The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination (21 page)

E
fryn Boyne’s
transporter backed slowly out of the bumpy parking lot at The Clark Bar & Grill. “Where to, Captain?” asked the Driver, as they transitioned onto a paved road.

“The Frick,” said Boyne, holding his hat to his head.

The Driver took the bridge over to the Point, then headed up Penn Avenue, right through the middle of downtown Pittsburgh. Boyne loved this route. Penn Avenue had run the full length of the city for over three hundred years. Once they’d escaped the sterility of the high-rent district, they passed into old neighborhoods with a hodge-podge of storefronts shouting for attention in an astonishing number of styles, ethnicities, gimmicks and clever repurposings, decades in the making. Further out, nearing the city limits, they passed the Revolutionary War Cemetery and the petite-gothic First Presbyterian Church, sadly boarded up and missing most of its carved limestone elements. Boyne perked up as the commercial district surrendered to the park-like front yard of the historic Frick Mansion, an eleven-bedroom, 19th century Italianate monstrosity on three prime acres in the best neighborhood in the city.

Boyne paused to admire the Gilded Age estate of his hero, Henry Clay Frick, henchman extraordinaire. Frick, like himself, had survived an assassination attempt by an outraged female — that bond would never break. He kept a framed original front page from a 1905 Ulster Monogram, with the headline:

Frick Most Hated Man In America.

What more could a real man ask for? A man without enemies is not a man!

The mansion and manicured park behind it, with its little museum for Frick’s art treasures, supported Boyne’s theory that only those capable of doing the unthinkable can achieve the unimaginable. He saw himself in this very same light, and he liked what he saw. Frick, fellow Irishman, fellow American, had put his indelible stamp on the American character. He was the very definition of the vaunted Robber Baron. The shit-heel hero of unbridled ambition.

The mansion and grounds were kept in perfect order, exactly as Frick would have expected, although it was currently owned by a Saudi Trade Minister who only stayed there occasionally. They parked in front, then formed a loose phalanx around Boyne and marched to the side of the mansion. A young man in an ankle-length, brushed nickel, hooded robe stood waiting at the servant’s gate. At a distance, the robe appeared to be a sleek ball gown. A very long, gray scarf was wrapped around his neck three times, both ends draped down his back and fastened with a stainless steel and blue tanzanite brooch. These scarves, and especially the pin, were known to be embedded with sensors and tracking devices. Hackers were at the top of the code-warrior food chain, and this kind of high-tech get-up sorted them out from the rented help, the corporate iStooges.

The Driver eyeballed the kid suspiciously.

“He’s a friend,” said Boyne to the Driver. “Knew his father. The ass-hats in New York are pushing this Tuke thing so hard the aces are spillin’ from their sleeves. I don’t know why. This kid will.”

The phalanx absorbed the young man as it passed through the gate and headed into the gardens surrounding Frick’s private museum. Its loading dock was tucked away behind a wall of Norwegian Pines. Boyne used it frequently.

“Nice get-up, bucko,” chuckled the Driver.

Without breaking stride, the kid rotated his eyes onto the Driver, who shivered — he’d seen those eyes before.

“It works.” The kid spat each angst-tipped word.

“Warm? Is it?” the Driver said, turning his rude intro to friendly banter.

“Warm?” the kid sneered. “This coat speaks a tribal dialect. It attracts those I want near me, and repulses those I don’t. Fashion works.”

“Oh. It’s workin’ all right,” said the Driver with a farcical grin.

They secured the loading dock. Boyne and the kid slipped up a short flight of steps, then around a short bend where there was some privacy.

“How’s your mum?” said Boyne.

“Great.”

“Making out OK, are ya?”

“Keeping the franchise alive.”

Only Boyne knew this strange kid was the notorious Plastikmutata, founding member of a highly successful hacker-for-hire clan. To Boyne, he was Olander Boyne, his nephew.

Plastikmutata playfully affected a lyrical brogue. “Just as me dear ol’ dad woulda had it.”

They laughed, and Boyne said, “Let me ask you something, son. Why the funny name?”

“It’s not funny, it’s unique. Searchable. I can append it. What’s funny about it? My name is exclusively mine. Why would I share my name? Identity can be used against you, as you well know.”

Boyne was surprised at how emotional the boy had become. “OK. So let me ask you this: Why Tuke? What’s special about Tuke?”

The boy ignored the question. “Self-appointed names define one person. Just one. Unlike . . . Bob, Teddy, Ralph, Laura, Betty or Ned.”

Boyne tipped an imaginary hat. “Sorry, lad.”

“I don’t want to be like you.”

“Me neither.”

“I know you think hackers are criminals, like you. Kindred spirits. But we’re not. Look at who we hack — banks, insurance companies, predatory retailers, the fucking bad guys! That makes us the good guys.”

Boyne said neutrally, “Tell me about this Tuke fella.”

“He’s the future. They . . . the reptiles, the skid-mark residue of a dead kingdom, your betters — he’s ticked their box for deletion. Tuke is the all-powerful Massive. He hosts the Crowd of Crowds.”

Boyne knew he was counted amongst the despised, but took no offense. “Why haven’t we heard about this — geek army?”

“Geek army,” said Plastikmutata, mildly offended. “You haven’t heard, because it was born in a world you are not aware of. A virtual world. Bionic Vida. Big Data. The deep-web. But believe me, each member of the geek army, as you put it, is a real person. They are right here. In this space — real-time.”

“Who is?”

“Everyone!” shouted Plastikmutata. “Social warriors. Patriots in their own minds. Minds that rule virtual worlds of their own creation. Worlds without thieves and liars and politicians. Worlds a rational society would build, if we were allowed.”

Boyne was taken aback. “All that comes from a game?”

“If you think this about a game . . . he’s won already. The Tuke Massive is not a game. He’s gamed you into thinking it is a game. But it’s not a game. It was, but it evolved into a massive communications network; the unifying force for everyone that’s been shut out of your walled cities. Cities in the final stages of a systemic meltdown. A system suited only to the wolves who designed it . . . wolves who are now consuming each other. Because they ran out of new ideas and new things to consume. They’re eating each other to kill their boredom.”

Boyne smiled at that characterization, but said worriedly, “How did I miss all that?”

Plastikmutata could barely constrain his venom. “You missed it because, when you see a regular person your only question is ‘What can they do for me?’ and as far as a regular person goes, the answer is . . . nothing. So that’s what you see . . . nothing. You're blinded by your greed and arrogance.”

Boyne absorbed his nephew’s invective with a contrite shrug, and asked in a hushed voice, “Weapons?”

Plastikmutata balled up his lips. “Intelligence. Facts. Ideas. Integrity. Good intentions. Tuke doesn’t need weapons; it’s not like you think. He’s simply going to nudge the system over the brink your scaly friends have brought us to. But you don’t bring down a system unless you have a replacement. That power vacuum always gets filled by the most mediocre. So Tuke has lots and lots and lots of really really smart people working on that. The Big Brains. And, of course, The fucking KNim. And there’s always some random actors. Wildcards.”

“Each mind’s a kingdom,” said Boyne.

“Yeah. And we all live in our own bubble,” said Plastikmutata, the mood lightened. “Tuke’s got the best minds on the planet. Many of whom were cast out by your friends — the bloody Caflers.” He drew a long breath. “You’ve always believed that hard work, talent and ruthless ambition was all anyone needed to succeed, right?”

Boyne couldn’t deny it.

“But you were wrong. All it really took was ruthless ambition. The ambitious won. They beat the hard workers and the talented. They took it all. Then squandered a thousand years of accumulated productivity, in a few decades.”

“They are a wasteful bunch,” said Boyne.

“Tuke is not going to play their game. That’s how he’ll win. He’s going to play his own game, which is growing exponentially, while yours is dying. A new member every millisecond. Its sheer momentum will change everything.”

“How so?”

“The Massive is a platform for collaboration on a massive scale. Do you know what that means? Can you imagine, people working together. No winners or losers. Collaboration. The Massive allows its player to join a cooperative, a crowd, a hive mind, and solve a problem. Tuke’s gamified problem solving.”

Boyne scowled. “Everyone wins? Unnatural, that.”

“An abomination. Nonetheless, we’re going to vanquish the bullies and Neanderthals, the frat boys and the unworthy privileged. We’re going to take their toys away and ignore their tantrums. Your fake representatives of that toy government are existentially irrelevant.”

Boyne was thinking these rude but accurate statements over and nodding unconsciously. “Can you shut The Massive down? A little favor for yer dear old uncle?”

Plastikmutata cracked a cynical smile. “Shut ’em down?” He restrained a howling laugh, and said pointedly. “This is no peasant uprising, no nut-job libertarian shoot-out. Tuke’s geek army has no doctrine. It’s not pledged to an ideology. You can’t imagine that, can you? It’s free form. Data wants to be free. They are only concerned with solving problems, with results. They’re not interested in proving themselves right. They just want to solve one problem at a time. Remember: no winners, no losers. No ideology. They live the open-source lifestyle. They adapt as they go depending on the data. They evolve. Their argument . . . is never settled. They stay in the flow. Pure fuego. And! They have lots and lots of money.”

“Aye. A heavy purse makes a light heart.”

“Yeah. Look what it did for me dear old dad.”

Boyne had long ago, inadvertently, mentioned his brother in public; it cost him his life. “So where’d they get all dat pelf?” he asked.

“They earned it. They’re social entrepreneurs. Crypto-capitalist.”

“Crypto-capitalist?”

“They’re writing code only they understand. A whole new system with its own lexicon and symbols, and only they know how to use it. Just think what would happen if you overwrote every computer in the world with code only you understood. You’d control everything. You could delete the past, and start anew.

“They’re harnessing what they call participation bandwidth. You only have a voice if you participate, if you’re engaged. Tuke’s taking his cues from the world of play, not politics. Their new society isn’t based on living to work, but living to play. A level of engagement that will turn this world of mindless consumers back into — citizens.”

“You’re skinnin’ me now.”

“This is what happens when game designers, social media developers, your basic fun-ware makers design a society. I don’t know how you’re gonna tackle that. You can’t beat fun.”

“I’m a recent convert.”

“And! Did I mention the lots and lots and lots of smart people? Me included. I’m one of them. I’ll help, if they’ll let me. And did I tell ya about the KNim?”

“KNim?”

Plastikmutata turned grim. “The Knickerbocker Nimrod. The self-appointed vigilantes of the digital world. They do not forget. They do not forgive. And they love to destroy hackers who cross them. Dat’s der bailiwick.”

“I don’t have much truck with that technical stuff. And don’t tell me those names aren’t funny.”

“If you have a cell phone, they’re tracking you.”

Boyne laughed. “Not this one.”

“Don’t kid yourself. The KNim watches over The Massive. If you’re involved in anything Tuke, they’re tracking you.”

Plastikmutata put his hand on Boyne’s shoulder. “Sorry, Captain, but I’m rootin’ for the other team. The good guys.”

Boyne said meekly, “We’re the good guys, to our people.”

“Spare me. I’ve heard Freddy Cochran’s, ‘Not born in Ireland, Ireland born in us’ speech.” He turned and jogged down the steps.

Boyne stared after the young man, his only blood relative. What he’d said was probably true. If that was the case, he was at a crossroad. He’d have to pick a side. But who was going to win, he wondered?

Who will win?

C
amille coiled
her legs around the kitchen stool and gazed at her new computer. Just holding her head up was a struggle; focusing on the deceptively simple concepts of this game was impossible. She over-thought everything and stared far too intently at her screen until her eyelids turned to lead.

MISH said, “You have to create a data-matrix so you can tell what’s useful — how the data relate to each other. Every post that comes to you is a potentially useful piece of your puzzle.”

“MISH? What does all that mean?”

“Some posts will be extremely useful, some merely relevant, some not at all. Some might even be hostile. It’s up to you to determine what’s what.”

“OoooKaaaay.” She rested her arms on the island’s cold marble top.

“Don’t get bogged down in the theory, just play. Make your mistakes. Move on. Learn how. It will come to you quickly, once you get started.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said in a sloshy voice, cheek pressed against her arm.

“Although this is a machine, you should remember to behave like a human. Be civil. Treat those you meet here with respect. Make friends and allies. Your puzzle is being built with the pieces they bring to you. Take care of them. It’s all in the data.”

“OK.”

“This is a social game. It is being played in a virtual world, but it affects the real world, too. Think through everything, all the way out to the real world.”

“K.”

“The Tuke love letters are drawing a lot of attention. No one has ever posted anything like them. They’re gems, pure gems. Two hankies and a beach towel.”

MISH stopped. Camille had snuggled into her own arms, slumped across the kitchen island, sleeping soundly. MISH’s smile expanded into the silliest cartoon proportions. “And you, Camille Gager — you are in charge.” She grinned at a muffled snore.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”