Inferno (Play to Live: Book # 4) (10 page)

"WTF is this?"

He gave me a guilty smile. "This is a subwoofer for our zombie box. The latest model. You should hear it boom!"

"Jesus. That's a horror movie. Put it away, please."

In the meantime, Amara was rummaging through a pot of embers for one still alive. Having found none, she shrugged and lit up her ciggy with a fireball of plasma. Lurch squeaked his indignation as she drew deeply on her cigarette, leaving him to restore the melted stonework of the wall opposite.

I pointed an accusing finger. "Look! If you want to invent something, it had better be lighters. No good us keep doing it by rubbing two boy scouts together."

Analyst cringed, watching his wife puff away. "The admins won't okay it. We've applied several times already. Sent them several recipes, from purely mechanical to biomagic ones which contain the spirit of a volcano trapped in a control device. All we received were form replies: the system is under development, we apologize for the inconvenience.

The frowning Cryl butted in, "It's the same with all admin channels. The only systems that still work after a fashion are customer support and billing. They are automated, after all. What I personally think is that everybody has jumped the ship. We're out at sea with no one at the helm. It's a good job the login servers are still alive, otherwise no new players — or potential permas — would be coming."

I rattled the spoon in my coffee cup, thinking as I stirred in a double dose of imitation sugar. It tasted identical to the real thing but had an intensely purple color that left an oily iridescent film on the surface. Funnily enough, it had been done on purpose, just for kicks and to be different. I'd cringed at first but now I'd got quite used to it.

I turned to Analyst. "I want you to alert all clan members and allied clans: the world is about to go perma. The Fallen One has already warned me in private about the celestial spheres suffering from a terrible strain. A sparrow crapping on them will be enough to burst them. Tell all to fold up whatever unfinished business they still have in the real world. If they want to support their loved ones, tell them to hurry up with any gold transfers. Whoever wants to bring their family, they had better do it double quick. Dan's got his entire family still stuck on Earth and I don't think it's a good idea to wait until his kids finish school."

Everybody got serious, making mental to-do lists. I searched the room for Widowmaker, my second precious acquisition I'd so shamelessly lured away from the mercs. Yeah, I was a very unwelcome guest in their guild these days. My name was on their No Entry List they had hanging on their gate. I could understand them. I'd shamelessly stolen two hundred of their mercs plus a handful of senior officers they'd so painstakingly leveled up, thus dropping the Original City's entire hire potential a good 25%.

Well, they shouldn't have dawdled, should they? Money wasn't everything. There were other things, like supporting the right cause, like personal fulfilment and tons of other motivations. We now had a group of dedicated experts working on a totally classified propaganda textbook. If you could obtain two hundred choice perma warriors just by saying the right things and offering the right motivations — then you were doing something right.

It wasn't that simple, of course. We had other things going for us, like quality lodgings in an elite castle, a percentage of raid loot, and direct support from patron gods that didn't involve any middleman. But yes, we did have this 'ours is to do or die' argument all right.

You should have seen my geriatric ladies from the Sullen squad when I'd first ported them to the castle. That was a total shock for them. Dozens of little kids playing tag and chasing puppies in the Elven gardens. Imagine the sounds of a kindergarten on a walk in the park, just as surreal in AlterWorld as the clapping of enemy cavalry's hooves would be in today's Red Square.

My green-skinned goblin Amazons had been reduced to sobs as they tried to give a hug to all the kids at once. Bomba, hung with children like a Christmas tree, gently stroked their heads, wailing,

"What's going on? You my pretty ones, where did he get you all from?"

The funniest thing was, the little mites had immediately tuned into the female warriors' true age, calling them Granny. Granny Zena, yeah right…

"Widowmaker, weren't we going to hold our Parents Day this weekend? How about you invite Dan over as an allied clan representative together with his wife and the kids? It might be quite an eye-opener to him. Our Little Lambs Nursery might give him some food for thought. Talking about it. How're the preparations going?"

Widowmaker sat up happily, squinting his eyes at his internal interface. And why shouldn't he be happy? For the first time in ages he was finally entrusted with something he loved doing most.

During our initial recruiting interview and the prompt offer of the contract that had followed, Widowmaker had shared his story with me in private.

"Max, you need to understand. I'm not a freakin' general. I'm an event organizer. When I first came to Moscow, I honestly didn't know what to do with myself, killing time at various office jobs. Then a friend asked me to help organize his wedding. You can't imagine how many things you need to get together in order to make it a success. The reception, the guests, the entertainment, the music... But it did work. I did a top class job and it didn't cost that much, either. A week later one of the guests asked if I could organize his silver jubilee party for him. I agreed. I already started to like doing it. And when after two days of fuss and innuendo I ended up with the equivalent of my office rat two-month wage, I realized I'd found my Holy Grail. It worked really well for a few years. I worked like a dog, got myself a brand-new flat and sent enough money back to our village to help Mom out. Then one day I had this brilliant idea. How about if I offered my clients something totally new? Like a virtual wedding in AlterWorld, the first of its kind? Well, the wedding was a hoot. All the guests went home feeling terribly pleased. But me, I had to stay here."

At the time I had given him a compassionate nod. We clinked our glasses of Dwarven Extra Dry. "To the perma mode!"

His merc job had ceased to excite Widowmaker anymore. He was ready for bigger-scale missions. A couple-hundred strong raids and assault missions started to seem rather unimaginative. He'd fully appreciated the whole scope of the future clash of the Pantheons. His choice of the side to support was conscious, too. Always the Russian, he tended to bat for the underdog. Besides, working for us could allow him to showcase the whole range of his talents. So now he could temporarily set all the important urgent business aside, giving in nostalgically to organizing our Parents Day. And he shouldn't dismiss its significance really — nor its call-up potential. All those Moms and Dads could potentially transpire into two hundred new clan members.

Plus all the doting grandparents who had nothing to lose — and lots to gain. How about immortality and eternal youth complete with perfect health and beauty, living next to your beloved grandchildren? Show me the button for demonic laughter. The devil with all his temptation skills would cry in impotent envy. He couldn't have even thought of offering anyone something like this.

In the meantime, Widowmaker kept reporting,

"Budget overspent 150%," he rattled off. "Durin is furious. You have to fight with him for every gold piece. But I'm not going to let him ruin the show. Everything will be top class. Last week I sent a complete perma information package to the shrink that Doc had recommended. It explains in popular terms the nature of the perma mode effect and gives a brief but rather rosy description of AlterWorld which is our spoof of its promotional trailer. Just to give all parents some food for thought. The children's video messages are the bombshell, of course. The little ones got all tearful, begging their moms and dads to come —
Mommy dear please come to see me soon!
"

Widowmaker sniffed and averted his gaze. He must have been completely drained emotionally after having to record eighty such videos.

"In short, we got two hundred and forty confirmations because many visitors intend to bring their entire families along. We had a few nasty incidents, too. We had to bail out three of our mediators from police stations after enraged parents had mistaken them for scammers. We also had two very difficult cases. We've really botched it there by approaching two seriously religious families without checking them first. Apparently, not everybody's happy to hear about their kids' successful digitization. Some believe they would have been much better served in that travesty of a heaven. We're now looking at all the potential problems and the ways of handling them. Our main objective is to cover Doc's ass. He's exposed himself too much as it is. Max, you really need to talk to him. He needs to go perma. If they nail him, the trial's gonna be big. The whole world will shudder."

I nodded. We didn't need this kind of publicity. But it looked as if that was exactly Doc's intention. He wanted to call the media's attention to the problem. He had found the remedy for death and was willing to bestow it on everybody.

An incoming PM message beeped impatiently. Only a very small number of confidants and A-listed personalia could get through in the Conference mode. Mainly they were the cluster's administration and top-level elite players, especially those with high Fame rankings.

I opened the incoming messages and froze in disbelief.

Fuckyall requests initiation of a voice session.

But that wasn't what had left me speechless. By now I was quite used to this leading Russian Paladin's habit of bumming smokes from me by the crateful. It was his open status that threw me.

Fuckyall. Level 261. Dark Paladin. Prince of the Cursed House of Drow.

Holy Jesus, man.

Chapter Five

F
rom Digital Worlds newsfeed:

Breaking news: Over seven million people found themselves buried inside their FIVR capsules, about to be digitized.

Today brought an answer to the mystery of the Fields of Heaven. This virtual world's financial model used to render experts speechless, allowing any player to earn and transfer to a real-world bank account at least two thousand dollars a month, regardless of the player's specialization. These earnings however were primarily aimed at financing the monthly installments for the company's very own custom-made FIVR capsule developed by the Red Shield Group.

Many believed that this apparently overpriced piece of equipment was the main motor of the company's rather simple modus operandi, expecting the game to end once the bulk of the payments had been completed. The truth proved to be a thousand times worse. In only six months of business, the Fields of Heaven succeeded in luring over twenty million people into the game with their offers of easy money and limitless opportunities. Few of those millions were hardcore gamers. Most of them were ordinary people striving to feed their families.

The game itself isn't particularly unique. Set in a run-of-the mill world of medieval fantasy, it differs from the others by its colorful and almost euphoric outlook that offers freedom from everyday burdens. Interestingly enough, the players were only allowed to choose from among the lower-ranking classes such as peasants, craftsmen or market guards. As for higher positions in the army, Royal guards or the few techno wizards, all of them were blocked for mass users. According to the developers, they were working on a new update that would grant everybody access to the restricted area. But before it could happen, a disaster struck.

Forty hours ago, in the midst of a gaming event with a triple XP bonus, the logout button disappeared from the players' control menus. Furthermore, a command sent via satellite activated a latent perma mode protocol in each and every one of the company's FIVR capsules. Their lids were blocked and their servomotors burned out. Alarms flashed while the following threatening message appeared on the capsules' outer screens,

"The device has been blocked for the duration of forty-eight hours. On expiry of this period, a few lucky ones will be able to leave their capsules unassisted.

"As for everybody else, you can only wish them luck in their new reality where the ancient clan of the Red Shield can finally take its well-deserved place at the top of the world. Enough lurking in the shadows! We are the Kings. You are our servants.

"Any attempt to breach the capsule's immunity, disconnect it or shut it down will activate an explosive device containing fourteen grams of nitrogelatine located in the capsule operator's headrest."

Indeed, soon the planet echoed with muffled clapping sounds and the splashing of blood and gore all over the capsules' observation windows. Ironically, few of them were caused by actual attempts to open the capsules. The explosive devices were triggered by unpredictable accidents such as loss of connection, electrical failure or accidental impacts. The motion sensor hidden in the capsule's massive base turned out to have been set to a paranoiacally high value.

As an example, a major accident at Deli's leading VirtNet provider left one-third of the city incommunicado. Amongst those unfortunates were nine thousand Indians who also had had their skulls shattered as a result.

The panicking relatives didn't allow bomb technicians and rescue workers near the scene. They were right in a way, considering that the explosive device had been designed to be virtually impossible to defuse. We know of no cases of their successful deactivation. In this situation, Federal hackers excelled by deciphering, in record time, the secret communications channel connecting the capsules to the server. Unfortunately, the self-destruct system proved to be completely autonomous. All attempts to override its controls have failed.

UPD. Breaking news: The last and the most shocking information of the hour. Finally, the forty-eight hour period has lapsed. The inhabitants of Silicon Valley were the first to know about it, as the Fields of Heaven data centers exploded, severing the new perma players' connection with our world.

It was followed by the sounds of millions more activated explosive devices as the banking clan of the Red Shield was burying its last mystery: which of the seven million dead are now doomed to forever tend to their peasant fields in the vast expanses of their new world?

The UN has declared a week of global mourning. The US National Guard troops have taken over all gaming server facilities on their territory.

* * *

I raised my hand demanding a moment of silence. "Sorry, guys," I apologized. "I've got an important call."

I sat back, making myself comfortable, and switched focus to the built-in interface, accepting the insistently beeping message. "Greetings, Fuckyall, Prince of the Cursed House of Drow!" I repeated his new title aloud to let the staff know who it was contacting us, giving them time to look into it and collect some information.

An amazed hum swept over the room. Even Amara had lost her usual cool, uttering an F-word.

The next moment it was me raising my eyebrows in surprise.

"Greetings, Laith, Prince of the House of Night!"

He sounded tired, but still I managed to detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I discerned the sounds of battle in the background: the far-off wailing of magic, the clangor of steel and furious war cries. It looked like he'd decided to give me a call right from the battlefield.

"How did you know?"

This wasn't an idle question. The only person I'd told about what had happened in Lloth's temple was the Fallen One. And somehow I doubted he'd let slip my secret while sloshed.

With a barely audible sigh, Fuckyall answered, "Some other time. Actually... how long has it been since you checked your status tab?

I shrugged. "It's been a while. What am I supposed to do there, drool over my inordinate numbers of Fame points? Or puff out my cheeks at the sight of my Clan Leader badge? I have so many of the wretched titles and things you have to scroll through because they won't fit on the screen!

"Go ahead, then. Scroll through."

The Paladin wasn't the talkative type. Never mind. I clicked through until the tab opened before my mind's eye, completely obscuring the view. Habitually I adjusted transparency levels and skimmed my numerous achievements and other commendations.

The First in Town

Goliath, Colossus

Impervious, Immortal, Untouchable

Slow on the Draw

Hannibal I

Invader I

Executioner, Elite Executioner

Stoic

Unmercenary, the Holy Unmercenary

Wholesaler I

Soul Healer

Last Honors

What a glutton I was! I scrolled the list further down.

Clan Leader: The Children of Night

Alliance Leader: Guards of the First Temple

Prince of the House of Night

Aha. There it was, the official confirmation of my rights to the throne.

Hearing the thoughtful noise I'd made, Fuckyall added, "Click on it. Actually, your family status is clickable too. I suggest you do it sometime. You might learn lots of interesting things about yourself."

"Do they have a button for performing your marital duties? And a dropdown list of sexual preferences?"

My attempt at a joke was rather nervous. Admittedly I felt uneasy about my Drow Princess wife that life had forced on me.

Fuckyall didn't approve of my sense of humor. "They do, actually. And you shouldn't forget that you're married to a Drow. Make sure she doesn't press
your
button first. They may not be your typical Dark Elves, but it's still their women who wear the pants."

I shuddered, then stared at the incomprehensible mess of the Prince's service interface. "Holy shit."

"Exactly. It looks as if this menu is not for public use. It has zero usability — it was never meant for the players' eyes to begin with. Now try to find the Upcoming Events tab. There you'll see the information about the next Council of the Thirty-Six. In actual fact, all those millennia of feudal fighting have cut the number of the Great Houses down to twelve. But for the Drow, tradition is everything."

I scanned the list of the Great Council members. The names of the players among them were highlighted in a familiar blue. But why were there three of us? Fuckyall, the Prince of the Cursed House. Laith, the Prince of the House of Night. And
Siam
— the Elven word for a
stray cat
— the Prince of the House of Shadow. Well, well, well. I thought I knew where to find that particular feline.

I refocused on the world outside, searching for my Analyst. "Dennis? We need to talk."

Then I turned back to Fuckyall. "I see now. I can imagine the other Princes' faces when the three of us put in an appearance at their Council!"

Aha. I could hear Amara's earrings jingle anxiously in the distance.

"The three of us?"

"Sure. If we find this alley cat, we'll have 25% of the vote. But I still don't understand how you managed to become a prince and even change your class for a previously unknown one. Or should I say, previously non-existent?"

He faltered. "It's a long story. Some other time. At the moment, I've contacted you as a fellow Prince and the Fallen One's First Priest. I officially offer you my House's friendship and ask for the Fallen One's protection."

'Offer my House's friendship!'
I smiled at the familiar Russian movie catchphrase. Then I listened intently as the rattle of steel in the background grew more intense. "New friends are always welcome. But judging by the soundtrack, it's not only handshakes and curtsies you want. Need some help?"

He ground his teeth. "I do. A lot of it, too. Preferably now."

"You should have said so from the start. Why all those stupid references to my priestly duty and princely solidarity? Couldn't you just say,
Max, I need your help, dude
. Think I'd have said no to you?"

He paused. "I'm sorry, Max," he sighed. He sounded tired. "Most of my friends have just disappeared. Everybody wants money these days. Nobody ever seems to remember my helping them. And it's my family at stake — my wife, my child, the people in my care — sorry, the Drow in my care — no, the zombies in my... ah, fuck it! My own clan has disowned me. They didn't dare to go against the whole cluster. Or maybe they just didn't want to lose the nursery — it's a great place. Both the OMON and the Sullen Angels have fitted me up with an ultimatum, to get the hell out of the castle and leave it well alone, so they can continue leveling up their young. You understand what that means? They are going to kill my wife and my child, repeatedly, time after time, and disembowel them looking for trophies!"

"A child? Okay, we'll get back to you on this one. I might have a surprise for you in fact, but we'll talk about it later. Now. When does this ultimatum expire?"

"Three days ago! I have two friends with me and three hundred mercs so we're still holding our ground. Defending a castle is easier then storming one. But the mercs have already cost me half a million gold. I just can't afford to extend their contracts. I used to think,
I'm immortal now, plenty of time to farm some more
. As if! Anyway, once the mercs leave, we're finished."

I did a mental estimation of our call-up potential. "Will you last another half-hour? What kind of forces do the attackers have?"

"I'll last an hour. But then it's the end. Two clans are storming the castle, that's about six hundred warriors. But I'm not leaving my people and my family behind. I've changed my bind point for the Throne Room. I'm going to respawn there every ten seconds if necessary and rip them all apart with my teeth!"

"Leave your teeth alone, you might still need them. Give me the portal coordinates and wait. We don't leave friends in the lurch. That's it. Over and out."

I shook my head, closing all the defunct windows, then turned round to face the alert expectant officers. "Code Orange for the Alliance. Code Red for the clan. Battle mission in thirty minutes. Buffs by Procedure #6. Only old-timers — that is, levels 170-plus. The rest should be ashamed of themselves."

I paused, thinking, then cracked a predatorial smile. "Time to flex our muscles a bit and show everybody what we're made of. Bring the heavy golems out of the hangars. Contact the dwarves and ask for their yeomen — let them get some xp and combat practice. It's time for the mountain dwellers to prove their allegiance."

Now. Who else? I concentrated on a mental image of Spark and called her. "Chief, we're about to go on a big hunt. Fancy joining us?"

Oh wow. This really worked. My head ached slightly, at the same time flooding me with a wave of approval. I could taste warm blood in my mouth and hear the howling excitement of the pack as they got ready to go hunting. Actually, the latter wasn't a mental image anymore — it came from outside through a window that was slightly ajar, scaring the hell out of everyone who didn't yet know about their HQ's new budding campaign.