Authors: ed. Simon Petrie
“Daks set it up so that it was a matter of checking colors against other colors, and marking a change. And then she put it on one of the micro-bounty sites. People compared colors for us at a rate that averaged to two dollars an hour. Five hundred dollars later, we had a match.” Al looked haggard, but pleased.
“I see,” said Raahi. “Very efficient.”
“It’s legal,” said Dakota.
Raahi cocked an eyebrow.
“More or less legal,” she finished.
“Good enough for me. But to return to the point. Have you confirmed this location?”
“We just pinned it down,” said Al. “At the moment, all we have is the heat data.”
“Hum,” said Raahi, and puffed out his cheeks. “It is good work. How traceable is your micro-bounty contract?”
“It was a clean laptop on the ambient,” said Dakota. “The only angle would be payment, and they’d have to crack Former Tuvalu’s servers to get at that.”
“I am shocked,” said Raahi. “Mr. Wainwright assured me that we do not use data havens.”
At first the pair looked defensive; then Dakota laughed, and Al joined her.
“Well,” said Raahi. “It was in a good cause. I believe that we have enough to go on. I shall leave Mr. Wainwright to handle the arrangements here.”
Al and Dakota looked suddenly startled. “It is just the heat data,” Dakota said. “It could just be something wrong with the bakery’s fan.”
“It could be,” said Raahi. “It isn’t. The bakery is admirably situated, and the heat has to go somewhere.” He hesitated, scratched his chin. “Of course, if we are wrong, we will not be on the spot. I will have to make a report on this in London; some of the senior staff want to hear this sort of thing in person. And I have taken the liberty of arranging tickets for the two of you as well; I think you might aid in explaining some of the technical aspects, if that would be possible.”
It took somewhat more convincing that Raahi had anticipated, but it turned out that it was possible. Teleconferencing was all well and good, but there was nothing that helped one’s chances for promotion as much as face time with board members and vice presidents, and Cydec kept very few of those in their US offices. Beside, Wainwright did not express any hesitation on taking control of the final stages of the US operation himself.
Because the tickets had been booked less than a week before the flight, getting through security took longer than it otherwise might have, but they were nonetheless off the ground by the time that the raid on the bakery started showing up in newsfeeds. Al was more than half asleep, but he jerked into awareness when Dakota swore.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Wainwright,” she replied, and sent the link over to her palmtop.
“Good Lord,” said Raahi, and watched as well.
“The two men currently in custody,” said the announcer, “were running a pirate server for eight MMORPGs, including Gannon’s Lair; police estimate that they had gained access to thirty thousand credit card numbers, and were planning on—”
“What does he think he’s doing?” asked Dakota.
“The man responsible for stopping this crime before it could be committed is Cydec Ltd’s director of North American operations, Martin Wainwright. Mr Wainwright, how—”
“If he mentions my name,” said Raahi, “I am going to kill him myself.”
“Why?” asked Al, sleepily. “It was your operation.”
“Look at the comments,” he replied. “The man is on newsfeeds talking about how he crushed a data haven.”
“It wasn’t a data haven,” he said, waking slightly. “It was a scam.”
“That is true,” said Raahi. “But truth is, unfortunately, irrelevant. Read the comments.”
“They’re mostly positive,” said Al. “Some nice things about Cydec.”
“And then some really racist stuff about Mali and India,” said Dakota, with her eyes closed. “And then some stuff about how Wainwright is fat, and possibly Jewish, and how the corporate media hates the data havens, at least eight comments in which the poster claims to be the first to respond, and—”
“Yeah,” said Al. “But less than a tenth of the comments are like that; most people are smart enough to see that he did them a favor.”
“Check Mr. Wainwright’s bounty,” said Raahi. “A tenth of the people who are aware of the story are sufficiently foolish to see us as their enemy, rather than as a group whose interests coincided with theirs. A tenth of those will pledge a dollar or two to see him dead.”
“It’s a quarter of a million dollars,” said Al. “He’s going to die.”
“Indeed he will,” said Raahi. “In fact, it is likely that he will die in the next few hours.”
“I didn’t like working with him,” said Al. “But I didn’t hate him. The poor man. And his kids.”
“Yes,” said Raahi. “It’s a lesson worth learning.” He shut down his pad, and closed his eyes. “It is not terribly satisfying to pay money to keep someone alive, and it is considerably more difficult to arrange than killing them. And you cannot argue with channers or talkbackers. The bounty system has its virtues: I have not received an unsolicited commercial email in four years. But it has put a loaded pistol in the hands of everyone, including those who cannot tell the difference between a bcc: line and a jelly filled donut.”
…Anatoly Belilovsky
“Is dangerous, this ice,” said the Russian.
The great frozen mass approached slowly, the steward struggling to push the cart across the threshold of the card room.
“I agree,” said the New Yorker. He shuffled a deck of cards, rather listlessly. “Looks like it’s about to give our steward here a hernia.”
“I only wanted enough to put in my brandy,” said the Texan. “Why’d he bring the whole block?”
“White Star line is very prideful of her service,” said the steward.
“They don’t do anything small on the
Titanic
,” the New Yorker said. “Not in first class, anyway.”
The steward brought down the icepick with a practiced stroke. Shards of ice fell, glittering, on the plate. The steward dropped them into the Texan’s glass.
“The danger right now,” the Englishman said, “is that a Frenchman might walk in. He would be well within his rights to shoot you for this sacrilege. Ice in Armagnac—”
“It’s just brandy,” the Texan said. “You ain’t French, are you, boy?”
“No, Sir,” the steward replied.
“That’s a funny accent,” said the Texan. “Where’re you from?”
“Transylvania,” said the steward. “Sir.”
“Quinsy,” said the Russian. “You could make cold your throat and die of quinsy. Is what happened to your George Washington. He die of quinsy.” The Russian paused. “In December. When is cold.”
“He died of bloodletting,” said the New Yorker.
“In America they use bloodletting?” said the Russian. “In Russia we use leeches. Nobody die of leeches. What they use in England?”
“Transylvanians,” the Englishman said.
“What?” the Russian said.
“Will there be anything else?” the steward said.
“No,” the Russian said. “Transylvanians for leeches?”
“Vampires,” the Englishman said.
“Ah,” the Russian said. “From Mr. Stoker’s book. Is funny.”
“You read
Dracula
?” the New Yorker said.
“I read all English books,” said the Russian. “
Sherlock Houses. Brave Captains. Machine of the Times
.”
“H. G. Wells!” the Englishman exclaimed. “You like Wells!”
“I read Wells,” said the Russian. “I not like Wells.”
“I can’t stand Wells, either. Damned Socialist,” the Texan said.
“I rather liked
War of the Worlds
, myself,” said the New Yorker. “In the end, when the invaders die of influenza—”
“Could I fetch more ice?” the steward said.
“We’ve plenty,” the Texan said. “What Wells wrote—that’s just damn fool nonsense. Can’t happen.”
“Why not?” the Englishman asked.
“First of all, down on the ranch, if you got sick cows, you keep them away from healthy cows, but your turkeys and chickens will be fine. The idea of Martians catching rinderpest when goats won’t—well, that’s just ridiculous.”
“True,” said the New Yorker.
“And secondly,” the Texan said, “ain’t nothin’ on Mars. If they was from Mars, they’d leave somethin’ we could see. I’m sure Mr. Lowell would have seen cities, not just canals, if there was any Martians like in the book.”
“Is nothing around the Caspian, now,” said the Russian. “And we are all from there.”
“More Armagnac, perhaps?” the steward suggested.
“We have enough Armagnac,” the New Yorker said.
“What’s that about Caspian?” The Texan asked. “That’s a sea, isn’t it?”
“I think he refers to the Pontic hypothesis of Indo-European
urheimat
,” said the Englishman.
“Would you mind speaking English?” the Texan said.
“Could I fetch you a new deck of cards?” the steward said. “You have not finished your game of bridge.”
“I’m sick of bridge,” said the New Yorker. “I’m bored half to death. Nothing ever happens on the
Titanic
.”
“What are you complaining about?” the Texan said. “The food is perfect, the band is first rate. And the service …” He waived at the steward. “Speaks for itself.”
“The
Titanic
,” the steward said, “received the best of the White Star Line’s meticulously selected personnel, of which I am proud to be a member. Could I perhaps bring some cheese or sorbet?”
“See what I mean?” the New Yorker said. “I can’t complain about anything here. I want to go home. In New York, I can complain. Sets my teeth on edge, not complaining. Can’t wait to get off this damned ship.”
“Such language,” the Englishman said.
“Lomonosov write about language,” the Russian said. “
dva
is always two,
tri
is always three,
kot
is always cat, in Slavic and Germanic and Hindustani. All similar languages, all from the steppe. Nothing there now.”
“Interesting,” said the Englishman. “I think I see your point.”
“Is like a Russian card game,” said the Russian. “Is called
Durak
.”
“
Durak
… Isn’t that the Russian word for ‘fool’?” the New Yorker asked. “One hears it often, walking on Lower East Side.”
The Russian nodded. “ ‘Durak’ is also loser in the game.” From the corner of the room, the steward watched with great interest. “Cigars?” he called. “Could I bring cigars?”
“If you don’t mind, no, we don’t want any cigars,” the Englishman said. “I
would
like to learn this …
Durak
.”
The Russian picked up the deck and looked around. “Have I your permission?” he asked.
The others nodded.
The Russian quickly dealt six cards each to himself and the Englishman. He flipped the thirteenth card face up; it was the jack of diamonds. The rest of the deck he put face down next to the open card.
“This card,” he said, pointing to the jack, “tells us trump. Trumps work same as in bridge: higher card beat lower card but only of her own suit, and any trump card beat anything except higher trump. Now I attack.” He put a seven of clubs face up.
“I think I see,” said the Englishman. He covered it with the ten of clubs.
“Now,” the Russian said, “I can only continue the attack with cards same price as already on the table: tens and sevens.” He put down a seven of hearts. “Of course, it was good idea to lead with card I had in pair …”
The Englishman put down a six of diamonds.
“Now we know what he ain’t got,” the Texan remarked. “If he had a heart above a seven, he’d’a played it.”
“Exactly,” the Russian said. “And lucky for me …” He put down the six of hearts.
The Englishman looked up. “I haven’t any hearts and I haven’t any more diamonds. What now?”
“Now you pick them up. They your cards now,” the Russian said. “Me, I am down to three cards, so I take three from deck.” He picked up three cards. “Now I have six again, and since I won this hand, I attack again.” He put down a jack of spades.
The Englishman countered with an ace of spades. “Now you can attack with a jack or an ace, correct?”
“Correct,” said the Russian. “I was, however, thinking you might have queen or king, and I would continue. As it is, I finished. This goes in discard.” He placed the two cards on the table in a new pile and picked up a card from the reserve deck. “Now you attack.”
The Englishman led with a seven of hearts. “Getting my own back, no?” the Russian said, countering with a queen of hearts.
The Englishman continued with a seven of clubs.
The Russian covered with a jack. “Now if I had that in last hand …” he said. “But I only picked it up just now.” He covered the seven with a queen of spades. “I have lower card,” he said, “but is good to limit your opponent’s options, no? Have you anything for attack?”
The Englishman shook his head. “No more sevens, no jacks, no queens.”
The Russian gathered the cards on the table. “A successful defense,” he said, putting them in the discard. “Now I need three, but I wait for you, since you defended. You have …”
“Five,” the Englishman said. “So I take one?”
The Russian nodded. The Englishman picked up a card, followed by the Russian.
“Waldorf pudding?” the steward suggested.
“Will you please stop already with the asking?” the New Yorker said. “Now, where were we?”
“One card, makes six, and my turn to attack,” the Englishman said. “This seems a great game, so far.”
“How is this better than bridge?” the Texan asked.
“More like real war,” the Englishman said. “The forces used in one battle are still there for the next—but not necessarily on the same side. And I suppose the allies are not permanent, as they would be in bridge?”
“Yes, allies,” The Russian said. “I will show you
Durak
with many people later, you will see—you can change allies in middle of hand.”
“Napoleonic wars,” the Englishman said. “Or Thirty Years’ War. Or the wars of Alexander’s successors.”
“We have Napoleon cake,” the steward said. “It’s very good.”
“No cake,” the Texan said. “Now, what’s the object of the game?”
“It is,” the Russian said, “with the reserve pile gone, to have no cards left in your hand at the end.”