Inferno (Play to Live: Book # 4) (12 page)

Golems were in their element, rollicking in the crowd like some armored bulls in a china shop. Their shoulder-launched glaive throwers belched smoke, overheated. Some of the giants had already discarded them to reduce weight and receive a few extra bonuses to agility and mobility. No one seemed to care about the clan's purse. No matter how high their resistance to physical damage was, considering their value every time someone bashed their steel trunks, it cost me a petty penny. That's the main reason why you don't see a battle golem in action very often. We had got ours for free by sword law — complete with the skillful Gimmick — and still, just repairs and maintenance really hit the clan's pocket.

In the meantime, the enemy had come to their senses, regrouping and mounting their resistance. Our loss counter span at the frightening speed. The first respawned fighters impatient to rejoin the battle began trickling out of the still-open portal guarded by a team of five Ear Cutters.

We had hit the enemy nice and good, but we'd failed to deliver the knock-out punch. It was more like a knock-down: a strong and hard, head-ringing and rubbery-legged one. Still, six hundred against two — it was still three against one. Your every blow is met with three shields and three throats going for your body. Not easy. Actually, there were just too many of them.

The Analyst confirmed my suspicions. He must have been busy for quite a while handling the complex trigonometry of battle, applying various geometric figures to the enemy squads to calculate their numbers. Guess, he could have just counted the numbers of enemy's arms and legs and divided them by four.

"Chief, they're at least nine hundred here! They've contracted Fuckyall's freed-up mercs! They probably thought he was full of surprises so they wanted to secure their victory. They can't very easily afford to keep two clans in action for seventy-two hours. Besides, the players won't be too happy: they have their own lives and things to do IRL."

Oh. That's another lesson for you, Max boy. Never stick your neck out without doing your homework. You wanted to ensure a 100% surprise effect? Guess who's surprised now...

"Attention, raid! Thicken the ranks and form an arrowhead. We're going to battle through to the Cursed Castle to join with Fuckyall's forces. Shut the portal down! Widowmaker, I want you to ask the Vets to join in the fun so they don't take offense like last time when they didn't get to screw the Chinese."

The Analyst's eye chanced on an important line within the flickering of the reports. "Sir, the enemy's respawn point is six hundred feet away from our positions!"

What a sweet target! If we could only get rid of the few guards around it, we could start stockpiling the freshly-respawned OMON members, helpless in their undies. A respawn point is very much like an enemy's missile battery: it's a priority target for any group that has located it, and it should be attacked regardless of the outcome, for it allows you to wipe out the population of several cities in a matter of seconds.

Yes, but... I shook my head. "We won't be able to hold it. They'll squash us. We're retreating to the breached North Tower."

Simultaneously I contacted the rebellious paladin. "Fuckyall!"

"Call me Andrei. I'm sorry, I had no idea that the mercs would turn coat. It's a good job they've been chivalrous enough to have left my grounds first, otherwise they could have struck from behind. The problem is, they know our strength and have cracked our defenses. We'll have to ad lib, I'm afraid."

As if confirming his words, one of the decorative battlements wobbled, collapsing on top of the growing enemy group preparing to storm through a broken window opening."

"I see. We're battling to meet up with you."

"Thanks. I'm afraid it's a bit pointless. There're just too many of them. If you can replace my men at the barricades for a half-hour at least, I'd really appreciate it. That would allow us to port to the Frontier, I don't know where exactly yet. It's not a good idea to evacuate a dirt-poor clan into an aggressive desert, but I can't see any other options."

His voice was drowned out by the enemy alliance's triumphant roar followed by a tangible earth tremor as one of the golems outlived its worth and collapsed onto the scorched ground. The poor operator didn't stand a chance: they literally mopped up his seat with him before he could unbuckle.

"Keep your hair on, man. You have plenty of time to relocate. I think I even know where you could go. In the meantime, we still have plenty of aces up our sleeves. All this has been a warm up, a bit of showing off really. We've already reset two or three hundred back to zero. Getting them back in action will take time plus all the rebuffs, wear and tear and all the lost kill strikes. Actually, they seem to be a bit too freaky, don't you think? It's as if we'd whacked them in the balls, not on the jaw!"

Fuckyall guffawed happily. "You got it, man! My zombies are formally NPCs, just like part of your own men. And what happens if you're killed by an NPC? That's right, you lose your xp. That's why they're freaking out."

Oh. I had to think about that. One thing was clear: we happened to have a very hefty argument in the eventuality of any potential confrontation. The penalty to experience was a very nasty thing. One death at level 200 could wipe out endless hours of diligent leveling.

Yes, there were always clerics with their resurrections, but they didn't restore all of your xp back. I was pretty sure the enemy alliance had already regretted going for Fuckyall so hastily and amateurishly. They'd lost their leveling momentum, authority, the money spent on the siege and whatever precious xp they'd had. Watching your fighters' average levels drop while your enemies had raised another level had to be both worrying and dangerous.

Our formation had already drawn its octopus-like tentacles back in and rolled into a steel ball, battling through the enemy ranks. We were fewer now that the influx of resurrected warriors had stopped, but the enemy alliance too was much the worse for wear. Besides, the numbers of volunteers among them wishing to experience the touch of Snowie's club, hell hounds' fangs or the dragons' claws were gradually dwindling.

We'd forced our way through the attackers' main forces. All we had to do now was break through the inner circle which was busy halfheartedly storming the castle while casting cautious glances behind their backs.

Then things got rolling.

Our old portal thundered, opening, disgorging hird after Dwarven hird, their armor gleaming purple. A steel wall of two hundred warriors deployed in the alliance's rear.

Having recognized our reinforcements as NPCs, the enemy army wailed its indignation. Getting involved in a bit of clan scuffle was one thing: it promised a healthy dose of fun, new achievements and the potential to lay your hands on an expensive piece of gear — all that without any risk to your xp. But a lootless meat grinder that promised nothing but lost xp and ruined gear was something quite different.

Both sides paused in order to rethink their strategies in the light of these new developments. The dwarves strutted into action, squeezing the enemy ranks who had found themselves between the hammer and the anvil.

Bang!
— our opponents retaliated, unfolding their reserves behind the dwarves' backs. These bastards were quick learners. My gnomes closed their ranks like on parade, turning into a solid square bristling with steel.

Bang!
The evening had turned out to be interesting, after all. A new portal opened, letting out the noisy and cheerful Vets' ranks. Once they sized up the upcoming battle, they grew serious, slamming their helmets down to their eyebrows and checking their quick access slots for elixirs.

The balance of the two confronted forces tipped and froze in a shaky equilibrium.

Chapter Six

T
he Cursed Castle. Three hours previously. Orcus, the leader of a merc team.

An enormous gray-haired orc, his frightening face creased by old scars, stretched his lips in an awkward smile. His little Dragon — a Familiar hatched by the First Priest himself from the egg they had found at the Frontier — was dashing this way and that across the large hall, running away from little Screwyall who was chasing him. Both were delirious with glee, the lizard's trilling whistle mixing with the little boy's happy laughter.

The orc twitched his cheek, shaking off a cloudy tear, and stepped back deeper into the shadows. A group leader shouldn't show his weakness to the team. But he — he used to have a little boy too, of about the same age even. A single father who'd used all his resources and connections to wrestle his child from a neglectful mother too busy enjoying her last pre-menopausal bender. Things like these happen occasionally to women of a certain age.

What had happened next was a gory head-on collision with an SUV that had flown into his lane out of nowhere. It didn't matter why it had happened or whether the SUV's driver had fallen asleep at the wheel or just failed to control it. The worst thing was yet to come. When this mauled stump of a human being finally came round and mouthed, wheezing, the only vital question — "Is my son alright?" the doctors just looked the other way, not knowing what to say.

Normally, you had to go some to knock him off his stride. This still young army colonel had been through hell and high water — whether coming under fire in Islamist regions or defying pressure from the mafia and federal authorities alike. But at the time, he'd given up. He'd lost all purpose. He refused food and medication, tearing the IV drips out of his broken arms with his teeth. And once they had strapped him down to his bed, he kept wailing, helplessly and hopelessly, at the white hospital ceiling. Even the most cynical of nurses cried, covering their ears, while patients took shelter in distant wards. Whatever potted plants they kept on his windowsill wilted and died within twenty-four hours.

The man was fading, slipping away. The doctors shrugged. "He's lost the will to live, as simple as that." Then a young recreation therapist decided to take a risk, both to shake the man out of his tailspin and garner some material for his own thesis. He chose the most colorful of the virtual worlds and lay the man into a FIVR capsule.

The colonel had become one of the first perma players, but no one had ever found out about it. His coma didn't surprise anyone: he'd been living on borrowed time, anyway. The injuries he'd received were enough for three KIAs. The daring doctor, however, had received an official reprimand for his untimely initiative — because his head of department hadn't had enough material for his own thesis.

Finally, Screwyall realized the futility of trying to catch the baby dragon and perched on top of a collapsed column. Immediately the Familiar nosedived, landing on the boy's shoulder, and began preening himself, breathing purple fire at his iridescent scales to scorch out any invisible dust.

Rattling his heavy armor, Fuckyall walked in. He faltered, catching the orc's quizzical glance. "Orcus, I really appreciate you and your men defending this castle. Your baby dragon is a hoot! It's basically a cheater's flame thrower with an endless supply of ammo. But... I'm afraid my war chest is empty. I can't extend your contracts. In three hours' time, we'll have to part ways."

The ex-colonel raised his eyebrows. "But how about you? The castle? Your son, after all?"

Fuckyall gave a tired shrug. "I'll think of something," he said, forcing a grin. "I've applied for a few short-time loans, put my gear up for auction and written to a few people who owe me. No one has replied yet. Still, some of this might work," dark desperation froze in his stare.

Orcus shook his head. "I'm not doing this. I'll stay with you free of charge if necessary. I'm sure if I have a word with the guys, many will do the same. Or at least agree to a deferred payment."

The orc's interface pinged with a new message. That was the squad leader informing his men of a new job immediately after the one in hand, paid out at 150%.

"Shit! We've already been hired!"

Fuckyall's cheek twitched. He forced another smile, "So you see? It wasn't meant to happen. Never mind. Just forget it. As the saying goes, Ours is to do or die!"

Orcus stirred. "Exactly! Listen up, man, it's about time you quit being a lone player. You're always on your own, even in that clan of yours. Look at it my way: you're a cluster's top player with three years in the game and the only friends you've made is a butch healer chick and a Dwarven blacksmith! He's a great craftsman, no doubt about it, and a good friend to boot, seeing as he's here now fighting for you. But what good can he do with his level 70?"

Fuckyall gave the orc a sullen look, listening intently to the sounds of spells being activated outside. Apparently, the enemy alliance was casting mass buffs, preparing for a new attack. "What do you suggest?"

"I suggest you contact Laith. He's quite correct. Besides, he's the First Priest of the Dark Pantheon. And to put it plainly, your castle's inhabitants aren't exactly choir boys! I'm sure Max won't turn his back on you."

Fuckyall squinted, thinking. "Laith, you say? And he's not just the First Priest, either. I think I've seen his name recently on a very interesting list."

Hope glistened in his eyes. He gave Orcus a grateful poke on the shoulder. "Thanks for the tip. I'll think about it."

Orcus' men had to deter two more attacks. In a way, they even enjoyed it. OMON, the Sullen Angels, the Light-Bearers and other enemy alliance members seemed to have finally found some common ground, fighting for a common cause. All of their leaders were tough domineering men who took from life everything they could and didn't bother to look back to check for any casualties caused by their steamroller advance in life.

No, he knew quite a few decent guys even among OMON's ex-police special force members, responsible and — miraculously — even honest and fair in their own way. But those were the exceptions that only proved the proverbial rule. Those unlucky enough to fall into the meat grinder of the Russian police system weren't the only victims of its lawless mentality. Policemen too were broken by the system which rejected those of its members who didn't comply with its warped moral principles.

Which was why the castle defenders were now putting their heart and soul into tripping up their ex-police opponents, cleverly luring the OMON members deep into the labyrinth of castle rooms in order to keep their graves and gear or to expose them to zombies who stripped their enemy of experience and guaranteed a few moments of blind unthinking fury.

Finally, the raid coordinator sent them a message. The contract had been closed; the portal to the next customer was to open in five minutes. They bid Fuckyall a warm goodbye. Everyone in the Russian cluster had a deep respect for this legendary paladin who seemed to have been in the game forever, shining a guiding light on the path of a stubborn loner.

Many had already met his beautiful wife. Okay, so her food preferences were a bit suspect, but she was bringing a lot with her, not to even mention the flame of love that smoldered in her shiny eyes. But most importantly, they'd all met his son. A real living breathing son, a happy and curious little guy who wanted to be just like his father.

As the mercs walked toward the portal, they cast frequent looks behind them, thoughtfully touching their chins. Once again Fuckyall had been a trailblazing pioneer showing them a new path.

A stocky dwarf, once a plain trucker and now a perma merc two years into the game, was racking his memory making a mental list of the contents of his treasury. Which gift would be worthy of the buxom landlady of the two-story tavern at the Main Underground Square? That was one well-endowed lady and not entirely indifferent to him, either. To say nothing of the tavern itself which was a tasty morsel indeed. It could buy you a lifestyle of indulgence and luxury. And the fact that the said Dwarven lady was indeed an NPC — well, maybe it was even for the better. That's settled, then! The moment he was back from the raid, he'd go running to see Bodylicious. God forbid some smartass would beat him to it and make advances to his promising catch.

The nerdy ranger who'd celebrated his sixteenth birthday in virtual reality by punching an aggressor back for the first time in his life and receiving his scalp for a trophy, had now resolved to go perma. Before, the prospects of a solitary life scared him — as he inevitably blushed, tongue-tied, unable to muster enough courage to approach a living girl even if she was a fellow player. But he could spend hours talking to the charming little Laoelle, a smiley NPC from Help an Elfa to Pick Some Berries, a noob quest that he kept doing even though it gave him no xp anymore, filling her basket unthinkingly time and time again just to be able to secretly admire her profile. That's settled, then! Tomorrow he was going to install the jailbreak chip and the hacked control crystal for his FIVR capsule. Bye, Mom. Not that you're gonna notice: you're too busy enjoying a resort break with your umpteenth boyfriend. You have your own life. I'm going to have mine, too — with Laoelle, the youngest daughter of the North Gate guards captain.

When the portal jump delivered the mercs right into the OMON alliance's camp, the mercs weren't amused. Orcus was the loudest to protest, to the silent support of his four men who lined up behind his back.

"WTF? We didn't sign up for this shit!"

The guild's harried coordinator only sneered at him, busy barking back at the crowd of angry soldiers speaking all at once. "Yes, you did! At the time, all of you surrendered your signatory rights to the squad's manager. And he's done his best for you! A 150% wage and a hefty bonus on the castle's surrender. And a separate head hunter bonus to those who capture Fuckyall and Dana!"

Orcus' face darkened. He lunged at the coordinator who shrank back. "You can stuff your bonus where the sun don't shine! I cancel my contract as unethical. It's not correct to my previous employer and is against the Mercenary Code of Honor."

The air around him rang with approval. The job was rigged, you could see that. They didn't pay you 150% just for the fun of it.

"It may not be correct but it's perfectly legal! And your Code is nothing more than a recommended list of optional rules! I don't think you remember Clause 7 of the contract, do you? The order has to be obeyed before being challenged. You think you're prepared to part with your badge? And lose your hundred-grand enrolment fee? Oh, sorry, you chose the Silver subscription option, didn't you, which gave you the right to commanding posts and raid dividends. A quarter of a million, you think you can gamble that? I won't even need to call the Captains Council. All I need to do is file an official complaint with the relevant logs attached!"

Orcus ground his teeth. The coordinator knew all his weak points. The orc hadn't yet paid off the loan he'd taken out for his badge with his elite gear as security. This way they could take him to the cleaners, just like that bitch of his ex-wife had.

The orc's heavy professional glare of a major-crimes investigator pinned the coordinator down. "You shouldn't have cornered me, buddy. This conversation isn't over yet."

Then he raised his voice, speaking to no one in particular, "I remember a New Year's night in 2032 when I happened to fly from Sheremetyevo Airport..."

The mercs that crowded around them beamed with understanding: Italian strike! That's when workers technically turn up for work but go about their jobs demonstratively slowly, taking half an hour to screen a passenger's bag or twenty minutes to change a light bulb, thus sabotaging and paralyzing their entire respective production lines.

Not everyone cared for the ethical side of the matter, but it offered everybody else the legal opportunity to play truant. Granted, it resulted in a brief note to Orcus' personal file,
Untrustworthy. Remove from the Guild at the first opportunity.

* * *

I looked at the thousands of sentients, their ranks swelling, ready to lock in mortal combat at the sound of a twig breaking underfoot. A layered cake of NPCs, mercs and two alliances. Did I really need it? I could very well see where the situation was going from here: each side would call in reinforcements, getting their friends involved, widening the conflict zone, while some greedy third parties jumped at the chance to attack the two opponents' underprotected castles.

And then what? The Second Cluster War followed by a major redistribution of property and rankings? Would that save the First Temple from the upcoming siege? Possibly. But whether I'd be able to get my allies together again — or whoever would have braved the murky waters of a new Civil war — now
that
remained to be seen. No. We weren't strong enough to tackle any action of this caliber yet. Besides, a stupid wall-to-wall fist fight wasn't our style of choice. We had to act with surgical precision, only turning to a dumb mass battle when everything else failed.

Well, we'd shown them what we were made of. We had stood up for our friends and commanded due respect in the process. As far as I was concerned, all the objectives had been ticked. Time to fold up this show.

I looked around me in search of a soapbox. My gaze chanced upon a battle golem looming over the crowds. I dug my heels into Hummungus' sides, urging him toward the enormous machine. Standing up in the saddle cowboy style, I reached over to the golem driver.