The Ultimation (Play to Live: Book #7) Page 15

  I stripped the area clean, slapping my hands over the bodies and taking the loot from them. I threw most of it back on the frozen ground: masses of bluish entrails, human and demon meat, and junk loot. I took only money and weightless things, folding them into stacks of twenty items: vials of blood and poison, scrolls and all sorts of small fry: contact lenses with a notched reticle, armored scales, and the fertilized spores of the shooters. Ugh, what vile crap...

  I then highlighted the grave with my cursor, awkwardly crossed myself, made the sign of the Sacred Circle (much more deftly), and then, to round it off, crossed my fingers—in other words, performed all the good luck rituals I could think of, ensuring help from every god I knew. I broke the seal on a resurrection scroll and threw myself into the ritual, muttering the necessary recitation and gesturing with my arms like a traffic policeman.

  The reading took longer than it should have. The heavenly trumpets blared at random. The light effects blinked uncomfortably. For some reason, the spell began to pull from my own personal mana, regardless of the fact that everything that was needed had been incorporated into the parchment at its creation.

  Twenty-seven seconds of nerves and a tight chest. I bit my lip and closed my eyes, not wanting to see the disaster unfolding. The trumpets played their highest note and fell silent. A blinding light burned through my eyelids.

  "You took your sweet time!’ Dan’s voice exclaimed angrily. “Heh! If only you knew how empty and dreary it is in Earth's Great Void! There’s nothing there! It’s like an old, abandoned closet! Even the damn weekly timer, counting down the hours until complete disembodiment... eh, Max, do open your eyes and check to see if I've got any gray hairs. Scared the shit out of me, there...”

  Chapter Ten

  Moscow. Main Intelligence Directorate headquarters. Presentation room, protection class: AAA.

  The walls were shaking ever so slightly, preventing the copying of information via vibro-acoustic channels. The hair on the back of the hands of everyone present stood up on end, an unavoidable side effect of the operation of a device that jammed radio-microphones: the Shtora-9 broadband white noise generator. Cellular signals were blocked by the Barrier. The Tempest-3E took on the suppression of voice recorders. The ubiquitous power lines and ground circuits were disrupted by the Gray Swan.

  The armored diaphragm of an autonomous security module hung under the ceiling like the sword of Damocles, ready to repel invading forces or destroy those in possession of state secrets along with the secrets themselves.

  Standing at the interactive screen, a high-browed officer sporting the epaulettes of a colonel and a yellow wound strip hastily made his report.

  " ...at 17:41, we were able to re-orient the satellite Lotus-E14 to the object of interest. At the same time, we went up through the ranks and had the top brass send out a Pike-B drone which was on ready alert in the Beaufort Sea. The spy-copter has just over an hour’s flight there. I warn you in advance: we might get complaints from the Navy about the threat of uncovering their nuclear subs...”

  The general grimaced and casually waved it off. If the operation succeeded, they would forgive him everything. If the operation failed, no amount of excuses would save him: ‘Criminal passivity and lack of initiative, fear of taking responsibility and the inability to work under a tight time constraint,’ yeah right.

  "...At first, there wasn't much information,” the officer continued. “The Fog of War was still screening practically the entire spectrum of measurable frequencies. The Lotus only spotted flashes of light of varying intensity, high-temperature fluctuations, and powerful bursts in the psychic range. Presumably, our Guests had run into some demons and gotten into a fight. It's unlikely that the five of them would willingly risk attacking the target, the camouflaging of which took a seven-mile shield capable of driving a rocket's electronics crazy and of rather successfully absorbing special munitions' explosions in the stratosphere."

  Stills on the screen moved from one to the other, showing something like a cross between a weather report and a sonogram. Digital decoding of the colorful peaks and chaotic blotches also didn't clarify the picture very much.

  Sitting at the head of the table, the General grimaced. "Keep going!" he said in a tense voice.

  "At 17:53 at an altitude of twelve miles, a dense cloud of high-speed objects materialized almost instantly with a motion vector towards the epicenter of the battle. Approximated characteristics of the phenomenon: sixty submunitions weighing about two ounces each, accelerated to their escape velocity. The damage radius was about twenty-two thousand square feet. This spell had already been observed by us in battles with the visitors from Virtual Heroes and was classified as an Armageddon of average power."

  The static image on the screen was replaced by a streaming video. The very first salvo of magical meteors had successfully torn through the Fog of War, showing the general picture of the battle. There were thousands of demons and three figures, plastered with enemies, rushing towards the gates of the gloomy castle through the living sea.

  "It is a castle, after all," the general stated the obvious.

  In the current standoff between realities, a demonic citadel was a high-priority target that had to be destroyed at any cost. Even if it was on enemy territory: the beasts that had invaded Earth didn't recognize borders. An enemy's lair on another continent was still an enemy lair. Portals reduced distances to zero and an ocean was no longer an insurmountable obstacle.

  Another meteor shower flashed across the screen. The number of Guests taking its hit was down to two now, and after the next salvo, all of one. The gray-haired general admired the tenacity of one-man armies. Shaking his head, he softly whispered,

  "He’s just like Mowgli battling the red dogs...”

  The picture flickered like a badly edited videotape. There was a flashing frame, and in front of the last player—tagged by the intelligent system as "Max Nazarov"—a wall of huge demons grew from out of nowhere. In an instant, the Elf himself disappeared, only to reappear behind an enormous rider clad in spiked armor. In a single blow, he took out the knightly horse's hind legs.

  "Technical failure?" the general asked.

  The officer shook his head. "Most likely, a micro-portal. By the way, the game mechanics of AlterWorld make no provision for them. That's another question for Nazarov, if we manage to get hold of him, of course."

  "Not if—but when!" the General pressed his companion with the implacable intonation of a die-hard intelligence officer. "I will not accept any other option!"

  "Yes, Sir!" the colonel shot up.

  After another five minutes of looking at stills from the selected video clips, the image of the massive black castle reappeared on the screen, its banners already replaced by the two-toned flags of Children of the Night.

  The presenter looked at the clock and wrapped up, "Nine minutes ago, our Guests went inside the citadel and haven't appeared in sight of the camera since. The Lotus has flown beyond the horizon and its blind window will be a little less than an hour. We'll carry out observation by means of the Pike drones. In the absence of counteractions, its battery will last twenty-four hours. If alerted, the first battalion of the Special Forces' 25th regiment will be summoned. If ordered, saboteurs are ready to be dropped onto enemy territory to meet and escort the Guests. Our analysts strongly recommend befriending them. According to AI estimates, those five from AlterWorld took down no less than six thousand demons. With the current ratio of our losses—three to one in the army, or sixteen to one including civilians—these guys have already saved an entire city along with a couple whole divisions. And considering that the last survivor managed to resurrect his fallen comrades...”

  The alarm for emergency communications interrupted the colonel. The general furrowed his brow and, with a slightly anxious expression, pressed the button for speakerphone. "Yes?"

  "General, Sir, I've got Colonel Semyonov on the line. He has received a report from the division of Electronic Warfare. The Am
ericans' Radar-603 has gone off and they've sounded the alarm at the Joint Base Elmendorf–Richardson for the 11th Air Force. There's activity in the 7th and 9th Strategist hangars."

  The intelligence officer winced. "Six zero three, you say? Ad an alarm at ER? So we're ninety-nine percent sure that a tactical nuclear weapon is going to be launched... What do you think, Colonel, where are they going to strike? Everything is covered by the Fog of War, but the American equipment in orbit is enough."

  The presenter wiped the sweat from his brow. "We need to warn our Guests!"

  "Are you sure they're worth saving?"

  The colonel nodded grimly. "The identities of all the visitors have been fed to our AI network, Recruiter and Freud-69. Their loyalty is beyond doubt. Contacts with hostile intelligence agencies have not been established. The chances of recruitment, deception, and mental tabs are minimal. The AI Archivist is working in four full streams, digging their lives inside and out, carefully sifting through terabytes of information. Social networks, search requests, browser history, receipts, OS reports, credit cards, and video from surveillance camera and home appliances. No skeletons have been found and outbursts of anarchism and social protest are within the statistical norms. Just trivial, mundane crime like tax and traffic violations."

  The general glanced at the monitor where 3D images of the Guests were slowly rotating. He winced and said, "Contacts... we need contacts and information like air! We have an entire legion of enemies and shit for allies. Colonel, I need them here! In four hours, I have a scheduled presentation with the Minister of Defense and I won't be able to keep this quiet. After that, the information will go to Staraya Square! The task of establishing contact with the perma world is of the highest priority and is being monitored by the President himself."

  Looking up, he again gave his subordinate a hard stare. "How do you intend to warn our Guests? There's thirty minutes until the strike—forty, at most. Sit down already! That's enough standing up! Come on, connect the analytical group and the free AI streams! Let's put our heads together. There's no time to spare."

  The colonel sat down on one of the hard chairs reserved for visitors. He pulled out his army communicator—the enhanced officer's model with the Bureau's customizations,—launched the virtual panel and deftly ran his fingers over the holographic menu. In no more than two minutes, the faces and icons of the Brain Storm group were projected around the perimeter of the room. One after another they showered the general with ideas.

  "Forced activation of all communicators and means of connection in the given area with a signal from orbit."

  Verdict: Impossible, the Electronic Warfare Bureau's satellite fleet doesn't cover Alaska.

  "Marines, agitation buoy, laser drawing in the stratosphere—it's all real, but won't fit in our narrow time frame."

  The high-browed captain with the clever eyes of an intellectual tensely rubbed his head. "Of all the equipment in this region, we only have a drone. Is there any way to use it to send a message?"

  The general leaned forward. "It doesn't have any speakers, but isn't there some kind of information display system? A monitor, holographic projector, even a fucking pencil up its ass?!"

  The captain, pensively gnawing on a pencil, looked at it in surprise and then put it aside in disgust. "Permission to get in contact with the technical group and delivery of the classified documentation of the drone?"

  "Permission granted!" the general nodded. "Think, boys, think! There's not much time...”

  Thank the Fallen One, resurrecting my clanmates hadn’t presented any insoluble problems. The spell groaned, guzzled mana, fell apart a couple times, but in the end it had pulled all of my AlterWorld compatriots—who’d failed to get back to our home world and were doomed to an early oblivion—from the earthly reservoir of souls. The magic had even worked on Snowie. The mechanics were simple: once you’d been able to anchor yourself in reality via a tombstone, Resurrection obediently pulled at that thread, bringing you back to life. But if your friends tripped up and failed to do it within a week, the obelisk crumbled to ashes and the only thing left to do was hope for a miracle and the gods' mercy.

  "Be my guests!" I gestured towards the open gate of the Inferno castle. "That taken with might is yours for the fight!"

  My clan members still looked a bit dejected. Seeing the illusion of their own immortality shattered was both difficult and disappointing. That, and also the fact that Earth’s moth-balled soul collectors were a far cry from the Garden of Eden. According to the guys' descriptions, the feeling was akin to being buried alive in a coffin. The oxygen runs out, your fingernails are scratched into the oak board—a special "thank you" to your friends who didn't skimp with the cheap pine—and your throat has become hoarse from all the hopeless shouting. Terror and gloom.

  Snowie alone hadn’t lost his former enthusiasm.

  "Oh, a tavern!" the troll rejoiced, actively sniffing the air of the castle’s courtyard with his moist, black nose.

  Could he smell beer? That was his weakness, actually.

  "It might be worth a look," Fuckyall nodded in agreement. "I’d love to wet my throat with something different from AlterWorld's recipes and even just to look at the local NPC Heroes. Usually they all sit there on the benches waiting for someone to hire them. Low-level and mainly without armies of their own, but still.”

  "Heroes?" I thoughtfully raised an eyebrow. "Interesting."

  The tavern was grim. Inferno's design had left its mark. Thick lava blazed in the center, stone gargoyles bared their teeth from the walls, and the hot basalt walls made you sweat, filling the room with melancholy.

  Behind a heavy black table which looked more like the slab of a sacrificial altar a pair of generals available for hire pumped beer.

  One of them was a faction one: an infernal mage, level 40. The second, who must have been the victim of a random number generator, had been abandoned by the unforgiving game mechanics in the enemy's lair. She was a human girl, level 47, in a blue cloak embroidered with a paladin's gold cross.

  Oddly enough, the two irreconcilable enemies didn't conflict with each other and carried on a friendly, though drunkenly confused, conversation. The tavern was a neutral zone where mercenaries' Loyalty was traditionally maxed out so that the idea of betrayal didn’t even enter their algorithms. In order to override it, the heroes would first need to go perma and acquire free will.

  Standing behind the counter, a chubby demon in a greasy apron bowed his head before the new owner and his guests.

  "Would my lords care for a drink? I could offer you a trophy Elven wine—a solar harvest from the year 7111! It was found in a cellar that had miraculously survived in the ruins of the Forest Song abandoned by its previous bankrupted owner four months ago."

  Fuckyall happily rubbed his hands together. Elite booze has one way of making stressful experiences disappear. "Bring it out!"

  I let my eyes un-focus slightly to be able to pull out the tavern’s control menu. Virtual interfaces had the same layout everywhere, so I didn't have to start poking around blindly. They were all intuitive, designed to a single standard. The latest state-of-the-art capsule used the same principle as the free Virt-Fi in the Moscow metro. The only resistance was offered by Earth's physics which only reluctantly acknowledged a second layer of reality.

  Struggling like a fly caught in thick honey, I pulled up the translucent and shaky systems window. There weren't very many options. It was a basic design whose functionality was a simplistic 8-Plus: minimum text, maximum picture icons.

  Price settings, stocks of food and alcohol, a rather poor cash register—a few hundred large gold of the royal imperial measure. Without many qualms, I grabbed all the coins, threw them into my inventory, and passed a few to the guys for inspection.

  "Cool...” Dan assessed. "If you take the weight into account, they'd go for ten or fifteen to one by AlterWorld's standards. Ours just weigh a single gram."

  I nodded, continuing to poke around the menu. I
flicked through the possibilities of upgrades and expansions, including an option to build a module for the Thieves Guild capable of supplying statistics on all the players. Unfortunately, the button was inactive and a 24-hour cooldown timer was ticking. I queued the building up for construct: I really wanted to find out the number of enemy castles and the strength of their troops.

  I eyed the mercenaries available for hire. Lady Cordelia, a Warrior of Light who had followed the Force. Specialization: Not a step back! whatever that was supposed to mean. She came bundled with six human archers, level 20, and a couple of gryphons, level 30.

  I chuckled. An ability like that was crucial for the protection of the castle. I pressed Confirm Hire. The girl sobered up before my eyes. Good. I was very reluctant to leave a demonic Hero in charge. What if he was to suddenly give the key to Asmodeus?

  Fifteen hundred of Heroes’ Gold was taken off the balance without a hitch. That meant that there was money in the treasury.

  Cornelia jumped up from her seat—staggering either from the pins and needles in her legs or from the remnants of alcohol—and devotedly looked at me, awaiting orders.

  "Lady," I nodded my greeting, then presented her with the task with no further niceties. "You have been appointed commander of this castle. Your main task is to prevent the surrender of the citadel. I will send as many reinforcements as possible. Dismissed!"

  Silently she bowed her head and left the tavern, followed by the envious gaze of the infernal mage. I opened his brief biography. Tynan, former human, reborn as an incubus after his execution. Warlock, specialization: The Charmed One. His entire squad consisted of nine seductive succubi. Was it his personal harem?

  Thoughtfully rubbing my head which was sweating underneath my helmet, I finally decided to find a job for him too. I clicked on the money icon and confirmed debit. My inner greedy pig kicked his legs nervously in his sleep—these prices were biting like hungry bed bugs in an abandoned house.