The War (Play to Live: Book #6) (23 page)

We had pushed ourselves to the limit, and now when it was time to recover, our blood was still boiling. To calm us down, our clan clerics recommended ten fluid ounces of Dwarven Extra Dry, intense sex as physical therapy, and quality sleep – the longer, the better.

I continued giving orders to my clan officials: "Mandatory conference in half an hour. All chief officers and department heads are to attend. All right, let’s go! The royal guard’s respawning, and we don’t have the resources to engage in any more stupid massacres."

Chapter Thirteen

M
oscow. Konkovo IAD call center.

First lieutenant Mansurov was blatantly breaking the rules. Looking to spice up the night watch routine, he was playing high-speed 3D chess. The lieutenant dreamed to become an investigator and spent every free minute he had training his mind.

He cussed when the control panel gave a signal and distracted him, making him forget the steps of his fourteen-move attack on the right flank which he had so carefully planned out.

The officer answered the call and said as usual: "Konkovo IAD, first lieutenant Mansurov speaking."

The female voice on the phone was so loud and hysterical that he moved the receiver away from his ear. After hearing her out, he clarified: "Someone’s trying to break in? Zombies? Like in the movies, you say? All right, we’ll handle it…I’m ID’ing your line and getting your coordinates. Putting your phone in beacon mode. Forced camera activation: recording transmission on a remote server. Expect a police detail. Estimated arrival time: four minutes."

After hanging up, the lieutenant made sure that the closest Patrol Guard Service unit was on its way. Then he wondered whether he should call a doctor. The woman was clearly intoxicated and had probably played too much virtual video games or just watched one of those highly detailed 3D horror movies that easily upset the more delicate psyches.

Another call. The officer picked up, listened to the incoherent speech, and lost his professional imperturbability. Trying hard not to sound ironic, he prompted with delight: "What was that now? White rabbits are falling from the sky, getting smashed to smithereens, and the kids are scared? Very interesting! Let me transfer you to the EMERCOM
hot line. Animal rescue is their job."

Having transferred the town lunatic to the partner company, the officer grinned and hung up. The next instant, he got another call. Mansurov frowned and looked at the cubicles of his fellow officers. He thought they were all on break since he was getting all the calls. But it turned out that they were all answering calls too. Some of them looked tense.

The officer was stunned when he looked up at the indicator board. "Available operators: 0/6. Incoming calls: 79… 117… 153… 211…"

My staff were the first to dive into the portal right after the battlefield security detachment who went in with their swords at the ready. The naval principle about the captain being the last to leave the ship didn’t work well in AlterWorld. It was unwise to risk the brains and heart of the clan.

We were painfully short on safe locations. Even the Alliance army’s field camp wasn’t safe from enemy portals which could open any second and disgorge an assault team of several hundred.

I had no idea how to handle this threat at the time. When I asked others for help, the analysts went silent, the wizards looked away, the ritualists drafted insanely complex pentagrams, and the alchemists demanded rare ingerdients. I was on my own, as always…

I considered altering the landscape, digging pitfall traps around the tents with poisoned stakes on the bottom. Sowing chaos in the astral world, making bloody sacrifices and mixing up spatial coordinates. Collecting all the divine relics and lugging them around in a reliquary.
Come on, brain, think!
I’ll buy you a crown if you do!

The city we left behind groaned and sobbed. The air was frozen due to lack of magic. The numerous fires sent smoke into the sky. The wind tossed abandoned belongings around. NPCs wandered the streets in confusion, stripped of the governing scripts. Some tried to go about their usual business, inviting the rare passers-by into their conflagrant, ransacked restaurants, while others were thoughtlessly sweeping the pavement.

The perfectly-clean sections at the heart of the destroyed city were even more frightening to look at than a giant spider crawling by with its thirty-foot-long entrials dragging behind it.

Bang!
A portal appeared with a loud clap, and the warriors were greeted with the familiar scent of the Valley as they finally returned home.

Pop!
Clank!
Click!
I could almost hear the safety catches get switched off on every man’s will. The warriors were like springs that had been wound too tight for too long.

My knees grew weak as exhaustion finally made itself known. Stepping to the side with effort, I tumbled into the soft elven imitation grass, glad to be off the dusty tiles of transfer zones.

The logistics officers bustled around me as well as low-level relatives and the gorgeous girls from the House of Pleasures. The warriors felt safe at last, and their self-restraint instantly waned. They let themselves be taken by the hands and led away into homes, pubs and bedrooms.

The round-bellied Bomba hugged Snowie whose shoulders had gotten broader. Reeling under the weight of their loot, the majestic couple slowly headed home.

It wouldn’t be long before we would see spotted little trolls amidst the noisy human children. And judging by all those mysterious-looking women of the Alliance who had become frequent visitors of Bomba’s, we could very probably expect to see stocky dwarf kids, tiny goblins and all sorts of large-toothed orc cubs. And I should probably mention that we had lots of mixed couples, and the elf-human combo was definitely not the most exotic.

Astra, the former mercenary, caught my attention. She was an avid collector of blood vials. Like Zena, she was one of the first to join the Children of the Night. Although she had also won a questionable right to receive priority in choosing vials during all of the clan’s raids.

Her strategy had proven highly efficient; her collection was nearing the full set status. Eighty-seven vials, the cluster’s best set.

Right now I saw Astra in her lacy silk undies. She was hissing like an angry snake and kicking a tiny bundle which consisted of thin strings, a few mithril scales and a handful of shiny imitation enchanted stones.

I looked at the bundle’s info:

Night Princess Armor. Class: Epic. Durability: 19/200. Weight: 0.22 lbs.

Race restrictions: humans and elves only.

Sex restrictions: females only.

Level restrictions: 200+.

Class restrictions: warriors, paladins and death knights only.

Religious restrictions: darksiders only.

Effect 1: +600 armor, +50 agility, +50 strength.

Effect 2: regeneration speed triples at night.

Effect 3: "Desired." Popularity with males increased by a random number. Possibility of spontaneous gifts, fighting on the side of the armor’s owner, activation of hidden dialogues and new storylines.

Effect 4: "Vile Envy." The splendor of the precious stones evokes strong antipathy in other females. She who owns this armor must be prepared for low, mean tricks, including poisonous spit in her Guest Beverage.

I chuckled. It was a solid piece despite its downsides. Why would she kick it like that? "Astra, quit vandalizing the artifact, its durability is almost at zero. What’s with the ferocious behavior anyway? The armor chafed your shoulders?"

The warriors sprawled out on the grass tried not to laugh. The mercenary had quite a temper, and very few would risk laughing at her in her face. But
armor
was too strong a word for her revealing cobweb-like designer getup. A thin silk string ran between her tanned glutes. A triangle-shaped mithril plate the size of an open palm was the only thing covering her privates. A harness of chains made from precious metals twined around her flat, seductive belly. Her high breasts swayed provocatively, protected only by two patches, each one just a little larger than a coin.

She was hot as hell on the outside. Had awesome stats too, although probably invalid ones. In short, she was the dream woman of a first-line tank. Good thing the guys couldn’t wear these, or we’d all be tempted to slip them on for those extra 600 armor points.
Ugh, away, monstrous thoughts! May the Fallen One never let us look like Eurovision’s Minister of Cultural Affairs, Conchita Wurst!

Astra was spent anyway. She kicked the poor piece of armor one last time, then collapsed on the dusty tiles. The single guys sighed in unison. They all wished to turn into the cold granite tiles on which the unapproachable she-elf had placed her velvety behind. Whom she was saving herself for and who she was in the real world – no one knew.

The ex-mercenary gave a sob, wiped the tears of rage away with her silk harness and, offended at the whole world, started to complain: "Sir, what the hell’s going on? I have died twenty-seven times today! This goddamn epic artifact costs as much as the wing of a Boeing, yet it let 96 percent of damage come through! Without even the slightest effort to block it! I have suffered more crits and injuries than I can count. I had all of my bones broken, and none of my joints work right anymore. They made mincemeat of me. A thousand scars on the Fairest One’s face! I got a crossbow bolt in my appendix!"

I raised a brow and looked at the Analyst who stood next to me. The prince of the mysterious House of Shadow, aka Andrew or Siam, nodded and explained: "The information processing department is swamped with work, but we’ve received the preliminary confirmation of this phenomenon. Things are looking pretty good; the average damage resistance among the warriors of the Alliance dropped by only 18 percent. As they say, the devil's in the detail. But once we sort the data by sex, we get some interesting statistics. Any damage the males of the clan receive gets reduced by almost a third, while the ladies have it really rough. Our feminists got about 400 percent damage each. We don’t know what caused this just yet…"

"Ahem," a warrior sitting nearby cleared his throat, trying to get our attention but not daring to intrude in the conversation of clan authorities.

I gave him an inquisitive look. The soldier nodded at the bundle of silk in Astra’s hands, then at the guard warriors clad in so much heavy armor that you could barely see their eyes.

I didn’t follow at first, but almost smacked myself on the forehead when I did.
Of course! It’s very simple. You just have to put aside the dry math formulas for a second and look around.

I sighed and insistantly held put out my hand, gesturing at the epic artifact. The girl hesitated for a second; after all, this garment cost a 140,000 gold. But then she spat and handed me the armor that had badly let her down.

I examined the tiny patches of the armor-bra in my palm – the fruit of a designer AI’s fantasy. Although its structure was completely idiotic, it wasn’t just random. Its design was based on the diligently measured hormone levels of teens, which was determined by how little the bra covered. It was no wonder that the final garment looked rather indecent.

I was too self-conscious to finger the armor’s thong. But its design process was the same; show the target audience different 4D models, see what makes them drool the most, then go with the best results. Because of this, the girls of virtual worlds suffer, wrapping themselves up in tulle veils during snowstorms and facing the mountain giants’ clubs in nothing but silk.

Back in the game world, the system didn’t make any sense, yet the armor worked. But now, the physics of this new world vindictively gave us the finger and shrugged:
Sorry, no deal.

Having examined the mithril harness, I said, "You know, Astra, why don’t I guess what percent of your gorgeous body is really covered in armor? How much damage came through? Ninety-six percent, you say? Do the math, and you’ll know the overall dimensions of these purple patches."

Studying the rest of the she-warrior’s outfit, I nodded with content: "So I’m guessing that gold diadem you’re wearing is like a helmet, and these Greek-style sandals with thin calf lacing are your armored boots?"

Astra already knew what I was getting at, and her eyes filled with tears.

I dealt the final blow: "Of course, as a first line tank, you desperately need all this armor."

The warrior jerked up her head: "So what do I do?"

"Sell it asap. Get normal Gothic armor with full body coverage if you want incoming damage
decreased
by 40 percent instead of
increased
by 300. By the way," I turned to the Analyst, "make this a clan-wide order. Put out a private message; get rid of these fantasy laces and buy full-plate knight armor. We’ll share this knowledge with the Alliance in 24 hours.”

Astra clutched her head and whispered: "Six hundred thousand for the gear, daddy’s Cruiser, mom’s diamonds…All for nothing…"

I passed my hand over her hair, trying to comfort her. The warriors on the grass all gave a jealous sigh.

I whipped my hand back; the she-elf was filled with evil hormones. I cleared my throat and said in a formal tone: "Reminder, all senior officers are to report to the meeting in…seven minutes. Everyone else at ease!"

Everyone walked away sluggishly. I rose, then quickly sat back down again, not wanting to draw attention. I saw the blue ears of the ex-hermit Grym flicker behind the nicely trimmed shrubs. The annoying chronicler was rushing to the portal area, driven by the fervent desire to do his duty to our progeny.