,” he finished weakly, before launching into a rushed analysis of both dungeons, especially noting the spread of anomalies in the Cruel Citadel.

  “Dammit, Charles,” Mr. Silva snapped at Randy’s immediate boss, the lead team coordinator for all of Hearthworld’s software engineers. “I thought you said we were getting a handle on this. This”—he waved a hand at Randy—“isn’t getting a handle on things. This is a giant clusterfuck of epic proportions. This could kill us. You, Charles, are killing us with your incompetence.”

  Charles opened his mouth, ready to defend himself.

  Mr. Silva raised a hand, and with a glower cut Charles’s excuses off before they ever left his lips. “Just give me a moment to process,” Mr. Silva grunted. He frowned, forehead creased, fingers now steepled. “I’ve read through the reports,” he said after a beat, “and frankly, I don’t even understand how these low-level Trolls are causing such damage. I’ve been reading reports about players getting killed by creatures one-third their level. Can someone please explain that to me.” Not a question.

  No one spoke.

  Finally, Randy cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, I can.” He edged up to the table and dropped his holostick on a sleek black pad buzzing with faint blue light on the edges. An InfiniTab Office Pro. Immediately, a 3-D image resolved in the air. Roark the Griefer in the flesh. “This is the primary anomaly in the Cruel Citadel. We believe he is a gamer. And he’s been spreading corrupt code to the other creatures in the dungeon.” Randy paused, sniffing. “It shows up as line of code called ‘World Stone Vassal Authority.’ At any rate, it allows those infected to gain unauthorized player skills, trade skills, even classes in some cases. It also allows this modder, Roark, to alter the fundamental script.

  “You see, sir, floor Overseers are governed by our Paragon Radiant AI system, which allows them to ‘think.’ To make complex choices, set quests, and govern the creatures below them in the hierarchy. In beginner dungeons the scripts are very simple. Mobs don’t work together. They engage based on aggro range. They don’t think. But even low-level creatures can provide some challenge since their abilities scale based on their opponent. Well, what this Roark has done is quite ingenious really. He hasn’t actually made the mobs more difficult, he’s just altered their scripts. They are thinking and fighting like the highest-tier mobs in the game. Using team dynamics, squad tactics, even traps. And that alone makes them far deadlier than their actual level would suggest.”

  The 3-D image changed, the air suddenly filled with video captures of the Trolls of the Cruel Citadel working together.

  In the first clip, a Changeling darted through the legs of a rog in heavy plate mail, hamstringing him from behind while a pair of Thursrs advanced in lockstep, using shields and spears to harry the hero from the flanks. From behind them, Reavers with bows launched deadly volleys of arrow fire at a mage in swishing robes who appeared at the top of a winding staircase.

  The scene shimmered, replaced by a replay of a Troll scampering down a stony hall in retreat, luring an overconfident thief into a deadly pit filled with poisonous spikes.

  Another shift. Roark was back on screen, barking out orders from behind a file of armor-clad Thursrs while casting spells from a grimoire that floated above his left palm.

  Mr. Silva waved a hand through the air and sighed. “Fine. So these Trolls are all acting out high-level combat scripts. The question is, why haven’t you just shut it down? Booted this Roark from the game. Reset the damned dungeon even?”

  “Frankly, we’ve tried, sir,” Randy replied, feeling a touch more confidence. “But any piece of anomalous code … well, we can’t touch it.” Randy shrugged and spread his hands. “And the prime anomaly himself is effectively invisible. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t even properly exist inside the game. And it seems likely that this Roark is going to capture the Dungeon Lord position, and when he does, there’s no telling what might happen. Whether this infection will be contained to the Cruel Citadel or whether it will spread beyond. My best suggestion, sir, is to sequester both of the corrupted dungeons. Simply prevent players from going there. We can’t affect the corrupted mobs, but we can make these areas restricted zones.”

  “Good. Yes. That.” Mr. Silva clapped his hands together, a wide smile spreading. “That’s a pragmatic approach I can get behind. Cut these dungeons off while we find a way to fix the problem.”

  “Sir, I think that might be premature,” came a new voice, slick and oozing confidence. The voice of a salesman. Danny Lane, the vice-president of Marketing. He stood, drawing every eye in the room. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and fit. He had on creased khakis, a light charcoal chambray dress shirt, and a pair of suede brogues. “Not to downplay what Mr. Shoemaker—it is Mr. Shoemaker, isn’t it?” Randy’s face burned. Danny knew his name, their offices were right across the hall from each other. He was just acting like a big shot in front of the board. “What Mr. Shoemaker is saying, but I see opportunity here. Yes, we have received a number of customer complaints, and obviously we want to fix this, but let me just throw out a few numbers.

  “Seven percent. That’s the increased l
og-in rate among existing users since these two new dungeons went rogue.” Randy seethed inside. He’d invented that term, Rogue Dungeon, and he’d shared it with Danny! The man even had the audacity to shoot him a wink. “Nine and a half percent. That’s the increase in number of new subscriptions sold. To break that down shotgun style for the lay people in the room—those are the types of numbers we expect to see when we release an expansion.”

  He paused, voice dropping low. “And this is free. This is a viral campaign, one that we couldn’t even hope to replicate. People are talking. Everyone is talking. As far as I’m concerned, this is money in the bank. Now should we figure out how to contain it? Of course. Obviously. But why cut off the golden goose before she’s done laying eggs? The number of complaints aren’t hurting sales, and so far this infection hasn’t really affected any of the players. I think we can spin this. Lean into it. Get in front of it and leverage it to our advantage.” He smiled, big and broad and cocksure, then sat back and re-laced his hands behind his head.

  The room was deathly quiet.

  “A nine and a half percent increase in new subscriptions?” Mr. Silva asked.

  “Nine and a half, sir.”

  Mr. Silva rubbed at his smooth chin, eyes distant. “Okay. We try to contain this thing, but we lean into it while we work behind the scenes. No restrictions. Let these modders run. But you”—he thrust a finger straight out at Randy—“if the Cruel Citadel does fall to this Roark, I want you in there. Boots on the ground, so to speak. Charles, if that happens, he’s authorized for unlimited overtime. Put him in one of the Deep Dive PODS. Trick it out. Full admin powers. Whole nine yards.”

  For the first time since entering the conference room, Randy felt a flutter of something other than tightly controlled fear. He felt excitement. A Deep Dive Pod with full admin power? That was … significant. A dream, even.

  “Of course, sir,” Charles replied, shooting Randy a sidelong glance. “We’ll make it happen.”

  “Good,” Mr. Silva growled. “Now go fix my game!”

  THIRTY-FOUR:

  Hanging Oaks

  Roark’s first official act as fourth-floor Overseer was to appoint a new first-floor boss—Druz, the Elite Thursr who’d helped him convince the first wave of Azibek supporters to switch sides. She was a strategist at heart, a natural leader, and she took over the griefing rotation with gusto. He’d also used his World Stone Authority to make her a Greater Vassal, ensuring she would be loyal to the cause. Though she couldn’t seem to get the hang of calling Roark by his name rather than Lord Overseer.

  Before selecting Druz, Roark had briefly considered making either Zyra or Kaz the Overseer, but quickly decided against it. They were simply too valuable in his honor guard, and as much as they deserved such an exalted position, he needed Trolls he could trust without question at his side. Zyra never would’ve taken the post anyway, seeing it as a position ripe for being assassinated rather than assassinating others. And since Kaz had just evolved yet again, becoming a level 16 Thursr Behemoth, he was far too powerful for the post. Though as a Behemoth—nearly thirteen feet tall with blue-black skin and fists bigger than Roark’s head—Kaz was a rival for Wurgfozz the Sadistic on the second floor, the softhearted Chef wanted nothing to do with overseeing. No, Kaz was happiest toiling away in his kitchen and would only be wasted on a throne.

  The cycle of training, griefing heroes, and fighting other Trolls went on much as it had before, though Kaz, Mac, and Zyra moved down to the fourth floor with Roark, continuing their shifts leading the defense against the Azibek supporters who made it past the traps.

  More often than not during the attacks, at least one loyalist would turn coat and kill another, begging for a place with the allied Trolls of the floors above. Roark postulated that the Mugwump Trolls usually waited until they were on the fourth floor to betray Azibek because they knew trying to do it while surrounded by Dungeon Lord fanatics was a death sentence. Zyra thought it was most likely they were putting on a show, making certain a member of the honor guard or Roark himself saw their defection so there could be no question as to their loyalty. This, she claimed, was to trick Roark into letting his guard down around them.

  With more Mugwumps swelling their ranks every day, the barracks Roark had added to the fourth floor filled up quickly.

  Surprisingly, Griff asked for a place in the new barracks as well.

  “Spent most of my life in the arena barracks with the other fighters,” the grizzled old man said, shrugging. “Never felt quite right havin’ a room all to myself. Besides, Mai’s settled in now, and she don’t need me around as much as she once did, if you catch my meanin’.”

  Roark did.

  Though Kaz never skipped out on his shifts below, the Behemoth spent most of his time on the first floor in the kitchens. And when Kaz wasn’t upstairs, Mai had a way of appearing downstairs.

  “When my Alchemy’s leveled enough, I’m going to mix a potion that lets me vomit at will,” Zyra told Roark as they watched the giggling lovebirds across the throne room.

  Theirs was a strange relationship to be sure—the sheer, physical logistics of it boggled Roark’s mind—but both seemed happy, so who was he to cast stones? Still … “They are a bit much, aren’t they?” he agreed.

  “I’m going back to the lab,” the Dread Reaver said, turning on her heel.

  “I’ll walk you.”

  Roark made to follow—he had a few hours before he took over for Kaz waiting for the next attack, and he wanted to finish sorting through the books in his new study—but a calloused hand the size of a buckler grabbed his arm.

  “Roark!” Kaz’s eyes were nearly glowing with excitement. “Roark has to hear what Mai learned today in the market!”

  Zyra threw a mocking wave over her shoulder and disappeared down the tunnel to the Alchemy lab and study. Roark watched her go with a mix of envy and disappointment, then turned back to the Behemoth Thursr and the buxom cook.

  “All right, let’s hear it.”

  “Tell Roark, Mai, tell him!”

  “I am, hold your horses,” Mai said, patting the air with her pink hands. “Well, I was chatting with Variok up in the marketplace, and I come to find out that Variok’s been trying to skirt the Legion of Order. Got into a bit of bad business with their ilk—something to do with knockoff gems—and now he’s needing a place to lie low. So naturally, I tell him about the Dungeon. He says he might even consider your offer. But then he goes on about how he’s a man of great culture and what have you. Says he couldn’t possibly come here. Unless, of course, he has the best food and accommodations.”

  At Mai’s side, Kaz danced from foot to foot, grinning.

  “This is the good part,” he assured Roark.

  “So, I tell him,” Mai continued, settling her fists on her wide hips and lifting her brows imperiously, “I say, ‘We’ve got a chef on his way to becoming a Gourmet. What do you think of that?’ And what he thinks is, ‘Variok will sign on if there is a Gourmet in the citadel,’” she said, doing a passable imitation.

  “What’s all the excitement?” Griff asked, wandering in from the barracks tunnel, short sword in hand.

  “Another possible relocation from Averi City,” Roark said. “A merchant named Variok.”

  “Pheh,” the weapons trainer muttered, swinging the sword up to rest on his shoulder. “Can’t stand the elf. Anyone what smiles that much is sellin’ something faulty.”

  “He’ll come in handy selling off the extra weapons from griefing,” Roark said. Though truth be told, he liked haggling with the aggressively cheerful merchant.

  Griff held out his battle-notched short sword to Roark. “Think you can repair this? All this trainin’ is takin’ its toll on the old gal.”

  Roark nodded, taking the blade from the grizzled trainer.

  “Wait, that’s not the end!” Kaz waved his hands at Mai. “Tell Roark the best part, Mai!”

  Mai nodded. “So, I says to Variok, ‘All our Gourmet’s got left
in his quest is to find some white truffles and chocolate orchid bean pods—’”

  Griff snorted. “Beans growin’ on a flower? Sounds like some farmer’s been pullin’ your leg, Kaz. Stick to the truffles. Those’re real as you or I.”

  Kaz was beside the trainer in a heartbeat. “Griff knows truffles, too?”

  “Aye. I grew up huntin’ the blasted things with my potbellied boar. Canniest little beast you ever saw. He could root ’em up right out of the dirt.” The trainer stopped suddenly, lifting the scarred brow over his eye. “What d’ya mean, ‘too’?”

  “That’s what Variok was on about,” Mai said. “He’s got a regular who brings him truffles from the Traitor’s Forest—”

  “Where does Griff think Kaz will find the rare white truffle?” the Behemoth Thursr asked, leaning in until his nose nearly touched Griff’s, his eyes as wide as tea saucers.

  Mai crossed her thick arms under her breasts, clearly annoyed at being forgotten.

  “Well, now, they’re just an accident of nature, aren’t they,” Griff said. “You find ’em in amongst all the black truffles.”

  “About one to every ten thousand?” Roark asked, sensing the emergence of a pattern.

  “About that, aye.” Griff nodded, scratching his scarred, bristly chin. “Why? Ain’t that what your precious elf merchant said? ’Cause if he told you different, he’s playing an angle.”

  Mai rolled her eyes as if Griff were her doddering old father. “You and elves.”

  “Bah! You know how they are.”

  Kaz seemed to have forgotten his lady love and Griff were even in the throne room.

  “Macaroni is a canny beast,” Kaz said, turning to Roark, eyebrows raised in a question. “Doesn’t Roark think so?”

  Roark stored the short sword in his Inventory to repair later.

  “What do you say, Mac?” he asked the distortion wandering the ceiling. Despite his evolution—and significant size increase—the little monster still had no problem clinging to the ceiling, which absolutely baffled Roark. Hearthworld’s physical laws didn’t seem that different from those of his home world. It had to be part of Mac’s innate magick.