For The Win (46 page)

"It's
my
character," Ruiling said, speaking more loudly. "No bonus. It's
mine
!
I
earned it, personally, on my own time."

He didn't even see the blow, it was that fast. One minute he was hotly declaring that Fenrir's Tooth was his, the next he was sprawled on his ass on the floor, his head ringing like a gong. The foreman put one foot on his throat.

The man said, "No bonus," clearly and distinctly, so that everyone around could hear. Then he hawked up a huge mouthful of poisonous green spit from the tar-soaked depths of his blackened lungs and carefully spat in Ruiling's face.

From the age of four, Ruiling had practised wushu, training with a man in the village whom all the adults deferred to. The man had been sent north during the Cultural Revolution, denounced and beaten and starved, but he never broke. He was as gentle and patient as a grandmother, and he was as old as the hills, and he could send an attacker flying through the air with a flick of the wrist; break a board with his old hands, kick you into the next life with one old, gnarled foot. For 12 years, Ruiling had gone three times a week to train with the old man. All the boys had. It was just part of life in the village. He hadn't practised since he came to South China, had all but forgotten that relic of a different China.

But now he remembered every lesson, remembered it deep in his muscles. He gripped the ankle of the foot that was on his throat, twisted just
slightly
to gain maximum leverage, and applied a small, controlled bit of pressure and
threw
the foreman into the air, sending him sailing in a perfect, graceful arc that terminated when his head
cracked
against the side of one of the long trestle-tables, knocking it over and sending a dozen flatscreens tumbling to the ground, the crash audible over the computer fans.

Ruiling stood, carefully, and faced the foreman. The man was groaning on the ground, and Ruiling couldn't keep the small grin off his face. That had felt
good
. He found that he was standing in a ready stance, weight balanced evenly on each foot, feet spread for stability, body side-on to the man on the ground, presenting a smaller target. His hands were loosely held up, one before the other, ready to catch a punch and lock the arm and throw the attacker, ready to counterstrike high or low. The boys around him were cheering, chanting his name, and Ruiling smiled more broadly.

The foreman picked himself up off the floor, no expression at all on his face, a terrible blankness, and Ruiling felt his first inkling of fear. Something about how the man held himself as he stood, not anything like the stance in the martial arts games he'd played in the village. Something altogether more serious. Ruiling heard a high whining noise and realized it was coming from his own throat.

He lowered his hands slightly, extended one in a friendly, palm up way. "Come on now," he said. "Let's be adults about this."

And that's when the foreman reached under the shoulder of his ill-fitting, rumpled, dandruff-speckled suit-jacket and pulled out a cheap little pistol, pointed it at Ruiling, and shot him square in the forehead.

Even before Ruiling hit the ground, one eye open, the other shut, the boys around him began to roar. The foreman had one second to register the sound of a hundred voices rising in anger before the boys boiled over, clambering over one another to reach him. Too late, he tried to tighten his finger on the trigger of the gun he'd carried ever since leaving behind Fujian province all those years before. By then, three boys had fastened themselves to his arm and forced it down so that the gun was aiming into the meat of his old thigh, and the .22 slug he squeezed off drilled itself into the big femur before flattening on the shattered bone, spreading out like a lead coin.

When he opened his mouth to scream, fingers found their way into his cheeks, viciously tearing at them even as other hands twined themselves in his hair, fastened themselves to his feet and his arms, even yanked at his ears. Someone punched him hard in the balls, twice, and he couldn't breathe around the hands in his mouth, couldn't scream as he tumbled down. The gun was wrenched from his hand at the same instant that two fists drilled into his eyes, and then it was dark and painful and infinite, a moment that stretched off into his unconsciousness and then into -- annihilation.

#

"So now what?" Justbob slurped at her congee, which they'd sent out for, along with strong coffee and a plate of fresh rolls. At 3AM in the Geylang, food choices were slightly limited, but they never went away altogether.

The Mighty Krang pulled up a video, waited for it to buffer, then scrolled it past, fast. "Three of the boys caught the shooting -- the
execution
-- on their phones. The goon who went down, well, he doesn't look so good." A shot from inside the dark room, now abandoned, the foreman on his back amid a wreck of broken computers and monitors, motionless, both arms broken at the elbows, face a ruin of jelly and blood. "We assume he's dead, but the strikers aren't letting anyone in."

"Strikers," Justbob said, and the Mighty Krang clicked another video. This one took longer to load, some server somewhere groaning under the weight of all the people trying to access it at once. That never happened any more, it had been years since it had happened, and it made Justbob realize how fast this thing must be spreading. The realization scythed through her grogginess, made her eye spring open, the other ruin work behind its patch.

The video loaded. Hundreds of boys, gathered in front of an anonymous multi-story building, the kind of place you pass by the thousand. They'd tied their shirts around their faces, and they were pumping their fists in the air and more people were coming out to join them. Boys, old people, girls --

"Girls?"

"Factory girls. Jiandi. She did a special broadcast. Stupid. She nearly got caught, chased out of another safe house. She’s running out of bolt holes. But she got the word out."

"Did we know?"

Big Sister Nor's face was a thundercloud, ominous and dark. "Of course not. If we'd known, we would have told her not to do it. Chill out. Hold off. We have a schedule, lots of moving parts."

"The dead boy?"

"There --" Krang said, and pointed his mouse at the edge of the video. A trestle table, set up beside the boys, with the dead boy draped on it. Looking closely, she could see the bullet hole in his forehead, the streak of blood running down the side of his face.

"Aha," Justbob said. "Well, we're not going to cool anything out now."

Big Sister Nor said, "We don't know that. There's still a chance --"

"There's no chance," Justbob said, and her finger stabbed at the screen. "There are
thousands
of them out there. What's happening in world?"

"It's a disaster," Krang said. "Every gold-farming operation is in chaos. Webblies are attacking them by the thousands. And it gets worse as the day goes by. They're just waking up in China, so fresh forces should be coming in --"

Justbob swallowed. "That's not a disaster," she said. "That's battle. And they'll win. And they'll keep on winning. From this moment forward, I'd be surprised to see if
any
new gold comes onto the markets, in any game. We can change logins as fast as the gamerunners shut down accounts, and what's more, there are plenty of regular players who've been skirmishing with us for the fun of it who'll shout bloody murder if they lose their accounts. We've got the games sewn up." She kept her face impassive, reached for a cup of tea, sipped it, set it down.

Big Sister Nor stared at her for a long time. They had been friends for a long time, but unlike Krang, Justbob wasn't in worshipful love with Nor. She knew just how human Big Sister Nor could be, had seen her screw up in small and big ways. Big Sister Nor knew it, too and had the strength of character to listen to Justbob even when she was saying things that Nor didn't want to hear.

Krang looked back and forth between the two young women, feeling shut out as always, trying not to let it show, failing. He got up from the table, muttering something about going out for more coffee, and neither woman took any notice.

"You think that we're ready?" Big Sister Nor said after the safe-house door clicked shut.

"I think we have to be," said Justbob. "The first casualty of any battle..."

"I know, I know," Big Sister Nor said. "You can stop saying that now."

When the Mighty Krang came back, he saw immediately how things had gone. He distributed the coffee and got to work.

#

Mrs Dibyendu's cafe was locked up tight, shutters drawn over the windows and doors.

"Hey!" called Ashok, rapping on the door. "Hey, Mrs Dibyendu! It's Ashok! Hey!" It was nearly 7AM, and Mrs Dibyendu always had the cafe open by 6:30, catching some of the early morning trade as the workers who had jobs outside of Dharavi walked to their bus-stops or the train station. It was unheard of for her to be this late. "Hey!" he called again and used his key-ring to rap on the metal shutter, the sound echoing through the tin frame of the building.

"Go away!" called a male voice. At first Ashok assumed it came from one of the two rooms above the cafe, where Mrs Dibyendu rented to a dozen boarders -- two big families crammed into the small spaces. He craned his neck up, but the windows there were shuttered too.

"Hey!" he banged on the door again, loud in the early morning street.

Someone threw the bolts on the other side of the door and pushed it open so hard it bounced off his toe and the tip of his nose, making both sting. He jumped back out of the way and the door opened again. There was a boy, 17 or 18, with a huge, pitted machete the length of his forearm. The boy was skinny to the point of starvation, bare-chested with ribs that stood out like a xylophone. He stared at Ashok from red-rimmed, stoned eyes, pushed lanky, greasy hair off his forehead with the back of the hand that wasn't holding the machete. He brandished it in Ashok's face.

"Didn't you hear me?" he said. "Are you deaf? Go away!" The machete wobbled in his hand, dancing in the air before his face, so close it made him cross his eyes.

He stepped back and the boy held his arm out further, keeping the machete close to his face.

"Where's Mrs Dibyendu?" Ashok said, keeping his voice as calm as he could, which wasn't very. It cracked.

"She's gone. Back to the village." The boy smiled a crazy, evil smile. "Cafe is closed."

"But --" he started. The boy took another step forward, and a wave of alcohol and sweat-smell came with him, a strong smell even amid Dharavi's stew of smells. "I have papers in there," Ashok said. "They're mine. In the back room."

There were other stirring sounds from the cafe now, more skinny boys showing up in the doorway. More machetes. "You go now," the lead boy said, and he spat a stream of pink betel-stained saliva at Ashok's feet, staining the cuffs of his jeans. "You go while you can go."

Ashok took another step back. "I want to speak to Mrs Dibyendu. I want to speak to the owner!" he said, mustering all the courage he could not to turn on his heel and run. The boys were filing out into the little sheltered area in front of the doorway now. They were smiling.

"The owner?" the boy said. "I'm his representative. You can tell me."

"I want my papers."

"My papers," the boy said. "You want to buy them?"

The other boys were chuckling now, hyena sounds. Predator sounds. All those machetes. Every nerve in Ashok's body screaming
go
. "I want to speak with the owner. You tell him. I'll be back this afternoon. To talk with him."

The bravado was unconvincing even to him and to these street hoods it must have sounded like a fart in a windstorm. They laughed louder, and louder still when the boy took another rushing step toward him, swinging the machete, just missing him, blade whistling past him with a terrifying whoosh as he backpedaled another step, bumped into a man carrying a home-made sledgehammer on his way to work, squeaked, actually
squeaked
, and ran.

Mala's mother answered his knock after a long delay, eyeing him suspiciously. She'd met him on two other occasions, when he'd walked "the General" home from a late battle, and she hadn't liked him either time. Now she glared openly and blocked the doorway. "She's not dressed," she said. "Give her a moment."

Mala pushed past her, hair caught in a loose ponytail, her gait an assertive, angry limp. She aimed a perfunctory kiss at her mother's cheek, missing by several centimeters, and gestured brusquely down the stairs. Ashok hurried down, through the lower room with its own family, bustling about and getting ready for work, then down another flight to the factory floor, and then out into the stinging Dharavi air. Someone was burning plastic nearby, the stench stronger than usual, an instant headache of a smell.

"What?" she said, all business.

He told her about the cafe.

"Bannerjee," she said. "I wondered if he'd try this." She got out her phone and began sending out texts. Ashok stood beside her, a head taller than her, but feeling somehow smaller than this girl, this ball of talent and anger in girl form. Dharavi was waking now, and the muzzein's call to prayer from the big mosque wafted over the shacks and factories. Livestock sounds -- roosters, goats, a cowbell and a big bovine sneeze. Babies crying. Women struggled past with their water jugs.

He thought about how unreal all this was for most of the people he knew, the union leaders he'd grown up with, his own family. When he talked with them about Webbly business, they mocked the unreality of life in games, but what about the unreality of life in Dharavi? Here were a million people living a life that many others couldn't even conceive of.

"Come on," she said. "We're meeting at the Hotel U.P.."

When he'd come to Dharavi, the "hotels" on the main road in the Kumbharwada neighborhood had puzzled him, until he found out that "hotel" was just another word for restaurant. The Webblies liked the Hotel U.P., a workers' co-op staffed entirely by women who'd come from villages in the poor state of Uttar Pradesh. It was mutual, the women enjoying the chance to mother these serious children while they spoke in their impenetrable jargon, a blend of Indian English, gamerspeak, Chinese curses, and Hindi, the curious dialect that he thought of as
Webbli
, as in
Hindi
.