For the Win, Cory Doctorow [english novels for students .TXT] 📗

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.

The Webblies, roused from their beds early in the morning, crowded in sleepily, demanding chai and masala Cokes and dhosas and aloo poories. The ladies who owned the restaurant shuttled pancakes and fried potato popovers to them in great heaps, Mala paying for them from a wad of greasy rupees she kept in a small purse she kept before her. Ashok sat beside her on her left hand, and Yasmin sat on her right, eyes half-lidded. The army had been out late the night before, on a group trip to a little filmi palace in the heart of Dharavi, to see three movies in a row as a reward for a run of genuinely excellent play. Ashok had begged off, even though he'd been training with the army on Mala's orders. He liked the Webblies, but he wasn't quite like them. He wasn't a gamer, and it would ever be thus, no matter how much fighting he did.

"OK," Mala said. "Options. We can find another cafe. There is the 1000 Palms, where we used to fight --" she nodded at Yasmin, leaving the rest unsaid, when we were still Pinkertons, still against the Webblies. "But Bannerjee has something on the owner there, I've seen it with my own eyes."

"Bannerjee has something on every cafe in Dharavi," Sushant said. He had been very adventurous in scouting around for other places for them to play, on Yasmin's orders. Everyone in the army knew that he had a crush on Yasmin, except Yasmin, who was seemingly oblivious to it.

"And what about Mrs Dibyendu?" Yasmin said. "What about her business, all the work she put into it?"

Mala nodded. "I've called her three times. She doesn't answer. Perhaps they scared her, or took her phone off of her. Or..." Again, she didn't need to say it, or she is dead. The stakes were high, Ashok knew. Very high. "And there's something else. The strike has started."

Ashok jumped a little. What? It was too early -- weeks too early! There was still so much planning to do! He pulled out his phone, realized that he'd left it switched off, powered it up, stared impatiently at the boot-screen, listening to the hubub of soldiers around him. There were dozens of messages waiting for him, from Big Sister Nor and her lieutenants, from the special operatives who'd been working on the scam with him, from the American boy who'd been coordinating with the Mechanical Turks. There had been fighting online and off, through the night, and the Chinese were thronging the streets, running from cops, regrouping. Gamespace was in chaos. And he'd been arguing with drunken thug-boys at the cafe, eating aloo poories and guzzling chai as though it was just another day. His heart began to race.

"We need to get online," he said. "Urgently."

Mala broke off an intense discussion of the possibility of getting PCs into a flat somewhere and bringing in a network link to look at him. "Bad as that?"

He held up his phone. "You've seen, you know."

"I haven't looked since you came to my place. I knew that there was nothing we could