The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) Page 10

  Oksana ended her story with an embarrassed sniffle. She brushed a tear from her cheek and looked around at us, hopeful. "Guys, you think you could help?"

  I peered into the faces of the mercs sitting around the fire. Pursed lips, gritted teeth, eyes squinted in silent fury. I had a funny feeling that if I said no to the poor prisoner, the entire group would terminate their contracts, fling their cancellation charges in my face and rush off to administer justice. Their determination didn't upset me. I was in total agreement with them on that one: we couldn't let an evil of this caliber go unpunished.

  I nodded. "We can and we will."

  Lots of things had contributed to that decision: the girl's tears, her frantic call to arms and the sacred duty of the strong to stand up for the weak. But basically, it was my absolute rejection of this new reality that a lot of people seemed to be bent on building around them. Slavery, violence, the helplessness of some vs. the all-pervading permissiveness of others. That sounded like a universal formula for today's society, dammit! Just look around you and you'll see that all those closest to you have already suffered in the clutches of that crazy equation.

  Taali and her sister, ground to pulp by the grindstone of the so-called legal system. Lena who'd lost her identity during the Cats' brain kill session; her parents, shown to the door by both the police and city authorities; Cryl who'd gone through his own personal hell... all of them but grains of sand in the system's gear wheels.

  A society of equals was but a pipe dream, of course. But the society of the rightless was a looming threat. I didn't think I knew the solution to it, my mind apparently too weak to advise. But I had another advisor: my conscience. I had to take justice into my own hands. I had to do what my heart told me to. Not obeying some superior's command or a phone call from a self-indulgent authority, nor accepting the offer of a bribe or worrying that "this wasn't the way to do these things"—no, I had to do this based on my own idea of justice.

  "How many people in the castle?" I asked Oksana who sat there casting a cautiously hopeful stare at my men, still disbelieving that this horde of burly males and soldierlike females could drop their own agendas at a minute's notice in order to rush to her help, saving her friends and punishing their torturers.

  It was about to happen, she'd better believe it. This was the right way to do these things. People of our cluster don't leave their own behind in a battle.

  She wrinkled her funny little nose and began mouthing calculations. "Not many!" she finally said. "The castle is tiny. Nine hundred men, a thousand max. Only," she studied the mercs, "there're not so many of you, are there? How are you going to-"

  Her eyelashes quivered as she bit a desperate lip. In the silence that followed I could hear one of the sergeants chuckle. Another voice spoke, remembering an old Russian joke,

  "The Chinese were leaking across the border in small groups of a hundred thousand each."

  The girl hurried, wringing her fingers, desperate not to lose hope, "I mean a thousand in total. That's what the cooks in the kitchen say. Only few of them soldiers. These Chinese gangsters don't allow many into their elite. Their castle is more like an underground sweatshop outside of the cluster's boundaries, as well as the rangers' and hunters' station. Three hundred crafters sit in the cellar and never see the light of day. The farm teams are all sent out to dungeons in the morning. Then there's the staff: a lot of them, in fact, as all those get-rich-quick bastards demand a lot of attention: complex rituals, grooming, all that. Every warrior has his personal slave, a girl normally. The total number of soldiers has to be about two hundred, plus slave drivers and commanders of all levels, not to mention other big wigs."

  I nodded. "Slow down, girl. We aren't taking our words back. We can even find some extra force if needed. But what you've just said makes us hope we can manage on our own. What do you think, Widowmaker? Isn't your name Alexis too? Shall we all go and sort out the bad guys? Want us to save your namesake?"

  His fingers fiddled with a cigarette. Then he flicked it into the fire, watching the sparkling tracer arc through the air. "We'll manage," he nodded. "Not now, of course. In the morning when the others are back. Think you could spare a Dome Shield Removal scroll?"

  Even without checking the cooldown timer I knew that the skill was already activated: the field conditions didn't allow me to transfer the spell to a scroll. "I might."

  Widowmaker flashed a promising smile. "That's it, then! Shame we can't storm the castle at night. The others won't be back before o-eight hundred."

  "It's probably for the better," Oksana offered. "By eight o'clock, there're not so many people left in the castle. The gangsters get up early and leave on whatever business they have. The slaves are sent out to the dungeons at five..."

  I hummed my understanding. Sure we were the toughest thing since mithril jockstraps, and still it felt a bit iffy storming a thousand-strong castle. We had to make sure we didn't botch it. Hundreds of lives were at stake.

  I turned back to the girl who was desperately fighting off fatigue. "You know how to forward maps? I'll explain it to you in a minute. I need all your locations, all the places where you've ever been to: dungeons, castles, transit bases. Compress it and email it all to me. Somebody give her some coffee before she drops face down into the fire."

  "Can I have a copy, too?" Widowmaker asked, his voice unsure.

  I cast him a long look. He knew of course his request was out of his brief. The information of new unknown locations and hidden farm zones cost a lot—enough for an inquisitive mind to eek a decent profit out of it.

  And still, I couldn't hope to plan a half-decent op without his experience. Besides, I just didn't want to hurt his feelings with any mistrust. Widowmaker was my brother in arms—and a potential ally. "Sure."

  So began the drudgery of staff work. Oksana was showered with questions as we worked out the castle layout, the types of characters engaged, the teams' alarm response actions, the slaves' bind points and their respective degrees of loyalty to mention but a few. Two hours later, the stealth group escorting our wizard disappeared into the night. They had to divert sixty miles off the planned route in order to set up a portal beacon as close to the castle walls as possible. That way we could save a whole lot of time, attacking the enemy first thing in the morning without the additional hassle of a hike across the desert.

  Bagheera purred, protracting his claws in anticipation of a good scuffle. Our dedicated reporter was beaming with enthusiasm as he tapped away on his virtual keyboard—apparently inspired by the prospect of a sensational exclusive. I had to make sure he didn't leak any unnecessary strategic or personal information like names, coordinates or tactical groundwork.

  It was four in the morning. Oksana was already fast asleep, sniffling quietly as she fearlessly cuddled up to Bagheera's warm flanks. The animal cast surprised looks at both of us, as in, Who's that now, Master? Mind if I growl in her ear? The troops had already hit the sack too; the sergeants had checked up on the sentry pickets and went to their tents hoping to throw a few Zs before the battle. Time for us to do the same. It promised to be one hell of a day, and a brain is a weapon just like any other, so you had to keep it honed and rested. I announced the end of the planning session that seemed to be dragging out too long and deep, and ordered lights-out.

  I was awakened by the hum of human crowds, the clangor of steel and a trembling of feline flesh under my head. I prized my eyes open. Oksana was crouching next to Bagheera, feeding him some leftover bits of meat.

  "Oh," she squeaked discovering the powerful raid leader awake and looking at her. "We were all having breakfast while he was watching us with such hungry eyes! He probably didn't want to disturb you so he didn't go out hunting. Am I right?"

  I sat up and shook the remaining sleep from my head. Then I patted the panther's neck as he glanced at me guiltily. "Possible."

  I kept wondering why Bagheera had not just gone perma—he'd actually come back to life, turning from a zombie into a very real
animal. There he was, scoffing meat like there was no tomorrow. It was definitely worth giving it a thought.

  I glanced at the clock. So! Ten to eight? Why hadn't anyone woken me up? Then again, I could've set the alarm myself, my fault.

  Widowmaker came running—he seemed to be everywhere that day. I nodded at a straw mat by the fire as I rummaged through my bag for the ingredients of Original Brazilian Coffee: a coffee pot, a mixture of some ground beans, some cinnamon and a few lumps of brown sugar.

  I nodded at the mix. "Fancy some?"

  "Which recipe?"

  "OBC. The classic one."

  Widowmaker shook his head. "No, thanks. I don't like it. I have my own recipe, Triple Turkish. Highly recommended."

  "Okay, leave me a drop, I'll give it a try. How's the situation, overall?"

  He set his coffee pot down next to the nearly-boiling mine and reported, "The recce and the beacon group reached their objective safely. They chose four exit points on the castle's perimeter—she was right, it's not big at all, about the size of a Bastion. The kind preferred by lower-class clans. Also, some loaded dudes absolutely love buying them up to pass off as patrimonial estate. How they managed to stuff a thousand chars in there, I've no idea."

  "Were you born in another reality? Never seen a hundred square foot studio packed with a dozen illegal immigrants back in Moscow?"

  He shook his head. "Don't remind me of real life, please. It's considered bad form in certain circles these days. Honestly, with all this space and opportunity we have here, I'm already forgetting the darker side of life back on Earth."

  "That's what we're about to fight for. For freedom and opportunity for everyone."

  As he mulled over my words, I checked the raid status. 276 men. Getting real-life players back in the game by morning was a problem and a half. Those who ever tried to get five friends to go on a camping trip know all about it. It's the same with raids: one person would inevitably oversleep, another would have gone on a drinking binge while yet another had fallen sick or alternatively, was nursing a suddenly infirm child. Some could suddenly find themselves in the middle of a major life crisis or simply had communication problems or computer breakdowns. Already as we'd marched out the day before, I didn't think I'd ever seen the three hundred I'd hired. Their numbers kept changing all the time as everyone had a hundred reasons to log in and out. Luckily, the guild promptly replaced them with their reserves—some sort of a virtual subs' bench.

  So now too, we were going to wait another quarter of an hour until the ranks swelled. Then we'd change their bind point and start casting raid buffs while dishing out the last instructions. And after that, it was all systems go!

  Three cups of coffee and two cigarettes later, I walked out to face the mercs' impeccable ranks bristling with steel and magic. The buffs had just been cast, their last sparks dying in the air. To the abating hum of magic, soldiers stuffed their share of elixirs into quick access slots. Hundreds of eyes studied me, awaiting my command.

  I felt that the situation called for something bigger than a simple "Attack!" I summoned Hummungus and jumped into the saddle in two well-practiced motions.

  "Soldiers!" I rose in my stirrups. "There're not many permas among you but I do know that all of you love this world. To some of you it may be your whole life, or a welcome taste of freedom, or maybe just a fairytale you want to believe in. Perhaps a job that feeds your families. Whatever it is, this is our world, our freedom and our choice. But the world as we know it is changing. Evil has entered AlterWorld. Thousands of young men and women have been kidnapped and forced to play out every sick fantasy of their pervert owners. Hundreds of thousands will suffer in slavery—provided we don't interfere and punish these monsters! We must squash the snake in its own den! You can't defend virtue without using violence!"

  So I spoke, searching for words and mainly finding tired clichés. And still the ranks tensed, frowning. This was becoming their cause, a personal quest for truth and justice.

  I decided to up the ante. "We'll storm the castle and free the slaves! Your names will live in history! I guarantee you a raid bonus of one-third of all the loot!"

  "Barrraah!"

  Widowmaker watched my pitch, looking pleased. I asked him quietly, "Are all wizards ready?"

  "Yep."

  "Open the portal. Action!"

  Chapter Seven

  From a classified White House report:

  Re: Results of projects code names Tempus, Hephaestus, Moneychanger and Holy Grail.

  The report delivered verbally. Any voice recording or taking notes prohibited.

  Tempus project manager:

  "Currently, the use of the Teleportation to the Alpha Zone spell enables us to transfer virtually any object of reasonable size from AlterWorld to Earth for the duration of a few milliseconds up to ninety-six hours. The decay period of each particular artifact depends upon its size, complexity and structure, as well as its mana content. The self-destruct times of the objects that have no precedent in our world—such as mithril weapons and magical items—are ten times faster than those of mundane objects like a piece of metal or a rock. To our disappointment, we have as yet failed to activate a charm or a scroll—apparently due to their racial or class restrictions. We continue our work in that direction with the aim of improving our knowledge of AlterWorld and destroying the existing barrier separating our two realities."

  The Chief Technician, Hephaestus Laboratory:

  "We have studied the samples received with the view of their possible integration into our economy or technology chains. None of the samples are stable enough to justify its use. The most prospective technique, in our opinion, would be the creation of alloys. For instance, the addition of 3% real gold to an ingot made by smelting a quantity of AlterWorld gold coins increases its decay period from seventy-one hours to nine days. The experiments we conducted have shown that the addition of physical components to virtual metals results in a rather linear increase in their decay times that is easy to calculate. Comparison charts are available on request. This also enables us to create substances with a set life span. As an example, Gold 8 takes three months to disintegrate, Gold 13 five months, while Gold 19 will disappear from your vault after two hundred days.

  "I can also confirm the military's acute interest in the creation of similar mithril alloys. Titan 4 demonstrates a remarkable energy absorption rate in combination with the impact duration which ensures impressive results for both fragmentation and bulletproof armor. Steel 7 increases the life span of gun barrels 210%. The aerospace industry is highly interested in Aluminum 12. To summarize, one could say that the marriage of magical and physical technologies possesses a truly infinite potential, capable of triggering a new technological revolution."

  The next to speak was a representative of the Moneychanger project curated jointly by CIA and NSA:

  "Our main objectives are the country's security and a return to the times of United States' international dominance. Within the scope of the assignment received, we have used the test material Gold 19 in order to mint almost three thousand tons of coinage of our potential opponents' denominations, mainly yuan, marks and rubles. We then used our untraceable chains of front men in order to sell the resulting gold to certain hostile regimes like Venezuela and North Korea as well as a few Russian and Emirate billionaires. Some of it was spent on the acquisition of certain strategic locations or deposited in private bank accounts in the countries of issue. This allowed us to damage the reputation of the Gold Nine countries and their currencies and succeed in sabotaging their financial sectors, at the same time adding over four hundred billion dollars to the US budget. I would like to use this opportunity to ask you to allocate twenty percent of the aforementioned sum as our standard bonus."

  The Federal Reserve System monitor to the Holy Grail Project:

  "When the crisis ended with the forced introduction of a gold standard, we lost our main strategical weapon: the mint printing press. Whereas before an aircra
ft carrier equipped with a nuclear thrust system had cost us fifty tons' worth of paper and ink, now we had to pay for it in solid gold. We can most certainly say that this is the end of airstrike diplomacy. We have lost quite a few key domineering tools such as inflation export and the ousting of governments by means of the so-called flower revolutions—which used to be virtually free before—among other things. Finally now we can see the light at the end of the tunnel. The Tempus project can potentially offer us access to virtually limitless resources and unprecedented magical technologies. I would like to ask you to grant us free hand with the project and ensure other bodies' complete cooperation. And may God help us!"

  * * *

  The portal jump plunged me into a momentary disorientation, disgorging me onto a dusty footworn dirt road leading to the castle's main gates. Their heavy riveted iron-oak doors seemed impossibly close—thirty paces at most. Our extended recce guys had had some cheek, setting up a navigational beacon right under the enemy's nose. The reporter was going to blow it up to some deed of incredible valor—little did he know I was going to have their ears chewed for stupidly risking the entire op's success.

  As I desperately peered from behind the backs of the heavy assault group, my own covering team grabbed me rather unceremoniously under the armpits and pulled me out of the picture. Dammit. I'd completely forgotten Widowmaker's instructions about clearing the portal area immediately so as not to block the other raiders' paths. This was one of the mercs' trademark tricks: compressing their ranks just before the jump, then shooting out like an uncoiling spring through the portal window. That allowed them to port a three hundred-strong raid in under twenty seconds without actually squashing anyone to death.