“You can give him some kind of nostalgic reason for using it,” Dagmar said, “like maybe it was the handle he used when he was fourteen. But there has to be a reference to Slash Berzerker in Thursday’s update.” The gin had set her mind spinning; she began to expand on the idea.
“You could use a graphic of a computer login, say,” she said. “The username would be Slash Berzerker, but the password wouldn’t be visible. It would be hidden somewhere else, and when the players give the password they’ll get some new information.”
“About Brickman.”
“About anything. As long as there’s a reward for a job well done. Talk to Marcie and see if she can produce something like that on short notice.”
“I…” He hesitated. “Can you tell me why I’m doing this, Dagmar?”
“It’s a kind of co-production thing,” Dagmar said. “With the project I’m working on over here.”
“The project that I’m not supposed to know about, but which seems to be the Turkish revolution.”
“Yes,” Dagmar said. “That one.”
“I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing, Dagmar,” Calvin said.
Dagmar took a sip of her drink. Dioxide bubbles tickled her nose.
“This time,” she said, “I think I do.”
She had no sooner hit End than “ ’Round Midnight” began to play. She thumbed Send.
“Briana,” she said.
“Turn on the BBC News right now.” Richard’s voice. Dagmar lunged for the remote.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“Attila Gordon’s on the news again.”
She managed to catch the last few seconds of the report. Turned out that Ian Attila Gordon had traveled to Rome for a meeting with the Turkish prime minister and his government-in-exile. There was Attila, leather and blue chin and neck tattoo, smiling and nodding and shaking hands, talking about “coordinating actions,” whatever those might be.
“Remember,” Attila said to the camera, “the general strike takes place tomorrow. The polis might make yi open your bag, but they cannae make the customer traffic with yi.”
“My god,” Dagmar said, in something like awe. “My little boy’s grown up to be a sociopathic glory-seeking politician.”
“Next stop, Downing Street,” said Richard.
“Peace oot,” Dagmar said, and thumbed End.
She turned off the television, finished her gin and tonic, and lay half-reclined on the sofa as her knotted muscles began to relax. She contemplated making herself another drink and had about decided that was a good idea when there was a knock on her door.
Dagmar flicked aside a corner of the curtain, saw Ismet waiting for her, and felt a flush of pleased surprise.
“Come in,” she said as she opened the door. She could smell backyard charcoal grills on the outdoor air.
Ismet stepped inside. He put an arm around her and kissed her cheek. He had shaved, and she could scent more talc than disinfectant on his skin.
“Did you see Attila?” he asked.
“He’s making the most of his opportunities,” Dagmar said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he visited the Pope tomorrow.”
“That’s already been announced,” Ismet said.
Dagmar laughed. “Would you like a drink?”
Ismet would. She made two drinks, and they carried them to the couch and sat. He put a hand to his ribs as he turned to her, but the pain must have been momentary, since he continued to face her. He raised his glass.
“To Attila.”
“To our own little Frankenstein monster.”
They touched glasses, drank. He made an interested face.
“In Turkey they make these with lemon, not lime.”
“They’re good that way, too.”
Ismet adjusted himself on the couch, touched his ribs again, then put the hand down.
“I’ve gone off the narcotics,” he said. “Now it’s just aspirin for me.”
“You must be feeling better.”
“I am.” He gave her a careful look. “And you? You are all right?”
Dagmar waved a hand. “I have my moments.”
He tilted his head. “I am sorry if-if I made any of those moments worse.”
She sighed, touched his knee. “You’ve been hurt,” she said. “You’ve got to look after yourself.”
“I did,” he said. “I have for a couple days now.” He offered a rueful smile. “But now I’m lonely.”
She looked up at him, at the purple bruises that discolored his face. “Strange,” she said. “So am I.”
He leaned toward her-winced, clutched his ribs-leaned closer, then kissed her. His lips were pleasantly moist.
Ismet drew back, hand still on his ribs, and took a few breaths.
“I was going to say,” he said, “that I’m no longer afraid that you’re going to beat me up.”
She nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“I was angry when I said that. But I wasn’t angry with you.”
Dagmar nodded again. She took a sip of her drink, then leaned forward and kissed Ismet again. They kissed a good long while.
When they stopped, Ismet had to take another few quick breaths.
“I forgot to breathe,” he said.
“Don’t do that.”
“You know,” he said. “If this is to go any farther, you’re going to have to do all the work. I’m not very… flexible.”
She laughed. A battered, bruised, half-crippled man and a crazy lady.
“We are the junkware,” she said, and kissed him again.
For two days the Lincoln Brigade tried to stay atop the general strike. From the information available, the strike seemed to go well. Amateur videos showed police vandalizing shops that had closed, but even those shops that remained open had few customers. Turkish television showed Ankara streets as jammed with cars as ever, but the images could have been filmed weeks earlier.
At night, everywhere in the country rebels came into the streets and brawled with the police. The Brigade organized a pair of demos. One of them, weaving along Irfan Bas?tu from the Altinpark toward the center of Ankara, was four kilometers long. It was so huge the police didn’t dare to try to stop it. The demo eventually dispersed when word came that the Sixty-sixth Motorized Brigade had saddled up and was coming back to town, tanks at the head of the column.
Ian Attila Gordon seemed to be everywhere, on every medium. He had a private audience with the Pope. He appeared on chat shows. His album charted at number eight, with three singles in the top five. A T-shirt with his picture and the label KEN YE REVOLUTION? suddenly appeared at stands and counters throughout the world.
Lincoln said that his colleagues from the American embassies and consulates in Ankara, Istanbul, and Adana were working the phones and visiting generals, trying to get one of the military men to commit to the return of the republic. So far there had been no success.
The Seagram’s ARG updated at noon on Friday, Pacific time, which was ten at night in Cyprus. The Lincoln Brigade was still in the ops center, and Dagmar on the phone to Marcie at Great Big Idea, when the new pictures rolled onto the screen.
Now they could only await developments.
Corporal Carrot says:
Googling Slash Berzerker. Nothing here.
Classicist says:
Did you try spelling “Berserker” correctly?
Corporal Carrot says:
Yep. Nada.
Vikram says:
By the way, has anyone noticed that everyone in this game is always drinking whiskey? Which may not be unusual in and of itself, but have you noticed that they ALWAYS DRINK RESPONSIBLY?
Lots of booze, but no alcoholics in this game! Usually these games are full of human wreckage, both addictive and compulsive. THAT’S unusual!
Hippolyte says:
That’s an interesting point.
LadyDayFan says:
Harry just found out the police are after him. Do we think he’s been committing actual fraud, or do we want to blame Mr. Berzerker for Harry’s problems?
Hanseatic says: