The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination (4 page)

T
homka and Murthy
always met with Arch Bishop Virginia McWilliams Hendrix and her reclusive husband, Petey, immediately after Sunday services. Their mansion stood inside what was once the vast UN General Assembly Hall. Many called it the real estate deal of the millennium. It had the floor space of a soccer field and a magnificent view across the East River of old Brooklyn. Beautiful sunrises.

Thomka and Murthy loved being here.

The four-story, post-info-modern mansion occupied most of the great hall, and was clad in cor-ten steel — a gift from the Walled City of Pittsburgh. The austere design and oxidized steel melded perfectly with the empire gothic marble and exotic wood trim of the original 1950s décor. The east wall had been removed and replaced by a glass enclosure that gave the impression that a crystal meteor had struck the hall and engulfed the entire UN Sculpture Garden. The mansion was surrounded by a maze of office cubicles filled with computerized attendants transferring donations from the Flock to The Church. Most of it would be instantly changed into Chinese Yuan, the only currency Petey could buy gold with. Petey believed in gold. He was an old-school investment banker who’d learned his lesson.

Security was the indispensable architectural element here, so the buffer zone of cubicles was a functioning labyrinth. Only those of Petey’s inner circle knew the way through.

A matronly receptionist sat outside the front door in the unfashionable plain brown uniform worn by The Church’s administrative employees. She nodded a mild hello and waved Thomka and Murthy past the guards, who were permitted no familiarities.

They passed through a foyer that doubled as a scanner, and emerged in the voluminous receiving room. It was not uncommon for this room to host hundreds of guests at receptions and galas. Thomka and Murthy strolled across the gleaming marble floor, beneath a real brontosaurus skeleton suspended from the ceiling, toward a charming little bar in the far corner. There, on a white leather couch, sat the Arch Bishop, or Virginia, as they would now address her. She had traded her overstated vestments for an overstated dressing gown. “Something to drink, boys?” she asked, raising her half-empty snifter.

“Not before the sun’s over the yardarm,” said Thomka, mocking himself. He owned a yacht but had never done more than sit in the captain’s seat.

“Abstinence is its own punishment,” she warned.

“In that case,” said Murthy, “make mine a triple.” He kissed her on both cheeks and slid into a matching white leather chair with an all-encompassing view of what was once the world’s greatest collection of public art, the UN Sculpture Garden. “I don’t know why you ever bought that boat, Al,” he said. “Oh, now I remember . . . you’re paranoid.”

Despite her many conceits, Virginia was a terrific hostess. “Petey’s tending his tomatoes.”

“How’s that going?” asked Murthy.

“He’s crazy about that greenhouse thing he’s building down on the river. On those barges. Old coal barges. Spends all his time out there ordering crews around. He loves it. All of a sudden, he’s a micro-climatologist and permaculture expert. Just a hobby, he says. I’m not allowed to see it until it’s finished. It’s a surprise.”

Thomka moved to the bar. “Maybe I will have one.” He seemed more skittish than usual.

“Here he comes,” said Murthy, waving to a thin man of average height in a misshapen black cowboy hat heading toward them.

Virginia adjusted herself, and cautioned, “He’s got a lot on his mind. You know that computer-network-game thing you told him about, Al?”

Murthy’s nostrils flared.

Thomka tossed a mortified glance at her.

Murthy glowered.

Petey entered with a handful of tomatoes. “What’d I tell you, Virginia, ripe tomatoes weeks before spring. Doesn’t matter how much money you have — can’t get a good tomato unless you grow your own.”

He put the tomatoes on the bar and tapped himself a beer from one of its many colorful pulls. “Well, Al, I had security look into that game thing,” he said, taking a foamy swig of a hoppy ale. “It doesn’t look like much of anything. Just a bunch of weird . . . activities. The kind of things people with no money do. They call them social games, but I don’t get it. Pinheads, geeks, iStooges. Techno fringe. Just what you’d expect. You know who I mean.”

Thomka countered sarcastically, “Yeah, the people who control our digital infrastructure. Such as it is. We’re at their mercy.”

Murthy leapt to his feet. “You talking about that Tuke thing?”

“I only mentioned . . .”

“I told you I’d take care of that! I got a guy . . .”

“Please,” said Petey. “It’s a little early for this. Doesn’t matter anyway. The whole thing is just a very large game platform. The Tuke Nerdvana.”

“They didn’t give Tuke the Nobel Prize because they liked his graphics.”

“We infiltrated one of their games,” said Petey. “Our undercover guy played a full round, if that’s what you call it. Seemed a little light for a game. Arrested its organizer.” He added somewhat amused. “You know they call us . . . reptiles? She’s been questioned and released.”

“How generous,” Virginia said adoringly, lifting her glass.

“Generosity is an expression of power,” he replied, joining her in toasting himself.

Thomka wished he hadn’t heard that. Petey’s misanthropic attitude was at the heart of his growing doubts.

“The Massive is just a collection of not-too-sporty games, or missions, or something. Hundreds of them. Insignificant. But I don’t know how they’re connected. I didn’t think there were that many computers still in private hands.”

Thomka winced, and tryed to hide it by saying awkwardly, “How do we know it’s insignificant? We have no idea what this sort of thing is intended to encourage. My eggheads . . .”

“The sky is falling. The sky is falling,” shouted Murthy. “You’re such an asshole. I’m all over this.”

Virginia chuckled as Murthy tossed her a big wink and belted down his drink. “What’s so strange about these games, darling?”

“Something’s missing,” said Petey. “The games were all so dull. Not much action. No competition either. No drama. But we picked one that was starting, sent in one of our guys. A woman actually. And she played it through. Right here in the Times Square district.”

Petey lifted a sheet of paper from the bar and held it up for all to see.

E
veryone gasped
, mockingly. Assassination?

Petey read the instructions:

“‘At the beginning of the game, you are assigned three secret weapons.’”

“Weapons?”

“Yes, and here’s the weird part. ‘To onlookers, these weapons will seem like random acts of kindness. But to the other players, these benevolent gestures are deadly attacks.’”

“What are these secret weapons?” Thomka asked.

Murthy remained dismissive. “Random acts of kindness, Al. For you, that really is a secret.”

“The weapons are all some kind of greeting, or question, or even a song. Those are the secret weapons. Saying something nice.” He went back to the instructions: ‘Some players will be slain by a serenade. Others will be killed by a compliment. You and your partners might be taken down by an innocent group cheer. You will be given no information about your targets. No names, no photos, nothing but the guarantee that they will remain within the outdoor game boundaries during the designated playing time. Anyone you encounter could be your target. The only way to find out is to attack them with your secret weapons.’”

“What are those secret weapons again, dear?” asked Virginia.

Petey handed her the instructions. “They send you this the night before the game. It shows the boundaries and gives you your secret weapons.”

Virginia read aloud, “Number one: Praise your target’s shoes! Oh, I love that one. Number two: Welcome your targets to the city with a jingle. That’s cute. And three: Mistake your targets for celebrities.” A grin wrinkled her chin. “I really like the one about the shoes. That’d be my secret weapon.”

Murthy lifted his foot, pulled back his pant leg, and modeled his wispy Italian loafers.

Petey thought for a moment, then gave a cautious summary. “You just walk up to people and say, ‘I like your shoes.’ Perfect strangers. But if they’re playing too, they’re dead and have to join your team. This assimilation of the dead players leads inevitably to two big teams and a climactic showdown. Maybe there is some drama.”

“Brilliant,” mumbled Thomka.

“Boringgg!’ slurred Murthy.

Petey finished the instructions. “‘Watch out! The hunter is also the hunted. Other players have secret weapons, too, and they're coming to get you. Anything out of the ordinary you do to assassinate YOUR targets may reveal your own secret identity to the other players who want YOU dead.

“‘As targets are successfully assassinated, the dead players join forces with their killers to continue stalking the surviving players. The teams grow bigger and bigger until two final mobs of benevolent assassins descend upon each other for a spectacular, climactic kill.’

“‘Will innocents be caught in the cross-fire? Oh, yes. But when your secret weapon is a random act of kindness, it’s only cruel to be kind to other players.’”

Thomka made a final plea. “Is there any doubt? Is this what we want? Benevolent Assassins? Any kind of assassins roaming our streets? Right here in Manhattan? Secret identities? Secret weapons? Innocents in the cross-fire!? Mobs descending for a climactic kill?”

“Seems harmless,” said Virginia.

“Harmless!?” shouted Thomka. “They’re training for real assassinations. Violent assemblies. They’re casing the whole city. They’re a threat. A real threat.”

Petey’s dismissal of these games wavered. “Even an empty threat demands a response.”

Thomka mirrored his cautious tone. “This could get out of hand.”

Petey remembered something disturbing. “There are lots of other games there, too. Hundreds of them. And they’re all weird like this one. There was one that gave points for GPS marking where fire extinguishers and heart defibrillators are kept.”

Thomka’s eyes widened. “They’re tagging our emergency supplies.”

That was it for Petey. “Better to shut this down now than find out it wasn’t just a harmless . . . thing.”

“Shut what down?” said Virginia. “A social game?”

“The whole thing. There are hundreds of games like this going on, right now,” said Petey. “And this Tuke guy is formidable.”

“Tuke?” said Virginia. “That Tuke! The Nobel Prize Tuke. Tuke? Is that German?”

Murthy rolled his eyes.

“Pennsylvania Dutch,” said Thomka, as an indictment.

“Quakers!?” she yelped. “There’s no cure for Quakers.”

“That’s reason enough to get on this,” said Thomka. “The Quakers aren’t some post-apocalyptic nut-job hippies. They don’t wear funny hats, or obey crazy rules. They’re hyper-rationalists. They think things through. They’re serious. And they’re patient. Very, very patient.”

“Look, Al,” said Murthy. “Tuke is nothing. The last game-junkie genius. I know how hard it is for you to laugh at yourself — Albert! So let me help you.” He howled, drunkenly poking a finger. “Ha ha ha! Haaaaa!”

“Better to end this right away,” said Petey. “Just to be safe. The timing is all wrong, there are some,” he paused to make air-quotes, “important deals, on the horizon.”

Virginia perked up, “Privatizing the NPF?”

Petey restrained a guilty grin to cover having cracked out of turn, and winked at her salaciously. “Precisely, my love. Privatizing the NPF.”

“This threat is not empty,” said Thomka. “The Tuke Massive has more members than The Church. They’re growing, and our numbers are in steep decline. We’re teetering on collapse, just as the post-apocalyptic mayhem is over. People outside the walled cities have reorganized. Many are self-sufficient. They don’t want to return to the old ways. Our ways. And there’re a lot of angry . . .”

Murthy exploded. “Is anyone listening to me? I have someone on this.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” said Petey. “Who?”

“I don’t know his name,” said Murthy. “I had someone in my office sub it out. He’s a contractor — used him before, that’s what they told me.”

Petey was used to overlooking Murthy’s shallow efforts, for his wife’s sake. “What do we know so far?”

Thomka rubbed it in. “Yeah! What do you know, Mahesh? You don’t have any idea where your subcontractor buddy is. Do you?”

“It’s only been three weeks,” shouted Murthy, bleary-eyed. “There’s movement. He reported in from some god-forsaken place in Pennsylvania. I have the report right here.” He pulled out his cell phone.

Thomka glared at Murthy. He was embarrassing both of them.

“Look it up,” said Petey, moving to the bar and tapping himself another beer. “I don’t like this. It’s an oddly shaped situation. It’s too simple. An underground communications network that started out as game platform. Simple ideas are dangerous.

“I started The Church on one simple idea. Crush my evangelical competitors with a fire and brimstone product with more hell and brimstone than any other in history. Way more. A lake of fire with a drop of salvation, and I’m holding the water bottle. One simple idea cloaked in a veil of love, serving up a feast of fear.”

“I got it,” said Murthy, but then he lost it and continued scrolling.

“If this spreads?” said Petey.

Thomka frowned in solemn agreement.

Murthy continued to fumble.

Virginia looked the scene over, laughed, then placed her wrist to her forehead; taking a theatrical breath, she said with a southern drawl, “I have always relied upon the . . . kindness of strangers.”

All three men fell strangely silent. This sentiment, in this context and coming from her lips, filled them with dread.