Strange Flesh (29 page)

“Right. They’re generally more comfortable with devices. My team-mate was telling me that one of the first uses of steam power was a vibrating massager for the treatment of ‘feminine hysteria.’”

“It goes back way further than that. One of the many failings of our gender is that when man learned to brew”—he looks sternly at his cock-tail—“woman learned to whittle.” He shrugs and downs the rest. “So what are you thinking about in terms of front end?”

“Ah, we’ve got a simulated penis—”

“No, idiot. I mean—”

“Oh . . . Right. I’m working with NOD right now.”

He evaluates this. “Good choice. That LibIA cybering software’s coming in handy, isn’t it? And free too! Now you’ve got a small country’s worth of Cy’ Ber-geracs honing their skills.”

“The stars are aligning. Who would you go to for the money?”

Adrian assumes a martyred expression. “Any time you hook up with a player in this racket, someone’s going to get fucked. The Industry doesn’t attract Boy Scouts and choir girls. But you can both get your nut if you keep at it. So you really need to make sure your partner doesn’t have the Bug. Because it will kill your business.”

“What’s the Bug?”

“AIDS. But in the porn world it’s mostly fraud—well, and AIDS too. You just need to worry about someone running games on you. Organized
crime connections are also bad. Not because they’re not lovely, upstanding people. Some of my closest friends and all that. But they’ll be laundering money, whether you know it or not, and that will bring down heat. Even if you’re innocent, heat is bad, because remember there are all these anti-porn laws still on the books, and the Man can shut you down pretty easy if you annoy him.”

“What do you know about a company called Exotica?”

“Perfect example. On the face of it, they might seem good. Big, diversified porn conglomerate. They’ve got a novelties division, so they know how to make and retail that stuff. But people think that the Mondanos are mobbed up. Now, maybe that’s bullshit. We get romantic about the old days, and an Italian last name is probably enough to set tongues wagging. But what’s not bullshit is that Exotica is practically insolvent because the IRS put a huge lien on all their accounts. God knows I hate the IRS worse than rubbers, but as a businessman, I can tell you that it’s pretty easy to keep them out of your hair. So what’s going on over there? One thing you do know is that you won’t have a fun time if you get in bed with someone whose testicles have been nailed to the headboard by Uncle Sam.”

“Let’s say you created this great system, but you want to make sure your potential partners don’t have the Bug. What would you do?”

“What would I do? Well, Jimmy, I guess I’d talk to me.”

I
made sure to upload my submission from a computer at GAME that belongs to Don Lanier, an ARG enthusiast who doesn’t already appear to be playing
Savant
. If Billy’s watching to see who his serious players are, I don’t want him associating Jacques with James Pryce just yet.

By the next morning, my offering is posted as the winner for that day in the Telling, and I have a message asking me to seek out Madame Desgranges.

In
120 Days,
Desgranges is the most senior of the storytelling whores, and by far the most bloodthirsty. Her avatar is, true to her description in the book, an ugly hag who is “vice and lust personified.” As I approach her, she doesn’t register my presence, so I assume she’s another NoBot. I right-click to get her “touch” menu.

Just as my finger releases the mouse button, my cover cell starts ringing, causing me to catch my breath. I remember having surrendered a forwarding number when signing up, but I’m still amazed by the feeling of disjunctive anxiety produced by a game suddenly reaching into the real world.

The low, rumbling cackle that boils into my ear when I pick up does nothing to soothe my nerves.

She says, “Have we found one who seeks to burn?”

I say, “Yes.”

“And can you keep the Secrets of our Order on pain of death?”

“Yes.”

She continues. “You have studied the Book. Now write your own chapter. Innoculytes must withstand the full Course of their Fever over the Month of Purging. You must commit five crimes for each Degree until you’re
consumed
. You will begin with a confession in the chapel. Do you accept this charge?”

Rushing to jot down what I just heard, I mutter, “Yes, I accept the charge.”

The line goes dead.

That exchange removes any doubt that Billy’s set up Château de Silling as a virtual recruiting post for the Pyrexians. I guess the “Course of Fever” Madame Desgranges mentioned is a series of trials one must undertake to gain membership. Our puppet master probably planted the rumors about the Pyros to begin with. So is he trying to import this legend into reality, using his game to actually
create
a lodge of risqué Rotarians to do his bidding?

Seeing that the first step toward initiation is ready to roll, I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. Silling’s chapel now boasts a series of previously hidden confessionals. Once inside, my voice-chat indicator lights up, and the Duke’s voice says, “We’re listening.”

I sit there for a moment hesitating about what exactly I’m supposed to confess. Finally, I load a voice-processing program and improvise an overwrought tale about an unusually solicitous assistant football coach and a secret place underneath the bleachers.

A sickly giggle sound effect plays. Then the Duke says, “We are pleased. You are getting warmer.”

Well, that was simple . . . if somewhat horrifying.

As I leave the booth, I notice that now a key is hung over the handle of the opposite side, where the priest would normally sit to hear his parishioners. I take it into inventory and then see that it opens all the doors on the row. I step into one of the other booths and immediately hear someone else reciting his census of sins. This one is about the speaker’s recent tryst with his brother-in-law, and unlike most confessions, there’s no note of repentance in his tone.

So recording my first “crime” gives me access to the submissions of my fellow players.

I have root on Billy’s server, so I dig around until I find a few videos that look like they might represent more advanced crimes. The associated
note cards tell me that the game’s next step requires a live video of oneself engaging in a “solitary passion.” The third demands a video of you perpetrating an “outrage” upon someone else. The first entry I find in this category is a video of a Japanese string bondage enthusiast delivering a lecture about the virtues of the Kikkou style over the Hishi while he ties an intricate pattern of cords over his “victim.” I suspect he’ll have to try again.

But others have done better.

The next one I check, entitled
Embroidering Celadon,
queues up a piquer fetish video: an adolescent boy having a wide variety of needles and other sharp objects jabbed into his buttocks. Mild examples of this genre resemble a naughty version of acupuncture. But given the array of instruments laid out on the table beside the kid, I doubt his vital energy is about to be rebalanced. More like the opposite.

I shut it off.

So Billy’s warped hazing program has appropriated the “storytelling” mechanism of
120 Days
. It also shares elements of most pornographic file-swapping rings. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine. The quality of the content you submit determines your privileges within the group.

But that’s the first video I’ve seen in Silling that seems like it might end on the far side of the law. Of course, fetish filmmakers master the craft of making adult actors appear underage. And much can be done to maximize the apparent savagery of the action. Have these videos been constructed to seem worse than they are? Does Billy even care?

He can’t be too worried. The Degrees feel designed to channel players along the Sadean progression of ever-greater horrors, like future serial killers mutilating their first cats. As Sade says:

The more pleasure you seek in the depths of crime, the more frightful the crime must be.

G
iven the violence endemic to imaginary worlds, having placed myself on a giant game board with an army of demented Sade obsessives leaves me feeling unsettled. I’m not sure what the rest of the iTeam knows about Billy’s game, but they’ve clearly learned enough from their GAME colleagues to make them uneasy as well. We’re sequestered in our usual booth at Foo Bar, supposedly for a meeting, but in light of three quickly slugged rounds, it seems we’ve opted for pickling our anxieties over trying to work through them.

Even Olya, normally our productivity zealot, seems withdrawn. Watchful.

I join her in scanning the oddly boisterous Sunday night crowd. A cluster of progs from a social gaming start-up are downing shots in series and high-fiving each other. The spectacle screams “Series B round just came through.” The organic-looking couple in the booth next to ours is alternately chugging beer and making out, like high school lovers who’ve ditched their chaperones.

At the bar, I notice three men sipping tequila who seem to be trying particularly hard to conceal their interest in our table. Two of them could be brothers, both with five o’clock shadow and similar spiky black hair. One wears a tight gray ski sweater with a red scarf, and the other a navy blazer and pink Thomas Pink button-down. With them stands a swarthy giant with unruly curls hanging down to the collar of a loud glen-plaid suit. I see that the bartender is watching us too. And the DJ.
Stop it. They’re just admiring Olya’s generous neckline.

Garriott’s expounding on the thespian qualities of his favorite Fuckingmachines.com starlets, but I’m distracted when Xan gets up to refresh her drink. She reaches over the bar to signal our waitress, and that’s when Pinky puts his hand on her shoulder.

I pop up instantly.

Xan starts at the contact and spins to face him. He leans in to say something, a sly smile on his face. Then the scarf-swaddled guy pulls a small digital camera out of his pants pocket.

I surge forward, pushing roughly through a knot of people, and grab Pinky by his lapels.

“Whatever the fuck you think you’re doing, you better stop right now.”

“Hey!” He jerks back awkwardly against the bar. Scarf grabs my wrist, trying to remove my hold on his friend. Plaid Suit steps around behind us to wrestle me away.

Olya’s shoulder slams into Plaid Suit. She shoves her forearm across the neck of the guy holding me. “Get away from her!”

At first, her victims seem disposed to resist, but Olya’s dazzling figure produces a severe primal confusion.

Pinky sputters, “What—what’s your problem, man?”

“Whatever you sick bitches are planning, why don’t you try it on me?”

“What are you talking about?”

I lean forward, renewing my grip. “Don’t—” Xan’s hand touches my arm.

Pinky says, “Look, psycho, I was just asking if she’d take a picture of us. It’s my goddamn birthday.”