Reamde

“There is no basis in the game world,” said D-squared, “for any of what has happened during the last four months. Town guards, military units, raiding parties fissured, without warning, into two moieties, at daggers drawn. Or perhaps I should say dagger drawn since, if the reports I’ve heard are to be credited, a good many of what you call the Earthtone Coalition found themselves suddenly and inexplicably in Limbo with particolored bodkins in their backs.”

“There’s no doubt it was a well-planned Pearl Harbor–ish kind of event,” Richard said.

“And many of your customers appear to be having great fun with it. Bully for them. But it poses a problem, doesn’t it, in that this extraordinary fission of the society is in no way justified, prefigured, even hinted at, in any of the Canon that Mr. Skraelin and I and the other writers have supplied.”

D-squared’s feelings were hurt, and he didn’t care who knew it. He went on, “I daresay you ought to just roll it back. It is really a hack, isn’t it? As though someone hacked into your website and defaced it with childish scrawlings. When such a thing happens, you don’t incorporate the vandalism into your website. You set it to rights and carry on.”

“Too much has happened,” Richard said. “Since the beginning of the Wor we have registered a quarter of a million new players. Everything they know about the world and the game has been post-Wor. To roll the world back would be to unmake every single one of their characters.”

“So your strategy is to put your thumb on the scale. Grant special powers to the characters you’d see win. Like Athena with Diomedes.”

Richard shrugged. “It’s an idea. I am not here to lay stuff on you ex cathedra. This is a collaboration.”

“All I mean to say is that, if you help the Earthtone Coalition, then you are, implicitly, admitting that such a thing as the Earthtone Coalition exists. You are conferring legitimacy on this ridiculous distinction that has been created by mischief makers.”

“It was a groundswell. An enormous flocking behavior, a phase transition.”

“No respect shown for the integrity of the world.”

“All we can do,” Richard said, “is move faster than the other guys. Lunge ahead of them. Surprise them with just how cool, how adaptable we can be. Delight them by incorporating their creation into the Canon. Show them what we’re made of.”

“Well that puts me on the spot, doesn’t it? How can I decline, on those terms?”

“I apologize for my choice of words,” Richard said. “I am really not trying to corner you. But I do believe that with a bit of thought you could actually come up with something that you would not be so unhappy with.”

Don Donald looked like he was thinking about it.

“Otherwise, it’s just going to veer. Like an airplane with its control surfaces shot off.”

“Oh. I’m the empennage?”

Richard threw up his hands.

“The tail feathers on the arrow,” explained D-squared, “that make it fly straight. Made of quills. Like the ones—”

“That writers used to write with, I get it.”

“Trailing behind…”

“But guiding the warhead. Yup. Hey, are you a writer or something?”

D-squared chuckled forcibly.

“They want it,” Richard said. “They didn’t at first. They were thrilled to be off on their own, making up their own story.”

“The players, you mean.”

“Yes. This was very clear in the chat rooms, the third-party websites. Now that’s faded. They’re saying they want some direction back, they want the story of the world to make sense again.”

Something occurred to Don Donald, and he jabbed the stem of his pipe at Richard. “What language do they speak, in these chat rooms? Is it all English?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to know who these people are. The instigators, the ringleaders. Are they Asians?”

“That is a common misconception,” Richard said. “That the Asians, less fluent in English, less conversant with European mythology, don’t cotton to the sorts of stories and characters that you like to write—but they are attracted by bright colors.” He shook his head. “We have analyzed this to death. It’s completely without foundation. Between the Chinese, with their Confucian background, and the Japanese, they are second to no one in their respect and maybe even awe for COBS.”

“COBS?”

“Crusty Old Brown Stuff. Sorry.”

“Another one of your internal acronyms?”

“A whole department. When you go into the world—which you never do—but when you go, for example, to the hut of Galdoromin the Hermit, at the End of the Fell Path, and get past his two-headed wolf and go inside and look around, all that shit hanging on the walls was produced by COBS.” Richard decided not to share the fact that the decor of Galdoromin’s hut had been inspired by a T.G.I. Friday’s in Issaquah. “Top-level design happens in Seattle, but the detailed modeling of the actual stuff all happened in China. They did a great job of it too.”