The Never Game

The lanky man’s fidget fingers maneuvered the cerulean astronaut back into the Astro Base. “Here’s where you might ask: Do I wish I’d thought the game up? No. Virtual reality and motion-based game engines sound good. The fact is, of the billion-plus gamers in the world, the vast majority sit on their asses in dark rooms and pound away on a keyboard or squeeze their console controller. Because they want to sit on their asses in dark rooms and pound away on keyboards. Immersion’s a novelty. Hong-Sung’s poured hundreds of millions into Immersion. Hong’s less of a prick than some in Silicon Valley but he’s still a prick. I don’t have any problem with the game taking him to the cleaners when people get tired of hopping around like bunnies in their backyards. Which is going to happen. Why? Because it’s not...” His eyebrow rose.

“Fun?” Shaw said.

“Exactement!” Offered in a curious French accent.

And this grinning, goofy fellow had created one of the creepiest video games in history.

“What if Immersion’s more than a game?”

Avon’s squinting eyes moved from the space station back to Shaw, who explained his idea about the cameras on the goggles sucking up images from players’ houses or apartments as they roamed their homes and uploading the data to Hong-Sung’s servers for later sale.

Avon’s eyes widened. “Jesus. That is solid gold brilliant. Okay, now ask if I wish I’d thought that one up.”

“There’s another what-if,” Shaw said. “Hong-Sung’s giving away goggles to U.S. military personnel. Presumably other government workers too.”

“To capture classified data, you’re thinking?”

“Maybe.”

“My.” Avon considered this. “You’re talking a huge amount of data to process. Private companies couldn’t handle it. You know what the Chinese government has? The TC-4. Thirty-five petaflops. Most powerful supercomputer in the world. They might be able to handle the load. But, I have to ask, how does this involve my game?”

Shaw: “The second victim? Henry Thompson? He was writing a blog about how companies steal data from gamers. Maybe Hong-Sung — or some other game company — didn’t want the story to appear and somebody mimicked a psycho gamer and killed him.”

“How can I help?”

“I need to talk to somebody who’s got a connection to the company. Best if he works there. Can you make that happen?”

The implication being that since it was, after all, his game that was the hub of the crime, even if it wasn’t Avon’s fault, a little cooperation wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“I don’t know anybody there personally. Hong is secretive, to put it mildly. But it’s a small world, SV is. I’ll make some calls.”

57

Though he was inherently restless, Colter Shaw was not necessarily impatient. Now, however, with Elizabeth Chabelle missing and in grave danger and with the Gamer prepared to play out the final act in his Whispering Man game, he wanted Eddie Linn to show up.

Avon had made a half dozen calls and found a connection to Hong-Sung; a man named Trevor, whose further identity Avon didn’t share, would put Shaw in touch with Linn, who was an employee of HSE. This cost Avon something significant; it was clear that he would license some software to Trevor, at a discount, in exchange for setting up a rendezvous between Shaw and Linn.

Shaw was presently in the appointed place at the appointed time: a park, carefully planned and maintained. Serpentine sidewalks of pebbled concrete, bordered by tall, wafting grasses and reeds, flower beds, trees. The grass as bright as an alien’s skin in a C3 game. A tranquil pond was populated with sizable fish, red and black and white.

The grounds were balanced in color, laser-cut trim, perfectly symmetrical.

Setting Colter Shaw on edge. He liked his landscapes designed by the foliage and water and dirt and rocks themselves.

As he walked along the path he caught a small glimpse of Hong-Sung Enterprises’ U.S. headquarters. The building was a glistening mirrored copper doughnut. To the side were four huge transmission antennas.

Presumably, just what was needed to beam stolen data into the ether.

Linn had told him to sit on a particular bench, in front of a weeping willow, or one nearby if this one was occupied. Shaw noted why: it was out of sight of the company’s offices. The preferred bench was free. Behind it was a stand of thick boxwood, a plant that smelled of ammonia.

Now the impatience factor was cresting and Shaw, thinking of Elizabeth Chabelle on a sinking ship, was glancing at his phone for the time when he heard a man’s tense, tenor voice. “Mr. Shaw.”

Eddie Linn was a tall, narrow man of about thirty. Asian features. He wore a polo shirt with an HSE logo on the left chest and dark gray slacks that were slightly baggy.

He sat down next to Shaw, whom Trevor would have described to Linn. The man didn’t offer his hand. Shaw had the ridiculous thought that Linn didn’t want to transfer DNA, which might be used for evidentiary purposes.