Author’s Note:
As I was revising this book, I realized that I wanted to change some genders around, so Seymour became Sidney, and Jerald Crewe, also a guy, became Jordan Crewe, of indeterminate gender.
Gender has been a tricky issue for the Krim revision in general since, a hundred years in the future, I’m guessing that it will all have been resolved and everyone will be referred to as “they.” After all, when people can easily change gender, binary pronouns have less and less usefulness. Plus, in a virtual world, where people can switch avatars at will, gendered pronouns don’t make any sense at all. But using “they” for every single character sounds awkward. Yes, I’ve seen other authors play with pronouns, my favorite being Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice. As a reader, I got used to it pretty quickly.
But maybe, on Krim, people are role-playing at living in medieval England, so maybe they’re okay with binary pronouns, even if they don’t use them in real life? But there were non-binary people living in England at that time, and there was also the use of “they” as a gender neutral pronoun. Even Shakespeare did it.
So I’ve decided to compromise, with he, she, and, occasionally, they, on Krim, and mostly they outside of Krim, in the real world. As the books go on, I hope to become more comfortable with this. It’s hard to undo decades of writing habits!
You can read all installments published so far on this page.
Chapter 20: Crewe gets tied up
“All this griefer stress has made me hungry,” Trask told Quimby as the patrons sitting at his favorite table gathered up their things to move somewhere else. Fortunately, the dining room was still mostly empty. Even the dice players were gone.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have come back to the Barley Mow,” Quimby said.
“I’m not going to let the threat of imminent death keep me from my duties,” Trask said, patting his badge and ignoring the way that Quimby rolled his eyes. “And, of course, I don’t think anywhere is safe anymore. The griefers are spreading out, hitting as many areas as they can.”
“Of course there are multiple griefers,” said Quimby. “Why should there only be one? I knew I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up when everyone said the griefer was dead. It never fails…”
“Anyway,” Trask interrupted. “With all the reports coming it, we’ve got at least two griefers, possibly more. And all different kinds of attacks.”
“Of course there would be all different kinds of attacks,” Quimby said, wiping the table with a damp, unclean cloth. Fortunately, the light inside the inn was dim, so Trask couldn’t see exactly how unclean it was.
“Stabbings, shootings, horse tramplings.” Trask looked out the window. The street outside was better lit than the dining room. The local merchants had gone all out with oil lamps, lanterns and torches tonight. Maybe they hoped that better lighting would deter crime, Trask thought, but it would probably make it easier for the griefers to aim at their targets.
Like Sidney Gellhorn, the newspaper publisher, who was standing right there, on the sidewalk, under a streetlight, practically daring the griefer to shoot at her again.
“You know, we get stabbings, shootings, and tramplings every day,” said Quimby. “How do you know it’s the griefers?”
“There are indications,” said Trask. Those indications were buried inside a stack of complaints on the desk back in his office and Trask planned to look at them in the morning. Or delegate the work to Joe. That’s what a good manager did. He delegated. “I can’t go into the details.” Trask tapped the side of his nose. “Police business, you know.”
Quimby shook his head. “What is the world coming to?”
Trask couldn’t read the menu in the dim light. “What’s the special?”
But before Quimby could answer, Trask’s attention was caught by movement outside.
An armored figure walked up to Sidney, said something, then handed her an envelope. Jordan Rex Crewe, Trask thought. The process server. Nobody else would be walking around Krim in full armor, not even with griefers on the loose.
Trask expected the newspaper editor to throw the envelope to the ground without opening it, but then remembered that he hadn’t yet had the chance to tell Sidney about the process server. He should really go outside and say something.
“Leftovers from lunch,” Quimby said. “Not enough customers to justify cooking a second meal. I don’t know if there will ever be enough customers again.”
“I’ll have some more stew, then,” Trask said and started to rise from his chair. He needed to warn…
The newspaper editor opened the envelope, took a quick look inside, then yelled and lunged at the process server. Trask was surprised that Jordan Rex Crewe was even still on Krim. He was sure that Wanda would have killed them by now.
Crewe tried to lumber away, but their armor slowed them down. That’s why real fighters didn’t wear it in town, Trask thought. You had to be nimble on the streets of Krim.
Sidney hooked her foot around the process server’s leg and pushed them over. Crewe flailed their arms as they toppled like a cut tree.
Trask would have been impressed by Sidney’s martial prowess except for the fact that it all happened in very slow motion.
Then Sidney put her foot down on Crewe’s chest and looked around.
“Is that the griefer?” Quimby asked.
“No,” said Trask. “It’s a process server. But I think they might be working with the griefers.”
Conversation in the inn stopped.
“What. Did. You. Say.” A drunk sitting at the shadowy far end of the bar staggered to his feet. It was Gorehair, a local mercenary.
“Process server,” Trask told the drunk.
“That person needs help!” Gorehair staggered to the front door, fumbled to get it open, then nearly fell getting outside.
Why would Gorehair want to save a process server? Trask wondered.
But he didn’t. He was trying to help Sidney. Gorehair pulled the helm off of Crewe, screaming obscenities at them, and was quickly joined by nearby pedestrians.
Trask got up and went to the entrance. By the time he opened the door, Crewe’s armor was halfway off.
“Don’t kill them!” Sidney pulled at Gorehair, who brushed off the newspaper editor like she was a fly. “We can’t let them leave the grid,” Sidney said. “They’re a process server. They probably want us to kill them so they can make their report.”
Gorehair paused his pummeling. “What?”
“They just served me with papers,” Sidney said, waving the envelope. “They can’t be allowed to leave Krim.”
Trask knew he had to do something. “Make way, make way,” he said, holding up his badge, and walked down the steps to the struggling figure on the ground. Gorehair, about to kick Crewe in the side, took a step back.
“This ends now,” Trask said. “As a representative of the Krim Chamber of Commerce, I have to put a stop to this.”
“You want us to let them go?” Sidney asked.
“No, I’m putting a stop to the process serving.” Trask looked back at Quimby. “Do you have any rope?” he asked.
“I’m sure I can rustle something up,” said Quimby. “Let me check the back.”
Meanwhile, helpful passers-by got the rest of Crewe’s armor and made off with it.
Sidney and Gorehair dragged Crewe into the inn, ignoring the process server’s kicks and screams.
Quimby appeared from the back with a coil of rope.
“Let me go!” yelled Crewe. “I’m just doing my job!” They looked at Trask. “Aren’t you the police?”
“I work for the chamber,” said Trask. “I protect business interests.”
“I don’t think they’re good for business,” said Sidney.
“No, I don’t think they would be,” Trask agreed.
“Help! I’m being kidnapped!” Crewe yelled.
“I don’t see anything,” said Sidney. “Do you?”
Gorehair shook his head and stomped on Crewe’s stomach. “Nope, I don’t see anything either.”
The process server’s undershirt was torn, and they were covered in dirt. There were cuts and scrapes on their arms and face and they were going to be showing some nasty bruises any minute now.
“Make sure there’s no internal bleeding,” Quimby said. “They’ll last longer that way.”
“If you could put them on ice for a month or two, that would be nice,” Sidney said.
“You think that will be enough for you to deal with whatever you have to deal with?” Trask asked.
“You’re right,” said Sidney. “Make it six months.”
“You can’t lock me up,” Crewe said. “I’ve got work and bills to pay.”
“That sounds like something you should have thought about before coming here,” said Trask.
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Maybe you should have gotten a different job,” said Sidney.
“I’ve got information,” Crewe interrupted, desperation in their voice.
“Don’t listen to them,” said Sidney.
“I’m not going to,” said Trask.
“I know who the griefer is,” Crewe insisted.
“So you admit you hired him,” Trask said.
“What?” said Crewe. “No!”
“They hired the griefers?” Quimby asked. “That’s just my luck. They’re probably out there right now. I just hope they don’t all attack at once.” He stepped towards the window and looked outside.
“Why would they hire…” Sidney began then stopped as the answer hit her. “Oh, of course.” She looked down at Crewe. “If you force me off Krim, I’ll be back in the real world, getting my messages, and your job is done.”
“So you’re wanted dead or alive.” Gorehair raised his hand for a high-five, which Sidney ignored.
“No, no, that’s not true,” said Crewe. “I only get paid for in-world deliveries. And I’m a professional. Hiring assassins isn’t something I would do. But I saw the griefer. I swear.”
“So did I,” said Trask. “So did Sidney. We all saw him getting away, before he got himself killed.”
“No, I mean, I saw him again,” said Crewe. “After that.”
They couldn’t have, Trask thought. “You mean, after he was dead?”
“Twice, actually,” Crewe said, obviously lying to protect themselves. “But I only recognized him the second time, when he was walking away from me.”
Trask shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. The original griefer can’t be back. Not for two more weeks.”
“I’m not a big fan of the new two-week rule, personally, but in this one case, I think it was a good idea,” said Sidney.
“Maybe you should try to come up with a better lie,” said Trask.
“No, it was the same guy,” Crewe insisted. “If you let me go, I’ll tell you who it was.”
“I don’t think they know anything,” said Sidney.
“No, I swear,” Crewe said. “It’s my job to recognize people. How they walk, their arm gestures, their facial expressions, that kind of thing. The courts accept my testimony. I’ve been an expert witness in more than a hundred trials.”
“Trials?” Sidney’s face darkened. “Is there a dungeon around here we could throw them in?”
“I’ve got a storage room out back where we can keep them. For a little while, at least,” said Quimby.
“Then I’m sure we can get one of the mercenary guilds to keep them on ice for a while,” Trask added.
“Aren’t you a representative of the law?” Crewe looked up at Trask with imploring eyes.
“I have no personal knowledge of this person’s identity.” Trask looked at Quimby, then Sidney, then Gorehair, then glanced around at everyone else in the room, then up at the cameras. Well, not actual cameras. But if this ever led to a legal investigation, and the courts subpoenaed the grid’s records, he wanted to be seen doing the right thing. “They could be anyone, for all we know. The only thing I’m sure of is that they presented a letter of some kind to Sidney, and that could have been anything. A threatening note, say.”
“Yes, it was definitely a threatening note.” Sidney walked to the fireplace at the back of the dining room and tossed in the envelope. “I didn’t read it, of course, and couldn’t say exactly what it said, but I definitely had the impression as I was holding it that it was a very threatening note.”
“It’s a perfectly reasonable assumption that Sidney and this unknown gentleman on the ground before us have a perfectly reasonable, in-world conflict that is not at all related to any legal process happening outside of Krim,” Trask said. “And, as such, Sidney is perfectly within her rights, per the grid’s terms of service, to do anything she wants with her prisoner.”
“Which I could, anyway, whether I had a beef with them or not,” Sidney added. “This is Krim. Kidnapping random strangers on the street is also fully within my rights, per the grid’s terms of service.”
“I did not personally see the piece of paper they showed you,” Trask said. “Nor do I know whose name was on it, or if it was a legal document, and, of course, I have no way of knowing any resident’s real legal name. So even if I was currently acting as a representative of the grid’s management—which I am not—I would not feel compelled to interfere in this situation.”
Trask turned away and walked back to his table. He thought he was covered. It wasn’t like they could get into his thoughts. Those were protected by a completely different, much more stringent set of privacy laws. It would take an imminent threat of mass murder to get those unlocked, and, even then, only after all other avenues of action had been exhausted. A subpoena from a civil court, one that didn’t rise to the level requiring grid intervention–well, that probably wasn’t anything anybody would ever worry about.
“I’ll just be sitting over here having my dinner while concerned local residents deal with a random miscreant,” he said. “Carry on, concerned residents.”
“No, no, wait.” Crewe’s voice cracked. “Listen to me. The griefer was at City Hall. Maybe he was visiting or works there or something. He was wearing a gray suit. Bald, short guy. I recognized his gait. It was the griefer. I’m willing to testify.”
Trask snorted. As if anything that a griefer could do on Krim would ever reach a courtroom. But then he wondered about the city hall comment. Why City Hall in particular? Maybe it was because Crewe, being new to Krim, couldn’t immediately think of any other locations they could name. Or maybe it was because City Hall was right across the main plaza from the central gate. Anyone coming to or from Krim would be walking past. Or maybe it was someone who had business at city hall, or who worked there. Lockton did mention contractors and interns when Trask asked him about the person in the archery competition photo. Admin privileges meant that normal rules didn’t apply, including, he supposed, the two-week suspension.
While he was thinking about this, Quimby and Gorehair had finished trussing Crewe up and started dragging them to the back of the inn’s entry area, to a corridor to the back of the building.
“Let’s take them to the storage room,” Quimby said. “They’ll keep until we find someone else to take them.”
“That’s pretty generous of you,” said Sidney. “I’ll give you free advertising for the rest of the year. Full-page, color—anything you want.”
“Just doing my bit for the grid,” said Quimby, dropping Crewe’s legs and straightening up. “I’m a public-spirited citizen. Though it’s nice to get some appreciation. Most people aren’t grateful.”
Sidney glanced over at Trask. “The free add offer also holds for whatever guild locks them up on a more long-term basis.”
Crewe started screaming.
Quimby pulled out the damp rag he’d been using to clean tables and stuffed it in Crewe’s mouth. Then a couple of other patrons stepped in to help. Crewe was dragged away to Quimby’s back room, and the inn was quiet again.
Trask kept his eyes averted. If he didn’t see anything, he couldn’t testify to anything. Not that it was ever likely to come up, but he liked to make sure that the rules were followed in precise bureaucratic detail.
“Well, I’ve got a paper to put out,” Sidney said.
She left, and Trask sat down to have dinner, even if it was just leftover stew. More patrons drifted in, despite the risk of getting shot. Hunger was a big motivator.
As Trask was finishing up his bowl of leftover stew, Crewe must have spit the gag out because muffled screams for help came from the back.
Quimby apologized to the patrons and went and did something to make the process server quiet again. Word had spread about the prisoner, and when he came back out to the dining room, the patrons applauded. Trask felt a moment of warmth about how Krim’s residents were able to pull together when one of their own was in danger from an outsider. Community spirit at its finest.