Free The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination by R.F. Bright Page A

their wine and shook their heads in utter disbelief.
    Thomka continued. “So let’s just say, someone posts a question concerning some mission. Other players respond with whatever they have for an answer. Then others add to those answers, no matter how trivial, on and on: metadata, links, tags, stats, histories, any damn thing at all. They call that ‘progressive enhancement.’ They keep enhancing the data until they come to some kind of conclusion. How is that a fucking game? Non-zero sum? What the fuck is that?”
    Murthy wiped a drop of lemon butter from his chin with his thumb. “You win a conclusion!? Everyone wins? That’s not right. Not a game. A social activity, for losers.”
    Thomka shrugged his shoulders. “He has hundreds of millions of players all over the world. And you know what? They wouldn’t keep playing if it wasn’t rewarding, or at least fun. It’s got to be fun, or they wouldn’t play.” He wedged the stem of his wine glass between two fingers and lifted it. “This is dangerous, the potential staggering . . .”
    Murthy choked off a laugh. “That’s you, my friend,” he pointed to Thomka’s wine, “philosopher in a bottle.”
    Thomka howled, then continued as though thinking out loud. “Tuke uses technology he’s been developing for decades, game theory he won the Nobel Prize for, and the psychology of crowds to — create solutions. Unencumbered by politics.”
    “Yeah,” said Murthy. “Sounds very, very Quakerish.”
    “Fucking Quakers.”
    “Just imagine the size of that database,” Murthy said enviously.
    “And I hear Tuke is really, really rolling in it.”
    Talk of money always enlivened Murthy. “Oh my, yes. Some of those missions led to incredible inventions. And! For a price, I’ve heard he’ll turn any problem you have into a game. Calls the service — Gamification. The science of turning something into a game. The Massive handles the organization. The players solve the problem. It’s brilliant.”
    Thomka stabbed a chunk of buttery trout. “There’s still at least a hundred and fifty million Americans on the other side of our walls. That’s one big mob. And let’s not mention the veterans. If we let this Tuke asshole whisper in their ears, we’re done for.” He swallowed, then burped. “We’re not focused on solutions. We’re focused on distractions.” He burped again.
    “You’re a pig, Al. You know that?”
    “And I hate Petey’s idea of flushing Tuke out by threatening his staff and friends. Does he even have a staff?”
    “Oh yeah. They’re scattered around the world. They work over that satellite network of his.”
    “He has his own satellite?”
    “Several.”
    “How’d he get them?”
    “Bank auction — highest bidder. The only bid, they say. How curious is that? No office building. No headquarters. Everybody’s on their own. Fully independent. Unlimited reach. No one knows how many members he has. But we do know who the members of the development team are. He thanked them in an email to the Nobel Prize committee.”
    Thomka was drunk, not stupid. “Fucking with his friends may be the one thing that makes Tuke mad enough to strike back.”
    “He’s a Quaker, my friend. Quakers don’t strike back. They don’t react. They act. Directly. They are never reactionary.”
    “Ya never know,” said Thomka.
    “Well, he’s the one hiding from us.”
    “And you want to add some chaos to the mix with those goddamned Leprechauns. They’re barking-ass mad and proud of it.”
    “Well, the only thing we have to go on is one of Tuke’s disgruntled team members. Wants a twelve-bar to tell us where Tuke’s hiding out.”
    “Fantastic,” said Thomka. “Do you think he actually knows?”
    “I doubt it. Tuke’s too smart to get cornered by an underling. The Leprechauns are gonna pay this guy a visit.”
    “I knew you were going to blow this. You moron. Look! If we contact this disgruntled guy before the Leprechauns do, we might be able