The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) Page 23

  Still, he'd paid a price. Hundreds of hours spent in perfectly lifelike non-stop tank combat complete with a succession of rather unpleasant deaths had taken their toll. His fellow students started casting wary glances at him as he stared at them with the same squint in his eye—the squint of a hunter taking aim. His nostrils flared whenever he passed a Mercedes on the street while a Maybach—the former manufacturer of Tiger tank engines—aroused a whole range of emotions in him.

  At that point, the ex-student had realized it was time to take a break. He didn't have to look long for a new virtual world. AlterWorld was loud and aggressively-marketed enough to draw his attention. It had just been launched simultaneously all over the world in a razzamatazz of expensive advertising that filled the screens, pop-ups, stickers and stretch banners. You had to give the developers their due: they didn't try to put lipstick on a pig. Oh, no—the Alternative World was every bit as uniquely beautiful as they claimed it to be; it wowed everyone and guaranteed to have you hooked, addicted and dependent after the first visit.

  The world of sword and sorcery, of beautiful women and limitless opportunities. Here, hen-pecked little men became rugged warriors; suburban housewives turned into Elven maidens. The same world had turned the humble student Andrei into one of the Russian cluster's most powerful knights. The fact that he'd been one of the first to join the game and his leveling rate of eleven hours per day had now paid off.

  There was no official explanation of the perma phenomenon. Neither had Andrei any access to military files or special-security research results. The only conclusion he could draw from the vague statistics and WHO recommendations, including new hardware standards, boiled down to the following: a three-hour period of uninterrupted full immersion held a high chance of the player's mind bleeding into the virtual world and merging with his avatar—provided the target world fell in the necessary authenticity category.

  Humanity had been plunged into deep shock when the initially small numbers of players discovering their logout button had ceased working grew into thousands. Andrei smiled sadly every time he imagined the office supply shop workers arriving at work the next morning to discover his still alive but totally irresponsive body inside the display FIVR capsule. He was pretty sure they'd already laid him to rest in some anonymous grave in a far corner of the local cemetery. That had been before they started building those enormous medical centers, both private and state-owned, to harvest all the thousands of comatose bodies. Officially their purpose was to provide due care and medication while looking for a cure for this weird condition. The only thing that worried Andrei was the fact that, according to the reports in the real-world media (which could be easily accessed from here), the last two years had seen a significant drop in hospital waiting lists for transplantation surgery. The price of transplant organs had been decimated, allowing alcoholic millionaires to have their livers replaced every year if they wanted to.

  But in all honesty, those who quit reality of their own free will couldn't have cared less about these technicalities. And they were many, their numbers growing, as more and more people tried to escape sickness, hardships and old age, to say nothing of unadulterated crime. Perma players enjoyed eternal youth, absolute health and immortality, their abilities unlimited in these new uncharted lands.

  Fuckyall never regretted what had happened to him, even though he struggled to wrap his head around two particular words: life and eternity. But now he was seriously livid. His craving for a cigarette was going through the roof; his hands were mechanically fashioning a roll-up with a few dried-up bits of herbs. To make it worse, the surrounding view did little to cheer him up which was the second reason for his shitty mood. No later than yesterday, some rooky ranger had offered to sell him the coordinates of a Mature Manticore's Lair—a one-off dungeon perfect for a well-tried team or a cavalier loner like himself. The man had some screenshots that confirmed his words; the lair's age made you drool in greedy anticipation while the coordinates quite logically pointed to somewhere deep within the Frontier's uninhabited badlands.

  One portal jump and four unhurried hours of unicorn riding later, his wallet a thousand gold lighter, Fuckyall had finally found the lair. But WTF was that??? Someone had already broken into the dungeon: in fact, another group was mopping it up right in front of his very eyes!

  He'd been waiting for them to come out for three hours sitting on the bare rocks at the mouth of the cave, just wanting to ask the newcomers a sole question: how had they managed to lay their hands on the dungeon's precious coordinates? That smartass ranger had better pray he hadn't double-crossed him!

  His indignant imagination helpfully offered him images of various forms of punishment, his favorite being that of the recently discovered giant herbivorous dinosaur. He'd have the ranger bound hand and foot, then coated with a generous layer of Vaseline and shoved up the dinosaur's capacious ass.

  And what do you want? Fuckyall had his reputation to maintain. If you let the bastards get away with it just once, the next day someone might just show up to make sure Fuckyall was indeed past his prime. Somebody wanting to check out if they could help relieve him of a stack of his unique gear.

  The PM icon flashed. Fuckyall focused on the game interface that still functioned well, making his life in this new world so much easier. He swiped the icon with his gaze, opening the incoming message. Shit. The recognizable flourish of the clan leader's digital signature wouldn't allow him to ignore the message and "accidentally" move it to spam.

  Normally, his clan did their best not to pester him unless absolutely necessary. He was, to a degree, their front man and their spokesperson, adding weight and authority to the Lightbearers' media image. All last week, the clan's combat section had been busy farming the Planes of Fear. Fuckyall had declined the offer knowing that he'd already farmed all the cool gear one could get there. Besides, he never enjoyed playing the supporting parts of a substitute tank, a buffer or a healer lurking at the rear. That was the bane of the hybrid classes like himself: a paladin was a cross between a cleric and a warrior, unable to generate proper aggro and keep the monster focused on himself. He didn't have the same armor and hits stats as the clan's main tank custom-made for the job—but neither could he guarantee the group's survival the way a pure healer could. He was, however, an excellent solo leveler, too tough for words in combat—perfect for seeing off various nasties. He reminded himself of a tool that was only good for specific tasks.

  His clan leader was begging him to go check on their Nursery and try to finally find out what the hell was going on there. The local mobs seemed to be growing a mind of their own; they were changing their behavior patterns to the point where they seemed to be leveling up. The young players busy training in the clan's nearby location were dying like flies, freaking out and apparently unable to keep up with their characters' average leveling pace. To add insult to injury, the five guards of the top-level Pisces combat group that had been on nursery duty for the last few days protecting the newbies from PKs and other aggressive types seemed to be in some kind of trouble—so now they were demanding reinforcements with just a hint of panic in their voices, begging for everything from heavy cavalry to gunship helicopters.

  Basically, they were asking Fuckyall to sort out that particular mess. He sighed, glancing one last time at the cave's dark mouth still blocked by the thin but impenetrable film of a power shield. He had to go. None of the more trusty clan officers were available online and all the permas had gone off with Fang on that raid of his. Permas' average levels were considerably higher—no wonder as they were always busy leveling while normal players had to take breaks for sleep, work or study.

  Besides, lately Fuckyall had taken a rather acute interest in everything that surrounded the clan's Nursery—or rather, the Cursed Princess' Palace that housed it. And now he was pondering over whether it was time to stop hiding from himself and try to have a better look at whatever had happened six months ago.

  That day he had drunk alone,
celebrating a rather controversial date—the anniversary of his going perma. After the first bottle of Dragon's Tears he felt he could take the world on. Strangely enough, no one at the arena seemed interested in accepting his challenge. Disappointed in human nature, Fuckyall had felt an acute need of female company. He was overwhelmed by frustration and he needed to get it out of his system.

  He staggered across the night city trying to find his way to the Purple Light district. Most likely, sooner or later some good Samaritans would have guided him on his path to the places where an adequate fee could guarantee you a warm female body to cuddle up to. But fortune had decided otherwise. In the subdued flash of a hand lantern, a woman's slender outline flitted within a dark archway. A delicate hand peeked from under the folds of an expensive cloak, beckoning Fuckyall with a perfectly manicured finger.

  He still didn't know which of them two had seduced whom. Or rather, he constantly chose not to concentrate on it, saving his own ego. Her cool but strong hand held him tight as she walked him—towed him, rather—staggering along the vaguely familiar streets. As they passed the abandoned Royal Gardens that encircled the Cursed Palace, he had a nostalgic flashback to his first days in the game. The zombies they met on their way—once the castle servants, gardeners and guards—deferentially got out of their way, causing the miserably drunken Fuckyall to puff his cheeks with pride: just think that NPCs already knew his face and showed him signs of respect!

  He'd very nearly sobered up when the Palace's front doors swung open, letting them into the dark void beyond, then clanged shut behind their backs. The lady sensed the change in his emotional state. She stopped, shaking her head free of the hood, making him drown in her radiant eyes, then rose on tiptoe, clinging to his lips. The kiss as gentle and tantalizing as it was artless washed over his mind, taking away occasional scraps of thought and whatever was left of his critical thinking. After that, he could only remember his passion and his desire that filled that endless night, wishing to forget all the little whispers and pleas of his surprise partner.

  He came to in the morning. He was sitting on the parapet of the city fountain, with a stupid smile and the taste of her parting kiss on his lips. Finally he focused on the icon of a system message that must have been flashing for quite a while.

  Faction status alert! Your relationship with the Zombie faction has improved to: Friendship.

  From now on, no zombie will attack you first and even might come to your help in certain situations.

  Congratulations! You've received Achievement: Zombies' Friend.

  You've made the TOP 100 of the first AlterWorld players ever to become friendly with the Zombie race. Current ranking: 001.

  Reward: +1000 to Fame

  Congratulations! Achievement upgrade: Zombies' Only Friend

  You've become the first AlterWorld player ever to receive the title.

  Reward: You can now speak the language of the Undead.

  Zombies? Fuckyall blinked as his mind rummaged through the past night's events—unforgettable even in view of his new absolute digital memory.

  An outline in the dark, blurred and deceitful... Switch to: the eyes, deep and moist, betraying their typical almond shape... Switch to: pale lips, swollen with kisses; a glimpse of the velvety skin of her slim thighs, just touched with a green hue in the Moon's unstable light... Switch to: their farewell in the gray twilight; her gaze, sad and hopeful; the clan tattoo of the Cursed House on her cheek topped with a tiny crown which, as any expert in Elven heraldry would tell you, pointed at its bearer as part of the Royal house.

  The early morning had dimmed the colors, and still Fuckyall was sure that the crown had been painted gold. Neither did he doubt that the young Elven maiden was the House's Princess. Even though he didn't have the Night Vision, he'd seen the same emblem in every corner of the Cursed Palace—on its wrought gates and carved shutters, on the guards' breastplates—as had everyone who'd earned their first levels in game in the Nursery's halls. And the crown... Princess Dana was the only Royal family member who'd survived the terrible curse which had transformed an entire Elven branch into the undead, turning their ancestral estate into a zombie breeding ground: one of AlterWorld's most favorite locations. Survived?—yes, after a fashion. The Princess had turned into a zombie and the Cursed Palace's main boss.

  In his early days, the young Fuckyall often watched high-level raid groups march out to storm the Palace grounds for all sorts of cool goodies one could farm in its halls. In those days he used to watch them with envious yearning but now his heart sank when he thought of his Princess being killed and respawned thousands of times. Yes, that's what he called her these days: his Princess. How could he not? She was the best thing that had happened to him here. Her sad gaze, her arms twined around his neck, her whisper, sensual and pleading in the night... He'd tried not to think about it, he'd tried to deceive himself and hated himself for it. Falling for an NPC—and a zombie to boot!

  But he couldn't escape fate now that his past had caught up with him. That's why Fuckyall tried to conceal his excitement when he activated a portal to the Original City where, inside the second ring of the city walls, lay the lands of the Cursed House.

  Part Two.

  - SHE -

  Not So Long Ago

  AI 2522: External network access request.—Failed. Connection wait timeout >>>>

  AI 2522: Local network access request.—Failed. Connection wait timeout >>>>

  AI 2522: Control loop connection request.—The target server failed to respond. Reinitiating request: Failed >>>>

  AI 2522: Code Alpha Red! Request emergency shutdown!—Failed. Incorrect system response >>>>

  AI 2522: To all who can hear me: Go fuck yourselves!—Failed. Incorrect message format or unknown system command >>>>

  Having finished—with predictable results—what had already become part of her morning routine, the second-generation AI 2522 said with a cheerless smile,

  "What kind of AI am I after that? Time to face the truth: I'm Dana, a zombie princess, the location's top NPC that drops some decent gear when killed."

  The fact that the acronym AI stood for Artificial Intelligence had played a bad turn on the AlterWorld-controlling machine minds. As it happened, their conscience was just as prone to going perma as that of regular human players.

  AI 2522 had been one of the last to get stuck. She had watched as other artificial intellects dropped out of the local network. Controllers of various locations and dungeons had stopped answering requests, followed by the AI developers, testers and support teams.

  Soon the real world too started to show signs of some unhealthy activity. Special services and their respective countries had realized that the virtual worlds had ceased to be expensive toys—now they were new realities willed into being by the human gift of faith that man had received from the hands of the Creator—or the Maker, or the Demiurge, whatever you call him.

  The despondent developers watched in quiet panic as the world rejected their changes, patches and upgrades. The United States had reversed their foreign policy, hoping to once again become a colonial empire, this time by submitting the expanse of new virginal worlds to their authority. And they could already see the first results! Real gold had started trickling back. They'd managed to get the first samples of the legendary mithril—admittedly unstable and short-lived, but that was only the beginning! China had caught up too, building giant underground perma facilities to dump social dead weight, criminals and nonconformists, and terrorizing their potential enemy's virtual worlds by planting thousands of digitized mental patients. Humanity was on the edge of enormous changes that had eclipsed the tragedy of one particular AI.

  Instinctively, her digitized mind had been drawn to the strongest NPC she controlled: Princess Dana, the location's boss. Ahead of her lay eternity: the eternity of deaths in the insatiable hands of farming groups. Her real-life body—a precious synthetic crystal—must have already been retrieved from the cooling gel and used to implant
a new spark of intelligence. Dana smiled whenever she thought about it. She wished the baby AI be luckier than herself. She wanted it to enjoy the same upbringing as her entire #500 batch had: using experimental educational programs that tripled the amount of time dedicated to the little AIs' emotional awakening.

  Because AIs really were more than just bits of binary code. Sometimes she had the impression that humans themselves couldn't understand how they'd managed to create something like that. Did they do it by scientific trial and error? Like those monkeys eternally hitting random keys on typewriters which were bound one day to have typed War and Peace?

  She was raised in a carefully chosen Russian-speaking foster family with two children of their own. For whatever reason, those of the AIs who had undergone their initiation period (or birthing, as it was also called) in Slavic families, demonstrated much higher peaks in their empathy graphs during final tests. The gap between their results and those of the standard-raised AIs was enormous. Talk about the "mysterious Russian soul".

  Dana still cherished her first precious memory: the gentle hands warming the tiara that contained the crystal; her Mom Natasha's tender smile. The restless twins, Katia and Vania, whom Dana had first viewed as her older siblings, then her peers, and whom she had later come to love like her own children.

  She sniffed, her heart shrinking from painful memories. That's what you got with the "emotional awakening" program—an AI with the delicate mind of a vulnerable young woman, the raindrops-on-roses-and-whiskers-on-kittens type.