The Silent Company

The sky clears after a rainstorm in Washington D.C. It is nighttime. The air smells of wet car exhaust and electric light. Shadowy, rigid buildings scrape the horizon line. Their windows are full of televised blue. The next competitive hosting of The Game starts tonight and the nation is watching.

 We are in the early years of The Game; the first digital waves of its bugs and patches. There are still fissure vulnerabilities in its security. While this is of little concern to most, it invites a special creed of viewership to its opening hour: hackers. The awful bane of developers. They circle loopholes like flies around an open wound, teasing out an opportunity to make fools of federal coders and to grab a chance at The Game’s limelight.

 This evening, one hacker is going to get extraordinarily lucky.

 In a dark room under a 13th street alleyway, a greasy, lanky kid stares in awe at a computer monitor. He is surrounded by a hellscape of dead device parts. Cord intestines tangle between rotting organs of desktop towers, leaking motherboards like the exploded corpse of an animatronic dragon. There are four others in the dingy basement, crowded around an old television in its corner, watching The Game’s countdown. They would watch in public but three of them are wanted criminals and the fourth legally should be. A hacker’s den is the only place they can associate.

 There is an email open on the hacker’s screen. It has two lines:

 “Attached is a PDF detailing an exploit in the videogame C.A.S.H.”

 “Sincerely, Mr. Rich”

 The hacker has no idea who Mr. Rich is. He does not care. He opens the attached document and scans through it, unblinking. It is an internal security brief written by the coders of The Game, meant to be locked deep within the confines of its private servers. It has federal government fingerprints all over it. It is not meant for him. But the hacker believes it is; it is a gift from God, if God’s true name is Mr. Rich. This is his holy golden ticket into the halls of hacking fame. His way into The Game. He calls over his shoulder to the outlaws watching the countdown.

 “How much time is left?” His voice breaks with prepubescent excitement.

 “Like, ten minutes.”

 He scrambles to open coding software, fingertips smacking his keyboard with reckless abandon, pumping out line after line of code as white text against a black screen. His breathing heavies and sweat spurts to dampen his shirt. He executes a program set. LEDs flash via wires connected to some awful machine in the back of the basement. It hums and whirrs, a colossus of wires surrounding four uncomfortable seats like surgical chairs. The people watching TV take notice. One of them, a young woman in a hoodie, turns back to shout at the hacker.

 “Hey, what the fuck are you doing? We’re about to watch The Game, we don’t have time to play it.”

 “You will.”

 She squints at the hacker. “What?”

 “I’m getting you in.” He smiles between hasty, half-written lines of script. “You’re gonna play in tonight’s Game.”

 The others exchange frowns of disbelief. But the hacker is adamant; Mr. Rich’s code is working. He flicks his finger towards the blinking machine of chairs. “Get strapped in. It’s about to start.”

 “That’s not possible—”

 “We only have a minute left!”

 They are still hesitant. But one of them, a big person with scars across their head, shrugs and rises from the ratty couch where they are watching TV. They amble over to the machine, pick a chair, lean back, and slide into a bulky VR headset without a word. It’s enough for the others. One by one, they make their way to the machine and get comfortable.

 The hacker looks back at his monitor screen. He scrolls through the code, taking precious seconds to check it. His pinky hovers over the “execute” button. If a single line is wrong, the Law will bust down his door in a matter of minutes with subpoenas and sentences. If not, he is about to make history. The first hack of The Game.

 He presses the button.

 In every session of The Game to date, it started with 100 players. Tonight, it starts with 104.

---

The Game has reproduced time equal to a little over a week. Within, it is simulating trees and hushed breeze, falling leaves that glide peacefully to a natural floor. The sky is clear with daylight. Few clouds slide wistfully over its perfect blue. There are bellowing locusts, goldfinches and cardinals stirring high above the foliage, and foxes at play in burrows made to look months old. This sliver of world is calm and untroubled.

 Down a short ridge from the forest there is a squad of players camped out. The trailing smoke of their fire snakes from an empty spit; they’ve just finished a meal of wild pig. Two sit happily and exchange banter, talking about their life outside The Game. One keeps watch over the south edge of their camp as it rolls off steeper ridges towards far greenery below. A pair of stone throwing daggers lay comfortably in the lookout’s belt. The last player has assembled a clay furnace. Using a bellows made from dried pig bladder, they fuel the furnace’s embers, heating rock within. This squad has nearly achieved rudimentary iron production, an important first step in The Game.

 Unbeknownst the squad, another group is creeping up on the camp. Those happy animals mingling in the woody underbrush suddenly turn tail and flee, skittering over the rocks and flinging leaves as they scram their homes, voles and mice trampling one another in an escaping mob. There is fear of danger in their eyes. They smell a wave of death.

 The coming squad does not look like the happily fed others. They are lank and lean, the bones of their wrists visible through dirty rags, eyes sunken and bloodshot. Their predatory movement across the forest floor is camouflaged with mud and dirt. They weave between the trees, quiet jackals, checking one another, following the nearby camp’s line of smoke against the air. One, a young woman wearing a hood, hears voices and hand signals for the others to stop. The approaching squad raises their weapons. Bows, sanded and etched with use. They carry arrowheads made of ivory.

 At the nearby camp, after-dinner conversation continues. “And I told him, I’m not gonna fucking smell that thing, because the best friend I’ve been talking about’s name is Lacy, and she said—” An arrow slides through the soft spot of her throat, causing her to sputter blood and fall over.

 “Fuck!” Another arrow enters the other person’s brain. The two remaining campers are suddenly alert and ready to attack, gripping daggers and a spear. They look wildly toward the trees and see nothing. Within seconds they are struck with arrows and die.

 The approaching squad waits. None of the slain bodies twitch. No alarm is raised. The first to approach is bigger than the rest, scars on their head, sliding down the ridge to the vanquished encampment. They look about the camp and go down to inspect one of the bodies. The others follow. Second the hooded one, third a dusky, scowling man, and fourth a short person so covered in detritus that they are unidentifiable.

 The big person inspecting the body checks sewn pockets and fluffs the hair of the deceased. Then they squeeze the muscle of the body’s limp arms. They take one stone dagger from the camper’s belt and throw another to the hooded killer. She catches it dexterously. The big scarred person goes to work cutting at the joint of the deceased’s shoulder, blood staining their fingers, until they can see bone. They set the dagger aside and stand. They put one foot on the body and hold its wrist below the shoulder. They pull. The veins in their arms bulge as they strain against the shoulder joint; they keep pulling and a series of pops like a tree limb snapping come from the dead body. With a gout of gore the ligament comes free, the armless corpse dropping like a ragdoll. They sit with their prize.

 They begin to eat. The others likewise get to work tending their kills, severing legs, hind quarters, any part they want. The silent company has long been hungry. One—the short one cloaked in a veil of twigs and grit—watches with hesitant trepidation.

 The scowling man takes notice. He rises from the raw entrails dripping from his face, his hands gloved in gore up the wrist. He drags with him a ripped liver. He takes the short one’s chin and the man opens his own mouth, indicating for the shorter one to eat.

 The little one looks up with anguish.

 There is no noncompliance. Eat. The frowning man takes part of the liver and chews it himself, flesh dribbling down his chin. His mouth full, he leans down and presses his lips to the smaller one’s mouth, pushing the ground mush between their teeth. They shudder and writhe as their cheeks inflate with the disgusting meat. Pulling away, a red trail of spittle lingers til distance breaks it. The debris-covered killer swallows forcibly, upset with theirself, but nonetheless hungry. Not watching, the others remain untroubled and continue stuffing themselves. The little one still needs to eat. One mouthful was no proper nourishment. Step by step, they approach one of the bodies and dine with their squad mates. There is no helping it.

 As evening tints the sullen forest, their faces are covered with human blood, ungodly red under clouds caught orange in the setting sun.

 Outside The Game, in a secure room in D.C., federal workers watch every angle of the virtual world they are running. C.A.S.H. is emblazoned on the embroidery of their jackets. The room is lined with bright screens of dozens of computers running analyses, tombs of servers laying behind glass labyrinthine, strobing in artificial contemplation. The workers watch with horror as the hackers cannibalize another squad, picking apart their bodies with animalistic brutality. One of the security officers steps aside from their computer terminal to vomit in the small plastic of a trash can.

 Visibly upset, an even-cut blond security lead steps out of the room and speedwalks down a white hallway. This place has none of the nature of the world inside the game: it is antiseptic and pristine, even and symmetric, windowless. It could be miles underground. The security officer turns a hallway with a conceited huff and approaches a directorial set of double doors. He adjusts his tie and checks the pits of his jacket for sweat stains. Clean and dry. He pushes the doors open.

 “Mr. Richmond,” the lead says. “We have a problem.”

 There is a man in the room, older and cueball balding with white buzz, swivel-chair turned to stare at the wall opposite the security lead. His suit is expertly tailored. “What is it now?”

 The blond officer swallows. “Sir, we’ve been hacked. There’s an extra squad in The Game. They’re… Uh, sir, they’re eating the other players.”

 Mr. Richmond sighs. “Grotesque. This wouldn’t have anything to do with the “exploit” you notified me of, would it? The one you didn’t fix before tonight’s game?”

 The pit stains start on the security officer. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s a decent likelihood that’s how they hacked in. I have no idea how they figured it out.” He steps closer to Mr. Richmond’s desk. “But we can’t have this on TV. Do I have permission to take executive control and get rid of them?”

 “No.”

 “Sir? I don’t think that’s in our best interest, all things considered.”

 The bald man turns in his chair to face the lead. “Certainly, this is horrible. It is simply not the sort of play our viewers expect from The Game. But you forget; all press is good press. Just imagine it.” He leans in and folds his hands. “This will be on the news for weeks, at least. Months. Journalists will not be able to get enough of C.A.S.H’s players being eaten by hackers.” He grins. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

 “I don’t believe—”

 “Don’t argue with me. Leave them be. Let The Game progress as it is.”

 The security officer nods. “Understood.” As he leaves the room sweat stains have visibly progressed down the back of his jacket.

---

Simulated months in The Game. A village; a platoon is working together to allocate resources and provide for one another. It is dusk. Crickets charm the unreal air to provide ambiance necessary only to immerse the world’s players in figmented reality. High grasses around the base shimmer under cool wind, blowing crumbles of dust off well-tread paths, disturbing a wind chime made of surplus iron rods.

 This settlement is far from medieval normalcy. In-between mud and woodgrain houses with thatch roofs are early assembly lines and thick tubes of copper cable. Simply organized garden beds are misted by hanging irrigation systems, ceramic and metal. Residents are working as hard at weaving baskets as they are servicing firearms. The environment of The Game allows for development unlike our human history: the mundanities of life can be engineered away with as much speed as there are resources and knowhow in supply. But weapons to win come first. In the middle of the village two people are working together by welding arms to a mech exosuit twice their size. Its exposed wires and lackluster firepower are rudimentary but nonetheless a destructive luxury few playing can afford.

 Yet, for their significant progress, the platoon is about to make a critical error. They’ve mistaken the current calm in the surrounding savannah and thought it reason for relaxation. If cooperative word traveled between enemy groups, whispers of the silent company would have these people on high alert. If word traveled.

 A bush dog sprints past the mech workers, spooked by something in the creeping shadows. The two watch it run down the path and shrug at one another. Little has been added to the game yet that could scare them. Apart from people. A sudden gunshot erupts in the dark and one mech worker falls dead. The other doesn’t even get time to shout, just as quickly killed by a coordinated attack. In the neighboring field, a faint plume of smoke rises over unseen snipers, carefully reloading their rifles with gunpowder.

 “We’re under attack!” A man screams, un-holsters a pistol from his side, and is shot through the heart. One by one the scrambling members of the platoon are picked off as in unorganized execution. The silent company emerges from the grass, aiming and pinpoint shooting as they go, eventually making it to the village houses to clear away their screaming inhabitants. The hooded woman approaches a farming shack and shoves open its door. There is a young person inside, armed. “Fuck you,” they say. They fire on the hooded girl. She takes it in the shoulder, recoils a step, and retaliates with a rifle shot through the shacked person’s chest.

 Quiet returns. The hooded woman slumps to her knees.

 The big, scarred person comes with wordless camaraderie to her side. They assess the wound and poke its bloody sides despite the protests of her pained expression. The musket round is shallow in her flesh; a better gun would have shattered bone. But they can feel the ball close to her skin. The big, gentle person looks at her knowingly, then edges their fingers into the hole, digging deep against her nerves until the lead shot is retrieved. They pocket the bullet blood and all and get the hooded one to her feet to rejoin the others.

 They are piling bodies and assessing their prize. This place has productive means to get them near the final hours of The Game if they plan accordingly. In the basement, they think, the lone hacker must be euphoric. Watching them from his TV and from the VR beds just adjacent. What a thrill, to live so vicariously. They look towards the partially assembled mech, rough spun showerheads the platoon fashioned, and limp corpses all lined up. The silent company will dine with class tonight. In some odd, disconnected way, they have that awkward hacker to thank.

 Over the next few days they skin the dead and stuff their skins full of grass, erecting them around the outpost. Human scarecrows. The bleach sun gradually twists and wrinkles the effigies into tanned symbols of death, their orifices and unstitched bullet wounds sprouting with soiled hay and garnishing bugs. Do not approach this camp. No-one does.

 By now, little time has passed in the real world. Mr. Richmond joins his security lead to watch The Game live. The other federal coders look up from their terminals, staring at the main screen like they’re monitoring a NASA landing. Some murmur to each other that the hackers are disgusting.

 “Sir, are we going to let them make it to the end of our game?”

 The bald man sniffs. “Can’t turn back now, it’d look worse than banning these heathens immediately. That reminds me.” He reaches into his suit for a folded slip of paper, barely visible by the dim light of servers and screens. “Bring this to the Chief of Law. Tell him to send a full team to the address on that note in a few hours and wipe it clean. He owes me a favor.”

 The officer takes the slip. “What does this have to do with the hackers?”

 “No, no questions, do it. Speak back to me one more time and I swear to God it will be your job.” Mr. Richmond speaks with firm restraint. “What are you standing there for? Go!”

 In two hours, The Game has spanned seasons towards its closing moments. Opposing squads battle the elements and each other in a fierce storm. Across the crags of a bleak, wet mountainside they fire on each other with high-grade modern weapons, scoping down cliffs toward combatants lit by spirals of lightning, mortars blasting the soaked rock. Unmanned tanks back them like armored spiders, their artificial eyes unfazed by the heavy rainfall. One aims its cannon at an enemy and with a thunderclap fires a shell the size of a child, flinging an opponent dozens of feet into the air and down a sheer, treacherous incline.

 There is ground gained and taken, complex strategic maneuvers carried out by keen captains, and loss of life on both sides of the final fight. The spider tanks are destroyed in showers of parts. By the end one half-squad is all that remains. Battered by whipping wind and bone-soaked they rejoice, screaming joyful in the thunder. They know a handsome federal paycheck awaits them when they return to the real world.

 In D.C., a SWAT van slinks down an alleyway on 13th street. Its lights are off and the high apartments do not notice it. It halts, its engine stops, and a night-goggled team pours out of its doors onto the street. They grip guns to their chests and approach an unmarked basement door, waiting for a command.

 The winners of The Game have celebrated for a minute but for whatever reason the simulation has not ended. They look at one another on the stony bluff, wondering if something is the matter. A glitch? One player points out a strange, bright red dot on the other’s forehead.

 Near the mountain peak of the last encounter, four extra players lie in wait. They went unnoticed the entire game. Many weeks since the time of bows or muskets, they carry carbine rifles, fitted with sleek silencers and laser sights, trained on the heads of the winning squad below.

 Suffice to say, the nation is shocked when the once-celebrating champions drop dead before their televised victory can be announced. The silent company steals their win.

 In the real-world basement the hacker is screaming with joy. He leaps off the couch where he was watching TV and prances around the dirty computer room, clapping and laughing. He runs to the virtual reality machine where the four criminals are still plugged in and shakes the gurneys they lay on. “You did it! You mother fuckers went all the way!” He says. Without warning, the door to the basement is hammered open and the Law rushes in, guns blazing. “Wait! No!” The hacker is peppered with bullet holes.

 On the mountainside, the hooded woman stands and looks at her team. The big scarred one, the sullen man, and the filthy gremlin stand too. They smile at one another in knowing victory. The hooded one is the first to vanish. In the real world a gun is pressed to her skull and it explodes.

 Mr. Richmond is lounging in his office, dusting his suit as C.A.S.H. coders bring him paperwork and supply diagnostics. Someone applies light makeup to his face; in the coming hours, news outlets and press conferences will question him on how hackers won The Game. He must look his best. And he has good news to offer: the hackers have already been taken care of. He gets one of the coders to carry a message for him.

 “Write my security lead an email to tell him he’s been fired. I need a good replacement to patch that damned bug.”