Server Extant
RSVP

'Hey, that’s not the only thing I do.'

-Vlad the Impaler

In the hangar of a massive parking platform for P-Fed warships, about a ‘kilometer’ above Arsenal’s surface, Motor and Ganze were about to step out onto the landing apron, where a podium had been set up for a press conference. The location was designed to convey the scope of the hegemon’s power. The podium was located directly in front of the blunt nose of a massive orbiter, to frame Motor in a suitably militarist setting. The ring of the tournament stadium filled the sky above, like a mighty halo.

‘We could have put the arena over another server and not needed to blow up fifty percent of our total accretion power’ Ganze was saying, as they hurried along.

‘You have the wizened soul of a bureaucrat, Ganze’ replied Motor, ‘and I mean that as a complement.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You fail to comprehend of the viral power of a grand gesture. Right now the whole of Knet is talking about what we did. You can’t buy that kind of exposure.’

‘But we did, with fifty percent of-’

‘We’ll build it back up. But it doesn’t matter anyway. We need to cash in before P-Fed implodes.’

‘Imp- but you said.. what about the, you know the stats you quoted at the meeting, the research data, the stability, the group-affirming psychological power structure and whatnot?’

‘Dude!’ said Motor, exasperated, ‘I made that shit up. When they start asking questions I just fabricate of a bunch of stats and put them together with marketing babble, until they stop. They never check to see if anything I’m saying is actually true.’

’So we could implode?’

’Jesus Christ, at any second! This is Knet, Ganze! We’re riding the tiger. Why do you think I’m coming down so hard on anyone fucking with our rep on the lead-up to the tournament? You and I just have to hold this thing together until we can get these corporate clones to open their wallets, then we run off with the money. That’s how you do business, Ganze! Business is about getting chumps to give you money!’

‘I thought it was about producing goods or services in a competitive marketplace.’

‘If that’s the easiest way to get chumps to give you money, then yes! In this case, it’s not.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t forget, you’re a fifteen percent shareholder. It is not commonly given most men, to know to what degree they is complicit in life’s sordid compromises, Ganze. But, in your case, it is. Fifteen percent.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Alright, time to throw these jackals some chum. I wish I could poison it.’

They stepped out of the hangar doors into the light of Knet’s universal sun.

* * *

The suicide bomber walked out, onto the wide landing apron, concealed amongst the media scrum being herded towards the press conference. The press Ids were a rabble, comprising of game sites reviewers and those Otubers with enough reach to be worth cultivating. Some were wearing spectator Ids, created for this event, with their identities printed across their chests. Those that were more authentic Knet media personalities were recognizable as themselves.

‘Where are the Jerries?’ the suicide bomber heard one ask, as they approached Motor’s podium. It was set up directly in front of the blunt nose of a massive orbiter, parked on the tower’s apron. As an expression of militaristic arrogance, it was effective.

‘I dunno’ replied another, in a British Midlands accent, ‘I guess they’re too big for an open presser. Wankers.’

The suicide bomber was in the form of an ironically retro-looking news camera man of the 1950’s, the words Obsessed/Alt, a popular Omnitube channel for gamers and online culture, was printed on his chest.

The press were corralled into a rectangle printed on the ground before the podium.

‘Remain inside the border’ a P-Fed officer told them, ‘one question each, to the general, no two-part questions or follow ups.’

‘Fuck you, Gestapo!’ someone could be bothered to reply, but most eyes were on the slim doors on the far end of the apron, which now opened, revealing General Motor, walking with brisk steps along the edge of the gunship to the low speaker’s platform. He mounted it and gestured for silence. The suicide bomber adjusted the retro-style ‘camera’ on his shoulder. A scanline view of it would have revealed the thing to be suspiciously dense.

‘My friends-’ he began.

‘What have you got to say about Epsilon server?’ someone called out from the mob of ‘journalists’.

Motor knew better than to seem annoyed. ‘We will have a question and answer session after my brief comments’ he smiled. ‘Now-’

‘You must admit it made P-Fed look pretty stupid’, called another. This time, Motor took note of his identity, for later retaliation.

‘Well, those who laugh last’ he said.

‘Does that mean you will retaliate?’

‘I’m not here to talk about Epsilon. As you know, this weekend, will see the first ever all-server deathmatch, hosted and safe-transit guaranteed by P-Fed. This unparalleled spectacle will not just be a classic return to the ideal of personal contest we all remember so fondly from the old days but, most importantly, it will also settle the question of who exactly are the hardest gamers on Knet. Now-’

* * *

Morghain entered the clan hall. As always, it hadn’t been easy, and it had been a while since she had been here. She wondered if the white-knuckle obstacle course of drops and deathtraps that led to the hidden fortress had been made harder or if she was just losing her edge. In the dim light of the oval chamber she saw Carnivous, reclining on his weird throne, his cruel mask face blank and unknowable.

The other high rankers and kingpins stood about. Their attention as on a bright rectangular plane that hung in the air, a video feed. Morghain heard a familiar voice, bombastic and ingratiating at once, that of the cynical populist, demagogue and progenitor of false consciousness, General Motor.

‘Carnivous!’ Morghain called out as she approached the group. But her comrades did not turn their heads, and Cubist waved off her interruption.

‘Shh’ he said.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Morghain, who was not a big fan of being shh-ed.

‘Wait’ said Cubist.

Irritated, Morghain watched with them.

‘Only the highest standards of skill will be allowed to compete, guaranteeing a battle of epic proportions-’ Motor was enthusing on the little screen.

* * *

‘-over thirteen hours, fifty teams will compete, two rounds of one on one eliminations, then a grand melee, eliminating all but two final contestants’ he continued, in person.

The suicide bomber had his thumb ready on his device’s activator switch. He was only half listening to the substance of Motor’s pitch, he was waiting for the words, any questions? or I will now take questions. He felt his R1 body sweating in the rig, but didn’t dare take his hand out of the controller gloves to wipe his forehead. His big moment was coming and he didn’t want to fuck it up.

* * *

Kyle had located his gaming rig after a longer-than-expected search. It was not under the bed where he had left it, and suspicion instantly fell on Gillian and her storage-conscious ways. However, as she was not present to be interrogated, he racked through the cupboards until he finally found it in a box next to the hot water heater. Cursing the delay, he got it on and logged back onto Knet. He was outraged to find himself not in the clan’s vault, but in a regular city vault. At some point, in the months of his absence, his bastard comrades had moved him, presumably in preference of one more deserving, outside the clan’s super-secure deep storage. It constituted a deliberate insult, a pointed message to him that he had been neglecting his friends.

When he emerged on the street, Kyle didn’t even know where in the city he was, but he soon orientated himself by the sight of the block. He was half way around the rim, miles from the clan hall. Cursing, he ran off.

* * *

In the clan hall, all eyes were on Motor’s conference. Morghain watched too, with uneasy premonition. Motor was wrapping up.

‘-and I’m confident’ he was saying, ’that, in the years to come, the event will go from strength to strength, and you’ll all be able to say, yes, I was there, I was present at the first Mega Deathmatch Tourney! I was there! I saw it, and it kicked ass!’

* * *

‘Alright now’ said Motor, concluding.‘Any questions?’

At the cue, the suicide bomber flicked his switch and there was a roll of thunder. A jet of smoke, so densely and luminously blue that it glowed, leapt up, revealing a ten meter tall Carnivous, wreathed in fire like a neon genie. The press scattered like startled chickens, all recording devices and cameras were directed at the towering figure.

‘I have a question,’ its amplified voice boomed. ‘When did we agree to be ruled by maggots? Burn me but I will not burn! Wound me but I do not die! I am Carnivous. I know you’re afraid, Motor. I will be at your tournament -’

‘It’s a holo, you fucking idiots!’ Motor was shouting at his bodyguards, some of which were firing stupidly through the towering figure, ‘there’s the projector, it’s that guy! Him, look, shoot!’

‘- and only you, or I,’ finished the recording, ‘will leave alive.’ It disappeared in a sheet of flame. An instant later, bullets hit the suicide bomber, shattering his projector and throwing him back. The media scattered, but not fast enough. Getting his feet under him, the bomber sprinted straight at the shocked Motor. Bullets ripped away his arm, thudded into his chest. His health was almost instantly on red, but the scattered fire of the soldiers was also striking the crowd of media Ids, some of whom were blocking the bullets. He saw Gamer Crush’s head burst open, Playthrough and Crapaku go down, then, incredibly, he was close enough. Motor, shocked and paralyzed, was only ten meters away. Then a final, fatal round struck the suicide bomber and the tiny, super-compressed mass in his chest destabilized.

Instantly, the screeching media flock was blown into fragments, along with the row of P-Fed soldiers at the base of the podium. But the blast was arrested in front of Motor, as if striking some invisible wall. His speaking platform had been carefully placed inside the battle shield of the massive orbiter, parked behind him. As the dust cleared, Motor saw the press pool had been converted to a scorch mark. A few body parts still rolled and thumped down at the far edges of the landing apron. The invisible barrier in front of him resembled the windshield of a truck that had been driven through some whimsical abattoir, painted, as it was, with the remnants of those who had been on the wrong side of it when the charge went off.

’Mother-fucker’ breathed Motor.

* * *

In the clan hall the room was convulsed with laughter. Only Morghain and Carnivous were silent, he staring at the now blank video feed, she, in foreboding, at him.

‘Holy fuck did you see his face!’ yelled Cubist, ‘that was priceless!’

‘I think he shit himself, then his shit shit itself,’ laughed Lopslide.

‘So what does that mean?’ Morghain challenged, cutting through the general hilarity. ‘You’re going to go to his tournament? It’s suicide!’

‘Lighten up Morghain,’ said Lopslide. ’Of course we’re not. Just a little ‘fuck you’ to our buddy, General I’m-not-a-cuck-but-I-enjoy-a-strapon-now-and-again Motor.’

Morghain’s eyes went to Carnivous, silent on his throne.

‘Is that true?’ demanded Morghain. ‘You’re not going?’

Carnivous shifted and the room quieted. Despite the leadership’s pretensions of being a collective of equals, as a practical matter, they seemed to defer more and more to Carnivous, lately. Morghain didn’t know if it was out of fascination for his gnomic pronouncements, or merely the sensible precaution people took around a dangerous lunatic, but she had noticed the effect. Morghain wondered whether those who fall slowly under the spell of a sorcerer were conscious of it, or of being present, only, in the endless moment, attenuating from one concession to the next, until they had wandered so far into the darkling world that they no longer recognized themselves.

‘Of course I am’ smiled the kingpin.

‘What?’ said ECG, sounding shocked.

‘Dude’ said Lopslide.

Carnivous stood up.

‘There’s a kind of light about us,’ he said. ‘I can see it. The aura of our invincible souls. We’ll walk into the heart of Motor’s power. We’ll crush his soldiers and his tournament rabble. Then we’ll rise from his arena and destroy him. And we’ll do it with the whole world.. watching.’

Now there was true silence. Carnivous’ voice had summoned, as if in the air, a vision of terrifying audacity, a great killing ground wreathed with fire and lightning, a task impossible.. or was it? Was it impossible, or merely something worthy, at last, of their strength? To her alarm, Morghain looked to the faces of her peers and saw the vision kindle there and felt some current stir in her own deathmatcher’s soul.

It would be so fucking awesome.

‘It would be crazy,’ she said, feeling small, even to herself.

’Well, who says you’re even invited, Morghain?’ asked Carnivous. His words fell into the quiet like drops of poison and Morghain was surprised at how painful they were. She felt an absurd impulse to cry out, ’no no! I see it too! I’m one of you! but she remembered what she was here to do.

‘I need to talk to you, in private’ she said.

‘You’re in the presence of the only people who love you,’ said Carnivous. ‘You’ve got nothing to say that we can’t hear.’

Morghain looked around. The others were staring at her in fascination. There was nothing else she could think of, to banish the sublime vision, indistinguishable from madness. And she knew, with an absolute intuition, that if she attempted to lay anything so sordid as reality before these ruthless companions, it might be the end of her.

Where the fuck is Kyle?’ she thought.

There was nothing else. Morghain turned and left the clan hall.

* * *

Ganz had thought it a while since he’d seen Motor in a good rage. They generally lasted about fifteen to twenty minutes, and were characterized by inventive profanity, outraged rhetorical questions and long, self-excusing or self-pitying digressions. Motor always took it as a personal insult, on the part of the universe, that it didn’t bend immediately to his plans and the press conference had gone as badly as a press conference could technically go. There was no way to spin it, so Ganz just shut up and let his boss wear himself out.

‘Those horse-ignorant, pus-fucking degenerate bastard fucks,’ said Motor, ‘those prolapsed-rectumed, back-stabbing saboteurs. What do they think, that they’re not in it like me? That they’re so pure as snow? Who’s going to do this thing if not me? I’m killing myself to make things better for everyone, and I can’t get one inch of cooperation in this fucking swamp! People are trash! All bleating in unison like a bunch of fucking sheep! That’s the one true constant of the universe, if you have any ideas, if you want to buck the heard and make some progress, you’re on your own!’ This last was in reference to the gaming media (a particularly witless and mendacious rabble, even by journalism’s standards), which had generally edited the encounter to include just Hatchetcface’s contribution, cutting out Motors speech. It had also joined in the general hilarity. Motor’s shocked face, captured by multiple video feeds, which had already been hacked into dozens of memes that could be considered either excruciating or hilarious, depending on whether you were General Motor or the rest of the human race.

Ganz thought the tirade had gone on long enough that he could interject with some good news.

‘The attack group is about to leave for (he mimed air quotes) Gigantua’. Should be dropping over Extant in an hour. We put a ring round on the attack and got a huge surge.′

‘Total destruction!’ yelled Motor, still striding around. ‘A return to nature! I want that shithole turned into a parking lot! No survivors!’

‘It will be,’ said Ganz. ’We have assets within their government. I feel we will be able to get the initiative. Anyway, we better, or it’s going to be tough sledding, fighting all the way to the middle of the city. It’s basically one giant, defensive maze.’

‘Then gee up the server garrisons as well! The whole lot of them! As soon as the attack starts, tell them Extant is up for grabs, and we’ll be allowing full exploitation rights to anyone who fights in the attack.’

‘That’s risky. Pulling all those fighters away from our other holdings. Remember when you gave me that lecture on not making decisions when you are angry because you always make mistakes?’

‘No I don’t!’ yelled Motor. ‘All eyes will be on the tournament, anyway. The breakers will be too busy gawking at it to take advantage, and before they realize, Kys will be destroyed and our forces back in place.’

‘Alright’ said Ganze.

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