The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) (5 page)

It took me some time to unearth the contacts of my tame reporter, the one who'd interviewed me for that tobacco alliance article. I PM'd him asking nonchalantly how much they offered for a raid report from the uncharted Frontier lands complete with storming a city peopled by monsters level 200+.

The reporter's thespian abilities had failed him: I sensed his interest straight away which allowed me to talk up my fee to fifteen grand. Excellent. While I was at it, I sent my go-ahead to the Ferrymen agreeing to their conditions and asking for a contract as well as the nearest teleport point and their freshly-minted raid member.

Finally, the mercs. As their VIP customer whose history of orders exceeded a hundred thousand gold, this time I was entitled to all the perks. I contacted perk #1—my personal manager. Even despite the group's sheer size, my demands were simple: I wanted the same guys who'd stood by me that day at the main square in the City of Light. I'd seen them in action, we had some good vibes going, what else could one need? Zena's team was an absolute must, plus Alorrienar, a.k.a. Widowmaker, a.k.a. Alexis, as my junior coordinator.

This time they really made me wait. To make sure their VIP client didn't lose his enthusiasm, they switched me to their guild's info feed. I scanned a good dozen status-tracking windows: current contracts, available teams, their leaders' stats, and the arena fights schedule complete with betting rates. Quite an eye opener. I hadn't even noticed the requested fifteen minutes go past.

Their answer was basically positive. Widowmaker was available and ready to start recruiting the group. Three hundred men at a hundred and fifty grand a day in total plus 10% for the open-ended contract with the option of daily automatic renewal. I had to agree to that because I didn't have the slightest idea when I might need to terminate the contract. It would be a pain to pay for an unneeded two extra days or discover that the contract's expired two hours away from my destination.

They sent in the contract. I signed it digitally, becoming fifteen thousand bucks poorer. The price of a mid-range car. I'd apparently cracked it: I'd love to know whoever was driving my well-used Hyundai I'd flogged just before going perma. How proud I'd been buying it at the time!

My PM pinged. Zena. Now why wasn't I surprised?

Hi chief! Together again, cool. Is it a long job? I got plans for this weekend.

I did a quick bit of math. No way.
You'd better cancel it. Forty-eight hours on the road plus another day doing the job itself. Double it for any emergencies.

Bummer. Never mind. At least it's never a dull moment with you. You didn't forget your promise to fix Bomba up with that well-behaved troll of yours, did you? Hope it wasn't a load of teenage BS under the influence of alcocreams? The gal has feelings too, you know.

Shit! I slapped my virtual forehead. She was right, I'd forgotten all about it! I had my reasons, of course: it wasn't as if I'd spent the last few days on a pleasure cruise, but still.

A man's got to do what a man's got to do. I bid a hasty goodbye explaining that I had to get the raid together.

I made a mental note to pop in at the castle to pick Snowie up before our departure. Let them get to know each other better: there's nothing like problems and hardships on the road to reveal a character. Anyone can don the mask of a charismatic heartbreaker for a two-hour date. Now try to conceal your true self on the march or in action...

PM pinged again. There he was, junior coordinator Widowmaker. I couldn't be happier pressing
Start Chat
.

"Alorrienar, the raid's junior coordinator as per clause 17 of Mercenaries Regulations. Hi Chief!"

"Same here! I'm really happy you were available."

His answer came after a pause. "Honestly, I'd been out on a job. But once I received your message I got this guy who agreed to a swap. He owed me one anyway, so now we're even. Do make it worth my while! The City of Light battle got its own painting in the Guild's Hall of Fame. Our guys had special badges made with a number and the picture of the Bone Dragon. Some jealous motherfuckers call it Bacon Drone, but well, they're always welcome to prove their point in the arena."

"What's with the number?" I was sincerely curious. I could be witness to AlterWorld's first military medal.

Back IRL, I'd had this friend with a decent albeit not exactly legal collection of wartime medals. I didn't remember much about it but now Widowmaker's words brought it all back. My friend had had this German medal, "Die Medaille Winterschlacht im Osten 1941/1942" awarded for the 1941-1942 winter campaign in Russia. The Germans themselves had nicknamed it Deep-Frozen Meat. There had also been a Tank Attack breast badge with a number that signified the number of the attacks. I'd love to know what kind of numbers the mercs had on theirs.

Widowmaker didn't make a secret of it. "Numbers from 0 to 276. Meaning, how fast you croaked. The smaller the number the longer you lasted."

"And what about zero?"

"Zero are those who survived the show. Twenty-four in total, me included."

"Wow. Congrats! Now about it being worth your while. The objective is fifteen hundred miles away. An unexplored area in the heart of the Frontier. The Lost City. You're gonna like it, I promptly remembered the Fallen One's expression."

"Very well, then. Count my lost soul in—where do I need to sign in blood? Actually, I hoped you were putting together an Inferno raid. I saw an interesting auction offer the other day."

I smiled. "A digital signature is enough. We're in the twenty-first century, after all. And as for Inferno—you're still young enough to make it. Very well, then. What's with the group?"

"61% of your old party have confirmed their availability. I expect that number to rise another 10 to 20% in the next half-hour. The others are contracted out. Groups will muster within four hours. Will be ready to teleport to your chosen point by o-sixteen hundred. Are you going to port us there yourself or will you have the Ferrymen do it?"

"I will. We'll have their representative with us as well as the media. I'm about to switch them over to you for further coordination."

"Accepted. I define the assignment angle as a farm raid. Lots of loot and dead mobs, correct?"

I paused thinking, then nodded, "You could say that."

"I see. Need any mules?"

"Which means?"

"Which means the loot is all yours but it doesn't mean that my mercs have to lug it. Fifty pounds per person is all you can count on. This you'll reach in the first twenty-four hours, and then what?"

"Then... the mules?"

"Exactly. It's a guild of sorts that offers services by some chars with a very peculiar leveling pattern. Strength maxed out, a bag for a thousand slots, an empty PK counter plus lots of gear and artifacts that work two ways: to increase strength and reduce the carried item's weight. Each one of those guys can easily carry two or three tons. It's a bit like a removal man grabbing a baby grand under each arm, then taking the stairs to the sixteenth floor."

"Wow. How many will we need?"

"Five at least. I can contact them myself if you wish. We have to hire them often."

"Goodie goodie. What else?"

"One last thing," he pointed out. "Are we taking a treasurer?"

"A treasurer? What for?"

"You have any idea how much money a group of three hundred swords would farm in five days? Hundreds of thousands in gold normally. The weight isn't the problem—PKs are. Even with an empty counter, a PK still gets all your cash. Enter the Treasurers. Very special guys with the sole task of surviving with your gold intact. Crazy amounts of hits—some say 30,000, others 50,000—plus passive and active shields, excellent resistance to magic and some very fast portals. In combat they're as useless as a chocolate teapot, but their survival skills are beyond all definition. Also, they offer insurance on your money so in case of loss you're paid back in full. Not that I've heard about them ever having to do so."

"Jesus. Whatever do people do these days to earn a living."

"That's the free market for you. Supply and demand. Probably invented by some smartshit who had to choose between either earning a hundred bucks a month by doing some low level farming or investing a couple of years' worth of his time and money into leveling his char and joining the mercs for one grand a month. Alternatively, he had to find his own way. He tried offering his services and turned out, he was in high demand. So they can afford to charge much higher rates than your regular top merc."

"How so?" my inner greedy pig voiced his indignation.

"You guess. Mercs and other warriors basically just have fun playing. While his is a boring daily drudge in the guise of a very lacking character. You pay for the discomfort inflicted."

"I see. Very well, then: five mules and a storage vault—I mean a Treasurer."

"Roger that. I'm done, then. We'll be waiting for you about o-fifteen hundred in assembly hall three."

"OK. See you there."

Squinting, I closed all the windows. I was as tired as a one-armed paper hanger. I squeezed my fatigued eyes shut—and when I opened them again, I discovered a hound puppy sleeping on my lap. I also heard a rustle in the grass by the Fallen One's throne. Trying not to wake the pooch, I craned my neck, squinting in the general direction of the noise. Seeing what was going on, I jumped up, indignant.

"Give it back, you bastard! This is mine!"

The wretched White Winnie grinned, revealing a mouthful of precious divine crystals. He reached into the grass, picked up another one, shoved it inside his cheek and disappeared with a pop, direction unknown.

I dropped to my knees, rummaging through the fragile grass. Nothing. Every single crystal was gone, snatched by the wretched animal!

A tiny mite of a girl climbed out of the sandbox and tottered over to me, attracted by the noise. She looked at my distraught face. "Is it @#$%#?"

"What do you think?" I forced myself to say.

Chapter Four

E
xcerpt from classified correspondence sent via the AlterWorld internal corporate network

To: Chairman of the Board

From: Head of Security

They've done it, Sir! Our hand-fed Congressmen have just leaked us some information—independently from each other, mind you—about Congress' decision to nationalize AlterWorld and turn it into state property subject to governmental control. It's been done under the pretext of taking care of the digitalized nationals' safety in light of newly revealed facts on virtual violence, slavery and financial crimes. We'll be made the scape goat, Sir, regardless of whether the goat has been long dead or is still alive and bleating!

I'm still not sure of the true reasons behind it but I have a funny feeling that the NSA's geeks are on to something. Project Arizona 6's budget (that's the project dealing with virtual reality and perma effect research) has been increased sixteenfold! There's some unhealthy activity reported in the White House—not only the NSA people but also some of the leading bankers and Federal Reserve workers. In view of all this, information about a large guarded convoy apparently sent by the NSA from Arizona 6 directly to Fort Knox sounds quite believable. Unfortunately, the op's top security levels didn't allow us to root out anything on the convoy's cargo or destination but judging by the way their armored vehicles were down on their axles with their load, whatever they carried wasn't virtual gold or gaming artifacts.

We have less than a week, Sir, to react to this. The nationalization decision has already cleared government and been transmitted to their security forces. Please advise.

To: Head to Security

From: Chairman of the AlterWorld Corporation Board

Well done, Rick. I've double-checked the information and it looks like you're right. With this, I give you my permission to engage the Vault 13 scenario. All we need to do now is play for time. You can't expect a thousand individuals on the Ark List to enter FIVR capsules simultaneously and inconspicuously—especially considering the fact that the Omega perma installation is still in its final testing phase. We need three weeks, Rick—and you are going to give them to us. Don't forget that your family are ##211-217 on the list too and about to leave with the first group that's due the day after tomorrow.

In order to do that, I authorize you to initiate the following procedures of Judgment Day protocol:

Leak the greater mass of our compromising files to the media. Let them skin our politicians alive.

Initiate a series of scandals by framing certain Congressmen as well as the individuals on my personal black list. Use all the previously discussed scenarios: drugs, underage boys, arms with filed serial numbers—and don't be afraid to engage our people in the media and the police force all the way to the top. Time to play our trump cards. This is our last stand.

If push comes to shove, you'll have to activate the 09/11 scenario. Once the sky turns black with the soot from burning skyscrapers, the government will have more important things to worry about.

And most importantly, Rick—don't worry about a thing, just make sure you do everything we agreed upon. Remember everything you can look forward to now: immortality, your own castle, and complete impunity.

As per protocol, I am to leave tomorrow with the bulk of top management, replacing ourselves with our lookalikes: physical as well as virtual. You are to go digital with the last security group via the Omega installation which should be fully functional by then. Even if you have to fight your way into it, that's not a problem. The installation is completely self-sufficient and it would take them weeks to battle their way in through a hundred feet of reinforced concrete followed by two miles of caves stuffed with various automatic response systems. By then, everyone who is supposed to get to AlterWorld will already be there. On the fifteenth day, the op-controlling AI will activate the detonator blowing up all twelve hundred capsules. God be with us!

* * *

I scrambled back to my feet and brushed the earth and grass off my knees. Sniffing indignantly, I dropped onto the divine seat. Fury seethed inside me, my inner greedy pig whistling quietly like some ethereal boiling kettle. Divine blood of a High God, snatched from under my very nose!

I went as far as filling in a search form:
how to get rid of White Winnie, trap White Winnie
, before I realized the sheer ridiculousness of it. I waved my hand at the mallorn tree—which creaked indignantly—and went back to my work.

What was that thing that kept spinning in the back of my head? Which of today's tasks hadn't I actioned yet? I went through my mental to-do list. The maps! That was it. I still hadn't bought them.

I almost felt sick as I opened the auction window for the umpteenth time, looking for the vendor I needed. I marked the nearest teleport point as the starting location, then made a query for the maps covering the remaining two hundred and fifty miles. The vendor paused, deep in calculation, then woke up and promptly presented me with a bill. Twenty-one thousand gold. A predictably large sum even though there was no question whether to pay it or not: information equaled money these days. Which was something I knew better than anyone after having sold the coordinates of my Gigantic Fly Trap field to the Vets for one million gold.

Now it was well and truly over. I still had three hours before I had to join the mercs. I could use the time to do something useful.

Having said that... should I go and see Grym? I really shouldn't leave the old fox to his own devices—what with him being the Fallen One's faithful follower and all that. Besides, I had a warm nostalgic feeling for the old boy. He was sort of my Yoda—the teacher who helped me open my eyes and eased me into this world. That was it. I had to go and get him.

One problem, though. How was I supposed to get to the City of Light? Recently, I'd been exercising triple paranoia mode and everyone who even hinted that I change my bind point was going to get a pre-emptive shot in the head. I had set up the bind point in my apartment, in the very heart of my domain. My priest skills didn't offer much choice, either: the only place they could teleport me to was the Altar of the First Temple. Apart from that, I was pretty much incommunicado. I could, of course, use the wizards' teleporting services... having said that, how about using scrolls instead? Naturally, being a mage I realized full well they were but crutches for someone devoid of magic skills—but if the truth were known, it was all BS: scrolls were an excellent and very convenient tool provided you could pay. And, glory be to the Fallen One, I could still afford to spend a few gold.

With a suppressed growl, I restarted the auction console. I just couldn't look at it any more. A quick search offered a plethora of results. Regular scrolls taking you to the main square of a capital city cost about fifty gold—a common choice for various warriors, rogues and other magic-challenged individuals. Prices rose depending on a scroll's level, rarity and distance to the target location, my Portal to Inferno predictably topping the sales.

I gave it a knowing smile and, whispering
come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,
began to buy up basic portals, filling my shopping basket with a fat stack of about two hundred sheets. I clicked
Pay Now
, feeling my bag waver under my order's combined weight.

Gotcha! I produced a hefty heap of parchments the size of an encyclopedic dictionary and began leafing through them until I found the one I needed. A portal to the City of Light, cast time 8 sec, longer than usual, but what did you want from a scroll? At least it didn't take any mana and, most importantly, anyone could use it.

I was just about to break the seal and activate the spell when I realized my error. The City of Light was the capital of High Elves whose faction relationship with me had been reduced to pure and simple hatred. Meeting me would be a gift of Fortune for any of their guards or players: their treasury paid good money for an enemy's personal badge.

At the end of the day, that wasn't a problem, really: the Shadow of the Fallen One that I'd got among other freebie skills with my priestly title could conceal me for an hour from any prying eyes. It wasn't invisibility but rather like a merc's nameless status in his or her contract: the absolute absence of any data regarding my name, clan or any faction affiliation. Certain artifacts could provide a similar effect—I could remember at least one particular high-level rogue skill branch that did exactly that.

No, that wasn't the problem. The thing was, every game had plenty of curious, idle or stupid players hoping for a jackpot by assaulting these kinds of anonymous chars. As in,
he sure must have something to hide
! It's similar to taking a stroll on the sidewalk after the rain in a pure white suit. You could bet a hundred gold against a bent nickel that in less than five minutes, some asshole driver would step on the gas aquaplaning into the puddles: just because he could.

And I really, really didn't feel like dying at the moment. I shuddered remembering Lloth, her citadel and my Respectful Position of Ultimate Humiliation. Mechanically I massaged my shoulders. Sorry, guys. No way was I going to visit my Elven brethren without an escort of bodyguards.

Now who could I take with me on a serious op like that? Should I just hire a platoon of the available Temple or Castle guards? They did have the free movement option even though it doubled the costs. Also, I'd personally activated free movement for a couple of chosen individuals, namely Snowie and Harlequin. And if money was no object, I could summon a level 400+ Cerberus and just teleport to the main square: like, fancy taking on my mutt? Then again, I was sure there'd be those who'd want to try him out for size and Cerberus wasn't superpooch, especially not on his own. A couple of hundred city guards could do him. The whole op would cost me six grand plus knowing that I'd stripped the Temple of security for at least twenty-four hours. No, the Lands of Light weren't the place to take my Knights Templar to: they'd be aggroed before I knew it.

Actually, what if I took a couple hundred orcs or Drow archers? I made a quick calculation: a status report showed a warrior's average level as 170, hire costs: five hundred gold a day. A Temple guard of the same characteristics would have cost me 340 gold which was cheaper but so were his skills. It wasn't even the fact that they lacked initiative, intellect or cunning—no, the truth was they didn't respawn and died a natural and very vulgar real death. If your objective is defending castle walls, then you do need devoted soldiers three times cheaper than regular mercs. But on a complex raid, this kind of folk just didn't pay for themselves. You needed different tools there.

Should I turn to the Vets, maybe? Hire Lt. Brown and his men? Doable, but wasn't I already tired of constantly pestering them for this or that? What respect, what independence could I talk about then? I didn't want to forever remain their little brother in constant need of care and supervision. So I dismissed this option, too.

My inbox pinged, distracting me from my calculations. Judging by the message tone, it was somebody from my friends list: the bulk of the messages dropped in silently, patiently waiting their turn.

I opened it. Zena, impatient and twice as ugly!

"Chief, we're ready! My ladies are choking on their alcocreams as they wait. One cowardly troll girl is all shaking waiting for the Prince Charming you've promised her. And whenever she's nervous, she eats for three of us! I'm afraid, in less than an hour she'll be stuffed senseless. Wonder if you could step up on the promised siring date?"

Talk of the devil! "Zena, my beautiful green beast, you're just the person I need! Please drop your alcosweets and jump to the main square of the City of Light. I've got a job for you, escorting my bones to the local woods. Just please don't get offended: insulting your sensibilities isn't on the cards..."

"What if it is? Provided your stamina is up to it. We're weak virtual maidens starved without a strong male hand..."

"Zena!"

"All right, all right. Bring your troll round!"

"Later. He can't show his face in the Lands of Light. Very well, get going. I'll be there in 5 mins."

I closed the chat, rose from the divine seat and activated the castle artifact. "Lurch, what's Snowie doing? Think you can find him? He's a great guy, shame he can't read. I only found out because he doesn't read my messages."

Actually, Snowie the troll was anything but stupid. On the contrary: he was a smart and curious individual with a virtually absolute memory. Our Lena in her eternal kindness had once tried to teach him some math, drawing digits with a stick in the sand. Much to everyone's surprise, the troll learned the lesson brilliantly and since then used every opportunity to poke his fat fingers at whatever numbers he came across, announcing their value with pride in his thunderous voice. The magic of knowledge!

"I know everything that takes place within these walls," Lurch announced, then decided to downplay his bragging, "Or almost everything. As for the club-footed albino, he's trudging toward the Temple's main entrance even as we speak. You'll probably see him in a minute."

I didn't have time to pose the question about to spill from my lips when I heard a screeching sound approach. The white troll's massive bulk loomed into our field of vision. I'm saying "our" as even the Fallen One and Macaria who had the whole time been sitting on their Temple steps cooing about whatever personal matters they had going, raised their heads to stare at the spectacle.