Arty looked down at the sword in his hands. He loved the way that the jewels

in its handle sparkled; sometimes he thought he’d like to own one for real. It was

an item known as the Sword of Sadism, and as one of the most powerful objects

within Solarversia, only a few hundred of them would ever be in circulation at any

one time.

He moved his thumb from the yellow topaz up to the blood-red ruby, circled it

back across the string of pearls and ended up on the pink sapphire. This was the

combination that initiated the weapon’s power move, the one that could defeat the

toughest of monsters.

As his thumb came to rest on the sapphire, the jewels glistened brighter and

a melody played. Now the sword moved, rotating Arty’s avatar on the spot until

he became a human whirlwind. When he finally came to rest he gave a series of

commands that allowed him to enter third-person perspective so that he could

watch his avatar perform the move in front of his eyes. He knelt down and studied

the power move from below, zooming in and out, cocking his head to one side or

the other.

He removed his goggles and found himself back in the office. Twirling a clump

of shaggy hair round his finger, he pondered the problem. Something looked wrong

with the whirlwind from that angle — it looked more like a grey fuzzy beard than a

scary tornado — but he struggled to explain how it was occurring. A bug in the code

had been raised by the tech team a few days after the start of The Game and now,

having been fixed, it sat with Arty for sign-off.

The feeling that players were present within the Gameworld was all-important

to Spiralwerks — it was small glitches like this that gave the game away, and as

Creative Director, as well as the CEO, it was Arty’s ultimate responsibility to sign

off everything in it. The original glitch was definitely smoothed out, but something

still wasn’t quite right.

He saw one of the guys in the technical team frantically wave in his direction

and headed over. A minor problem like the strange-looking whirlwind could always

wait. The team were crowded round Carl Stedman, the company’s Chief Technical

Officer, who looked and sounded extremely stressed as he ran through a checklist.

“Carl. Guys. What’s the problem?”

“We’re being griefed. It’s a big attack. About thirty minutes ago the surveillance

team received an alert highlighting a potential traffic issue at Ripley’s Junction on

Alpha Island. A group of players arrived there around the same time and parked

their cars bumper-to-bumper, hemming in thousands of others. The players who

parked their cars got out of them, joined Conga World, and haven’t been seen

since.”

Griefing was the gaming equivalent of trolling, an activity whose reward lay

in the frustration of others. Griefers, usually organised in clans, harassed other

players and sought to exploit aspects of the Gameworld in ways unintended by

the designers. As quickly as the engineers came up with ways to block them, they

would pop up to cause havoc somewhere else.

Arty put on his goggles and circled Ripley’s Junction from above, surveying the

scene like he was in a helicopter.

“Those tailbacks go on for miles. Do we know how many players have been

caught up in it?”

Carl jutted his jaw out and scratched his tightly curled brown beard. The dark

bags under his eyes were a permanent feature of his face, making him look like he

hadn’t slept in over a week.

“Fifteen thousand at the last count. Players are going mental on social media,

as you might imagine.”

“Who’s responsible?”

“Nobody’s owned up yet. Some of the usual suspects have gone online to declare

their innocence.”

“So what are our options? We need to act before it escalates any further.”

“Depends how organic we want the solution to be. We could zap everyone to the

nearest Corona Cube. But it’s difficult to tell without further analysis which players

were part of the original attack. It looks like loads of people got caught up in it, and

have left their vehicles in frustration. If they’re in the middle of a quest, about to

win a special item, and we mess with them, the fallout will be awful. If we go for a

totally organic solution, like sending arkwinis out in tow trucks, it could take half

a day to clear up.”

Arty removed the goggles, gazed at a sign above one of the workstations, which

read ‘The Only Good Bug Is a Dead Bug’, and sighed. Why couldn’t people play nicely?

“OK, listen. I’ve got another meeting starting now. Ideally I’d like this dealt

with using organic methods. Set up roadblocks to prevent the problem spreading.

Get every spare arkwini on the case. And offer some small incentive for players to

get to a Corona Cube of their own accord. Get one of your guys to ping me a report

every fifteen minutes; we’ll play it by ear.”

Arty strolled to the lift checking his emails in his glasses. Before the lift doors

could close he heard Hannah McCreadie calling his name. Looking flushed and

sounding out of breath, she held a hand to her chest while she spoke.

“Thanks for holding the door, Arty. Something urgent has come up.”

“The griefing? I know, I was with the team just a second ago.”

“No, it’s worse than that. It’s about the Holy Order. MI6 have been in touch, the

threat level has been upgraded to ‘substantial’. That means, and I quote, ‘An attack

is a strong possibility’.”

Arty’s upper body slumped an inch forward like somebody had just powered

him off. Being attacked in the game world felt hard enough. Having MI6 involved

took it to a whole new level. The questions he had asked himself a hundred times

reared their ugly heads in his mind again. Who the hell were the Holy Order? And

why were Spiralwerks top of their corporate hit list?

***

The scenery hadn’t changed much in the last couple of hours, but Casey couldn’t

get enough of it. He’d lived in the same tired city his whole life, where he’d fed his

eyes on a diet of scrappy billboards and stark grey buildings. Out here in the heart

of the Mississippi Delta, a place of peace and serenity, the air was so luscious that

every breath was a treat.

Save for the occasional alligator, he and Wallace, in their kayaks, seemed to

be the only things that moved. Right now his only problem was his hands, which

throbbed after several hours of paddling upstream. His initiation ceremony ten

days earlier was a distant memory. It felt so far in the past already that whenever

his bones ached and his muscles spasmed he had to remind himself why.

Wallace turned to Casey and pointed the way, then changed course to glide

past some creepers that hid a narrow channel from the main tributary. The men

continued for some way, through vines and past bushes, steering a path that Casey

knew he’d be incapable of retracing even if his life depended on it, until finally they

drifted into a clearing.

“It’s something, ain’t it?” Wallace said, noticing his companion’s dazed look.

“Took us years to build, and it ain’t even finished, not close. Welcome to the

Compound.”

Rising out of the swampland was a village on stilts, formed of a series of

camouflaged buildings and wooden gangways that blended uncannily into their

environment. They pulled up beside a steel ladder affixed to a small jetty. Casey

used it to steady himself while he scanned the surrounding bogs. In the background

an army of spring peepers emitted their sleigh-bell-like chorus.

“Do you ever get used to the mosquitoes?” he asked, slapping his arm for the

umpteenth time.

“After a while they bother you less, but I’ll get you some spray.”

They climbed the ladder and helped each other drag the kayaks onto the jetty.

Wallace pulled a pack of Chesterfields out of his jeans and sparked one up with a

flick of his golden Zippo before continuing the tour. “The layout isn’t as confusing

as it looks: it consists of four buildings and the Sub. You see that camouflaged

marquee? That’s the Ceremonial Lodge, reserved for special occasions. The grey

building in the corner is known as the Workshop, the place we build and repair

stuff. The long building with the round windows is called Control House. It’s kind

of like the nerve centre of the organisation. In all there’s over a thousand of us, in

twenty different countries, spread around the world.”

“It’s a global network then?”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

“Yessir. And growing fast. Intelligent folk — like yourself — know we’re on to

something. Mankind’s about to lose its place at the top of the food chain. There’s

no harm in having a little respect for the beings that are going to replace us. You

made the right decision by joining us, put it that way.”

Casey grinned at him. The past year was full of bad decisions. It felt good to

know that he was finally making some good ones.

“The other building you can see is the Lockup. Let’s stash the kayaks there, and

then I’ll show you to your bunk.”

Casey slung his sack of possessions behind his back, used his chin to clamp

it against his shoulder, and then pulled the kayak behind him with trembling

arms. Their morning had begun at 5:00 a.m. with the smell of coffee boiling

over kerosene, and though Wallace had encouraged him to rest for days, he felt

exhausted. The thought that there was a bunk somewhere for him gave him the

strength to keep going.

When they got to the Lockup, Wallace held his thumb up to the small metal

box at the side of the door. A beep preceded the thunking noise of several bolts

releasing. Wallace swung the doors back and fastened them open on little hooks.

Casey took a couple of steps backward, his eyes bulging at the sight of row upon

row of automatic weapons stacked on the shelves within.

“That’s quite some arsenal you’ve got there. Are we expecting visitors?”

“Expecting? No. We’re like the good ol’ Boy Scouts of ’Merica. We like bein’

prepared is all.” Wallace blew a smoke ring and flashed his yellow grin.

“What about those?” Casey said, nodding at the row of humanoid robots that

lined the wall. “Are they in the Boy Scouts too?”

“Those are some of Father’s toys. Programmed them himself. They were

designed to specialise in one or more tasks. The grimy one at the end’s a

submersible. You can slip on a headset and work on the underwater sections of the

Compound from the comfort of Control House. The blue ones in the middle are

Medibots. They assist Mother when she operates on people. And the beige ones are

general-purpose robots, mainly used for heavy lifting and landscaping.”

He motioned for Casey to secure his kayak against the side of the hut. Casey

followed his friend’s lead, lifting the craft into place on the rack and tying it against

the wall, aware the whole time of the assortment of ordnance behind him. Just as he

thought they were done, Wallace stopped and bowed reverentially. Casey turned to

find Mother Frances standing in the doorway, a kind smile on her face. His saviour.

“Mother, you remember Casey Brown, the new recruit. We only just got here

after spending a few days at the safe house while he recovered. Father’s asked that

I show him the ropes.”

She stared deep into Casey’s eyes. It was a look that made him feel wanted,

loved even.

“Welcome to the Sub, Casey Brown. I’m pleased to see you again. Everybody

here has been through the ordeal on the hill. It was designed to push humans to

their absolute limit, to break them mentally, physically and spiritually. And some

people don’t complete it. It looks cruel and unnecessary to the ignorant mind.

Wiser souls know that it illuminates the limitations and fallibility of the human

condition. If Father was to attempt the challenge now, he would complete it with

ease and in a fraction of the time. Those that join the Order need to be willing to

give everything to the cause.”

Casey thought back to the dark time in his life, a time when he had come close

to ending it all. That he hadn’t done so, that he was here now, was all thanks to the

two people in front of him. He owed them everything and wanted to wrap his arms

around them and squeeze them tight. Instead, he fumbled for words.

“Yes ma’am, that’s me. Dedicated, I mean, willing to give my all.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Father has important plans for you. I wouldn’t want to

see you let him down. And while you’re here, you can call me Mother.”

She nodded her head and was gone. Casey quickly mimicked Wallace’s bow,

conscious of being the new guy, the one with everything to learn.

“Don’t be fooled by her size. I’ve seen Mother Frances pick up a kayak, put it on

her back and jog from one end of the Compound to the other. She’s also one of the

best surgeons in the country.”

“Frances — Mother — mentioned that some people fail to complete the

initiation. What happens to them?”

Wallace sighed heavily. “The ones who don’t make it, don’t make it at all.

We’ve only had two people fail, and both times, it broke my heart. As the guy in

charge of initiation ceremonies I have the grim job of disposing of the bodies. I did

everything I could to help them, save carrying the net of rocks for them. When it

happened the first time I tried to persuade Father to make an exception, you know,

by giving them an office job or something.” Wallace paused to dig some grime out

from under a fingernail but looked to be deep in thought. “Let’s just say that that

didn’t go down too well. Come on, it’s time I showed you the Sub. When we get to

the gangways, make sure you hold on tight. Otherwise you’ll end up as ’gator feed,

understand?”

Casey nodded his agreement, swung the sack back over his shoulder and did

his best to ignore the midges that landed on his face, spitting out those that made

it into his mouth. When they reached the rickety walkway, he used his free hand to

grasp at branches and carefully placed his feet where he’d seen Wallace tread. After

a couple of minutes they arrived at a dense thicket of bald cypresses that looked, to

Casey, like any other. Wallace flicked the butt of his cigarette at the nearest peeper.

“Damn frogs won’t shut up this time of year.”

He reached past a group of branches and yanked on something behind them.

A door swung open to reveal a spiral staircase that seemed to descend into the

swamp itself.

“Old narco sub. Father Theodore discovered it years ago. Hope you ain’t

claustrophobic.”

Casey rapped on the door with his knuckles. Its dull thud suggested the metal

was several inches thick. He followed Wallace down the stairs, hunching as he went,

and paused at the bottom to look down the long, narrow corridor that stretched

ahead. It would barely allow two men to squeeze past one another, and the ceiling,

not much higher than his head, was lowered even further by a series of dim light

bulbs hanging from a length of chicken wire. The walls were lined with pistons,

metal steering wheels and broken pressure gauges, mementos from a former life.

Halfway along the corridor, a cylindrical metal object hung down from the ceiling,

flanked by two small bars.

“Go on. I know you want to. You can’t see too much, mind.”

Casey grabbed the bars either side of the periscope, rested his head against the

worn rubber that surrounded the eyepiece and spied the top of the Ceremonial

Lodge beyond the trees.

“You’re looking at the way we came into the Compound — the only way. The

entire perimeter is booby-trapped to high hell, so don’t try going off on your own.”

The end of the corridor led to a room of bunks, each one narrower than Casey’s

childhood bed. “This is for us guys, the women are up the other end. Stash your

clothes at the end of your bunk for now. There’s a sink in the cupboard, use the

water from the tanks above it. Take a few minutes to get acquainted with your new

home. Then there’s work to do.”

****************************************************

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Chapter 8 coming soon!