For The Win (42 page)

The group erupted into speech. Apparently he'd opened up an old debate, and the room was breaking into its traditional sides. The Chinese was fast and slangy, and he lost track of it very quickly, and then the magnitude of what he'd done finally, really
hit him
. Here he was, thousands of miles from home, an illegal immigrant in a country where he stood out like a sore thumb. He was about to get involved in a criminal enterprise -- hell he was
already
involved in it -- that was supposed to rock the world to its foundations. And he was only 17. He felt two inches tall and as flat as a pancake.

"Wei-Dong," one of the boys said, in his ear. It was Matthew, who had a funny, leathery, worn look to him, but whose eyes twinkled with intelligence. "Come on, let's get you out of here. They'll be at this for hours."

He looked Matthew up and down. Technically, they were guildies, but who knew what that meant anymore? What sort of social contract did they
really
have, these strangers and him?

"Come on," Matthew said, and his face was kind and caring. "We'll get you somewhere to sleep, find you some clothes."

That offer was too good to pass up. Matthew led him out of the apartment, out of the building, and out in the streets. The sun had set while they were conferenced in, and the heat had gone out of the air. Matthew led him up and down several maze-like alleys, through some giant housing blocks, and then into another building, this one even more run-down than the last one. They went up nine flights of stairs, and by the time they reached the right floor, Wei-Dong felt like he would collapse. His thighs burned, his chest heaved and ached, and the sweat was coursing down his face and neck and back and butt and thighs.

"I had the same question as you," Matthew said. "When I got out of jail."

Wei-Dong willed himself not to edge away from Matthew. The apartment was filled with thin mattresses, covering nearly the entire floor like some kind of crazy, thick carpet. They sat on adjacent beds, shoes off. Wei-Dong must have made some sign of his surprise, because Matthew smiled a sad smile. "I went to jail for going on strike with other Webblies. I'm not a murderer, Wei-Dong."

Wei-Dong felt himself blushing. He mumbled and apology.

"I had a long talk with Big Sister Nor. Here's what she told me: she said that a traditional strike, where you take your labor away from the bosses and demand a better deal, that it wouldn't work here. That we needed to do that, but that we also needed to be able to show everyone who has us at their mercy that they've overrated their power. When the bosses say, 'We'll beat you up,' or when the police say, 'We'll put you in jail,' or when the game companies say, 'We'll throw you out," we need to be able to say, 'Oh no you won't!'"

The sheer delight he put into this last phrase made Wei-Dong smile, even though he was so tired he could barely move his face.

He scrubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands and said, "Look, I think my emotions are on trampolines today. It's been a very big day." Matthew chuckled. "You understand."

"I understand. I just wanted to let you know that this isn't just about being a crook. It's about changing the power dynamics in the battle. You're a fighter, you understand that, don't you? I hear you play healers. You know what a raid is like with and without a healer?"

Wei-Dong nodded. "It's a very different fight," he said. "Different tactics, different feel."

"A different dynamic. There's math to describe it, you know? I found a research paper on it. It's fascinating. I'll email you a copy. What we're doing here, we're changing the dynamic, the balance of power, for workers everywhere. You'll see."

Wei-Dong yawned and waved his fist over his mouth weakly.

"You need to sleep," Matthew said. "Good night, comrade."

Wei-Dong woke once in the night, and every mattress was filled, and everyone was snoring and breathing and snuffling and scratching. There must have been twenty guys in the room with him, a human carpet of restless energy, cigarette-and-garlic breath, foot-odor, body-odor, and muffled grumbles. It was so utterly unlike the ship, unlike his room in the Cecil Hotel in LA, unlike his parents' home in Orange County... The ground actually felt like it was sloping away for a minute, like the storm-tossed deck of a container ship, and he thought for a wild, disoriented minute that there was an earthquake, and pictured the highrise buildings he'd seen clustered together on the way over crashing into one another like dominoes. Then the land righted itself again and the panic dissipated.

He thought of his mother and knew that he'd have to find a PC and give her a call the next day. They'd exchanged a lot of email while he was on the ship, a lot of reminisces about his dad, and he'd felt closer to her than he had in years.

Thinking of his mother gave him an odd feeling of peace, not the homesick he'd half-expected, and he drifted off again amid the farts and the grunts and the human sounds of the human people he'd put himself among.

#

Connor's fingerspitzengefuhl was going crazy. Like all the game-runners, he had a sizeable portfolio of game assets and derivatives. It wasn't exactly fair -- betting on the future of game-gold when you got a say in that future put you at a sizeable advantage over the people on the other side of the bets. But screw 'em if they can't take a joke.

Besides, his portfolio was so big and complex that he couldn't manage it himself. Like everyone else, he had a broker, a guy who worked for one of the big houses, a company that had once been an auto-manufacturer before it went bankrupt, got bailed out, wrung out, twisted and financialized until the only thing left of any value in it was the part of the company that had packaged up and sold off the car-loans suckers had taken out on its clunkermobiles.

And his broker
loved
him, because whenever Connor phoned in an order for a certain complex derivative -- say, a buy-order for $300,000 worth of insurance policies on six-month gatling gun futures from Zombie Mecha -- then it was a good bet that there were going to be a lot fewer gatling guns in Zombie Mecha in six months (or that the gatling gun would get a power-up, maybe depleted uranium ammo that could rip through ten zombies before stopping), driving the price of the guns way, way up. The broker, in turn, could make money on that prediction by letting his best clients in on the deal, buying gatling gun insurance policies, or even gatling gun futures, or futures on gatling gun insurance, raking in fat commissions and getting everyone else rich at the same time.

So Connor had an advantage. So who was complaining? Who did it hurt?

And in turn, Connor's broker liked to call him up with hot tips on other financial instruments he might want to consider, financial instruments that came to him from his other clients, a diverse group of highly placed people who were privy to all sorts of secrets and insider knowledge. Every day this week, the broker, Ira, had called up Connor and had a conversation that went like this:

Ira: "Hey, man, is this a good time?"

Connor (distractedly, locked in battle with his many screens and their many feeds): "I've always got time for you, buddy. You've got my money."

Ira: "Well, I appreciate it. I'll try to be quick. We've got a new product we're getting behind this week, something that kinda took us by surprise. It's from Mushroom Kingdom, which is weird for us, because Nintendo tends to play all that stuff very close and tight, leaving nothing on the table for the rest of us. But we've got a line on a fully hedged, no-risk package that I wanted to give you first crack at, because we're in limited supply..."

And from there it descended into an indecipherable babble of banker-ese, like a bunch of automated text generated by searching the web for "fully hedged" (meaning, we've got a bet that pays out if you win and another that pays out if you lose, so no matter what, you come out ahead, something that everyone promised and no one ever delivered) and blowing around the text that came up in the search-result snippets, like a verbal whirlwind with "fully hedged" in the middle of it.

The thing was, Connor was
really good
at speaking banker-ese, and this just didn't add up. The payoff was gigantic, 15 percent in a single quarter, up to 45 percent in the ideal scenario, and that was in a tight market where most people were happy to be taking in one or two percent. This was the kind of promise he associated with crazy, high-risk ventures, not anything "fully hedged."

He stopped Ira's enthusiastically sputtering explanation, said, "You said no-risk there, buddy?"

Ira drew in a breath. "Did I say that?"

"Yup."

"Well, you know,
everything
's got a risk. But yeah, I'm putting my own money into this." He swallowed. "I don't want to pressure you --"

Connor couldn't help himself, he snorted. Ira had many things going for him, but he was a pushy son of a bitch.

"Really!" But he sounded contrite. "OK, let me be straight with you. I didn't believe it myself, either. None of us did. You know what bond salesmen are like, we've seen it all. But there were kids in the office, straight out of school. These kids, they have a lot more time to play than we do --" Connor repressed the snort, but just barely. The last time Ira played a game, it had been World of Warcraft, in the dawn of time. He was a competent, if unimaginative broker, but he was no gamer. That's OK, he also wasn't a pork-farmer, but he could still buy pork-futures. "-- and they were hearing about this stuff from other players. They'd started buying in for themselves, using their monthly bonuses, you know, it's kind of a tradition to treat that bonus money as pennies from heaven and spend it on long-shot bets. Anyway, they started to clean up, and clean up, and clean up."

"So how do you know it's not tapped out?"

"That's the thing. A couple of the old timers bought into it and you know, they started to clean up too. And then I got in on it --"

"How long ago?"

"Two months ago," he said, sheepishly. "It's paying a monthly coupon of 16 percent on average. I've started to move my long-term savings into it too."

"Two months? How many of your other clients have you brought in on this deal?" He felt a curious mixture of anger and elation -- how dare Ira keep this to himself, and how fine that he was about to share it!

"None!" Ira was speaking quickly now. "Look, Connor, all my cards on the table now. You're the best customer I got. Without you, hell, my take home pay'd probably be cut in half. The only reason I haven't brought this to you before now is, you know, there wasn't any more to go around! Any time there was an offer on these things, they'd be snapped up in a second."

"So what happened? Did all your greedy pals get their fill?"

Ira laughed. "Not hardly! But you know how it goes, as soon as something takes off like these vouchers, there's a lot of people trying to figure out how to make more of them. Turns out there's a bank, one of these offshore ones that's some Dubai prince's private fortune, and the Prince is a doubter. The bank's selling very long bets against these bonds on great terms. They're one-year coupons and they pay off
big
if the bonds don't crash. So now there's some uncertainty in the pool and some people are flipping, betting that the Prince knows something they don't, buying his paper and selling their bonds. We've gone one better: we've got a floating pool of hedged-off packages that balance out the Prince's bets and these bonds, so no matter what happens, you're in the green. We buy or sell every day based on the rates on each. It's --"

"Risk free?"

"Virtually risk free. Absolutely."

Connor's mouth was dry. There was something going on here, something big. His mind was at war with itself. Finance was a game, the biggest game, and the rules were set by the players, not by a designer. Sometimes the rules went crazy and you got a little pocket of insanity, where a small bet could give you unimaginable wins. He knew how this worked. Of course he did. Hadn't he been chasing gold farmers up and down nine worlds, trying to find their own little high-return pockets and turn them inside out? At the same time, there was just no such thing as a free lunch. Something that looked too good to be true probably was too good to be true. All that and all the other sayings he'd grown up with, all that commonsense that his simple parents had gifted him with, them with their small-town house and no mortgage and sensible retirement funds that would have them clipping coupons and going to two-for-one sales for the rest of their lives.

"Twenty grand," he blurted. It was a lot, but he could handle it. He'd made more than that on his investments in the past 90 days. He could make it up in the next 90 days if --

"
Twenty
? Are you kidding? Connor, look, this is the kind of thing comes along once in a lifetime! I came to you
first
, buddy, so you could get in big. Shit, buddy, I'll sell you twenty grand's worth of these things, but I tell you what --"

It made him feel small, even though he knew it was
supposed
to make him feel small. It was like there were two Connors, a cool, rational one and an emotional one, bitterly fighting over control of his body. Rational won, though it was a hard-fought thing.

"Twenty's all I've got in cash right now," he lied, emotional Connor winning this small concession. "If I could afford more --"

"Oh!" Ira said, and Connor could hear the toothy smile in his voice. "Connor, pal, I don't do this very often, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep this to yourself, but how about if I promise you that your normal trades for today will pick up an extra, uh, make it 20 more, for a total of 40 thousand. Would you want to plow that profit into these puppies?"

Connor's mouth went dry. He knew how this worked, but he'd long ago given up on being a part of it. It was the oldest broker-scam in the world: every day, brokers made a number of "off-book" trades, buying stocks and bonds and derivatives on the hunch that they'd go up. Being "off-book" meant that these trades weren't assigned to any particular client's account; the money to buy them came out of the general account for the brokerage house.