The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) Read online

  At the moment, AlterWorld's Asian cluster resembles a simmering cauldron as similar groups engage in constant turf wars, striving to extend their spheres of influence, particularly dungeon control and the seizure of human and material resources. At the same time, it would have been highly naïve to blame digitized criminal elements alone. Just like the Shui Fong triad that originated as a soft drinks trade union many years ago, the traditional online farming clans of today don't shy away from taking tough action, forcing their competition out of the market by even the most extreme of methods.

  The picture we now see is far from normal. On one hand, about seven percent of the active criminal figures have "gone perma". To add to this, in accordance with the earlier Great Purge program another three percent of the convicts have not yet left penitentiary institutions despite their formally expired prison terms. And still, despite the 10% drop in crime we expected, the number of contract murders and other capital offences had in fact grown 33%. All this is the echo of virtual wars with their constant carving up of AlterWorld's virgin lands and its countless riches.

  As an example, we could remind you of the dramatic battles that took place in the Eva4 world around the newly-discovered asteroid cluster with an extremely high content of Morphite ore. By the most conservative estimate, the gang wars that followed resulted in at least thirty dead Chinese criminal bosses here in the real world.

  * * *

  I gave Snowie the final once-over, focusing on the tank barrel that he'd nonchalantly draped over his shoulder, and gave a helpless shrug. It was probably time we did a bit of saber-rattling, flexing our best muscles. In less than a month, the First Temple would lose its immunity, so a lot of people had better get thinking which side they preferred to fight on. So we shouldn't really shy away from a punchup like a bunch of whipping boys—it was time we flashed a few trump cards, making it clear that whoever joined us now would be set for a sugar-coated life—or mithril-coated, for that matter.

  Cryl and Lena came running. I gave them one last hug and told them, in whispers, Grym's story of joining our ranks, asking them to take good care of the old boy. Sneaking another glance around, I added in a low voice that the hermit could be rather difficult so they'd better make sure they didn't annoy him and kept all brooms under lock and key. I rejected outright all their attempts to talk me into taking them along: I needed someone to stay home to take care of the kids and other miscellaneous flora and fauna. Staring into Cryl's suspiciously glistening eyes, I generated an especially important task for him. He had to collect every piece of intelligence on the Patriarch of Light. I'd given my word to Lloth, after all, and I couldn't cop out so easily.

  I really needed some clever people working for me, analytics and heads of departments—that's besides regular fighters. Cryl had accepted the task in all graveness but I could see he wasn't interested in doing secret service work, whether internal or otherwise. The kid still craved adventure and was dying to get back out into the field to perform acts of derring-do.

  Having said that, I used to have someone who was perfect for this line of work. "Cryl, wonder if you could also run the nickname Bug through the database. With all this hoo-ha he sort of dropped off my radar but theoretically the guy's got lot of potential. Just make sure you look into him properly, okay? Use money where our hands can't reach: hire a real-world detective or two, let them look into him. That's it, we're off! You're the head honcho for the time being. Use your limited access to the treasury and the castle's defense interfaces when needed. If push comes to shove, keep your hair on, hire more guards and sound a general alarm!"

  Jesus. I really had no one to hold the fort in my absence, did I? Talking about delegating. As a corporate leader I wasn't worth a shit. I'd have to do some growing and all.

  One last look over the castle court plucked my heart strings. My Little Lambs Nursery. Toddlers swarming all over the playground; puppies hunting butterflies under Hell Hounds' watchful supervision; a baby dragon—whether Draky or Craky, I couldn't tell from this distance—stealing along the castle walls hungrily eyeing the Tears of Stone. My family. Vertebra could be quite useful in the raid, though, for aerial recces and fire support. But I couldn't hurt her pride by asking: she wasn't my pet, after all, and I didn't think her gratitude for my saving her would stretch that far. In case of someone intruding into her habitat—the Dead Lands—she wouldn't hesitate to join in, but doubtful she'd follow me around breathing fire at my every whim. Most importantly, at the moment she was a preoccupied full-time mom so I shouldn't really disturb her, at least not until the little monsters grew up a little.

  The main square of the Original City met us with the hubbub of a metropolis. Hundreds of curious eyes scrutinized our group. Each of us got their share of admiration, eliminating any potential jealousy within our ranks. Those who followed the gaming news cast studying glances my way: the media had been only too happy to get themselves a recognizable news-worthy persona, making sure my name received its fair share of prime space on their pages. After all, I was the cigarette inventor, the raid leader of the infamous "Zoo battle" and in general a mysterious dark horse, popping up whenever there was trouble in the making—always blameless but never too far from the action.

  Cat lovers beamed at Bagheera, appreciating his build and sleek movement. Top players, too, froze in his path like surprised prairie dogs, quite unable to grasp the fact that despite their level 200+ they were seeing an uncategorized pet highlighted purple on their interfaces.

  But the People's Choice award, if I may say so, went to Snowie. The troll commanded respect. The ancient warriors' mithril armor, the weapon of godlike heroes, his first raid and his first date... Had this not been the Original City but the City of Thousand Statues, we could have left thousands of female trolls broken-hearted in our wake.

  Judging by some of the players' antics of running ahead of us, fidgeting in search of a better picture angle, then freezing for a few seconds, the screenshots of our trio would soon start spreading throughout newsrooms and fan communities.

  We came across quite a few Drow guards most of whom belonged to neutral houses. Three guards from the House of Night, however, literally turned to stone on seeing me. Problems with my status, guys? You can't work out how it is that you see your Drow Prince while the throne is occupied by another? Think you could tell me which one of the two is the impostor?

  I decided to look into it deeper. Locking their eyes with mine, I issued a quiet command, "Front and center!"

  Not entirely sure, they ventured closer, pausing on their way to exchange surprised glances, then stood to attention.

  "Report my full title!"

  "Laith the First Priest, husband of Princess Ruata, Prince of the House of Night!"

  Excellent. I'd had a funny feeling my statuses couldn't have just disappeared into thin air. As much as they'd worried me before, now they seemed to be turning into a very interesting revenge tool against a particularly conniving Drow Princess.

  "So who rules the House at the moment?"

  "Halvin the Invincible, husband of Princess Ruata, Prince of the House of Night..."

  Their eyes glazed over as they spoke, the logical dilemma sending them into a stupor. I even felt sorry for them. They weren't bad guys.

  "Very well. Quit thinking for yourselves. Listen to my command: here's a hundred gold, take it. Find a flower shop and get the best bunch of flowers they have. Take it to the Princess. If she asks about the sender, just say they're from the Prince of the House of Night. Think you can manage it? Off you trot, then!"

  Nothing can improve one's mood like doing the dirty on one's neighbor. Let her feel just a tad restless. Shame I didn't have the time to finish the game: I didn't want to reduce my revenge to petty little tricks while I admittedly wasn't ready yet to go big scale. But if the truth were known, I just couldn't muster enough hatred to reduce the mad bitch to ashes. I could swear and curse her, I could inflict some kind of social or financial punishment on her, but as for thro
wing her onto the altar and tearing her heart out—no. The combination of beauty, love and the forgiving Russian character was a dangerous mix. Like those Red Army soldiers who'd crossed the German border in 1944, finally leaving behind the graves of their families and loved ones, their scorched homes, dead villages and empty cities—no matter how bitter they were, they didn't answer like with like, genocide with genocide. They knew the difference between a German and a Nazi.

  Ah, whatever. I nodded to my silent team, "Come on now."

  We continued unhurriedly toward the mercs guild when my explicitly indifferent stare came to rest on a glittering shop sign,

  This season's hit! The latest wigs made with natural untreated hair of Unicorn, Pegasus and Alpine Three-Tooth! Our standards will satisfy the most exigent customer!

  Now why would I need any of that? What was my subconscious mind trying to tell me? Should I maybe buy Grym a gorgeous wig and a pair of eyebrows to go with it? That could be funny. Having said that, I did have one needy customer.

  "Guys, just wait up for a bit," I said to my group. "No need to follow me in."

  Ding dong, the doorbell tinkled. You didn't expect me, did you? Don't you know who I am? That's right, the head of the fair advertising practices commission. Haven't you read the King's edict forbidding the use of superlative adjectives on shop signs? Ah, you think you can prove that the sign reflects the truth? Very well, then. Here's a rather unconventional order for you to test the merits of your offer!

  * * *

  After two more hours of nerve-wracking chaos which is inevitable when you're trying to form a three hundred-strong raid, we finally lined up in single file snaking all the way into the portal's glowing depths. The extended reconnaissance group went in first, followed by perimeter guard teams. The other groups followed suit.

  Widowmaker the Junior Coordinator handled all the organization really well. I would only be a hindrance to his well-oiled command machine so I chose to keep my mouth shut, hiding my own incompetence while learning the mercs' tricks of the trade.

  I rocked comfortably on Teddy's broad back, sneaking an occasional glance at the Bone Dragon badge on my chest. Admittedly, the zero it sported attracted many a curious eye. You have to admit there's something in war medals—something that makes you stand up straight and thrust out your chest. Regardless of the amount of indifference one claims to feel toward his own "baubles", he would still find a moment to polish them lovingly with a special cloth. Widowmaker wasn't as simple as he looked. He'd thought of a way to raise the badge's status by awarding it to their employer in front of the mass ranks.

  Our average speed was about 10 mph: I only hired those whose mounts were capable of keeping up the pace. Hiring slowcoaches could triple the contract term and I wasn't prepared to do that. From outside we must have looked like a traveling circus as my soldiers rode whatever they had available—from wolves and donkeys to bears and golems.

  Closer to the group's head, two enormous draught horses walked side by side, their picturesque riders oblivious to the dozens of curious stares. Snowie and Bomba had found each other. The albino had already removed his makeshift helmet, hanging it from the crook of his elbow, and was now listening to Bomba's soft voice, open-mouthed in admiration and silent worship. No idea what she was telling him: it could have been about the anthill cities of the Immortal or it could have been about a woman's hard life without a strong shoulder to lean on. Having said that, it could have been the same old same old: I really don't know how you win over a young troll's heart. During our short stops they walked around the camp hand in hand, cooing softly—a picture worthy of an old movie—much to the sentries' discomfort while older soldiers smiled on seeing them.

  Snowie had been the object of the mercs' special attention: the tank barrel in his hands and the design of his armor lit up many eyes with confusion and secret envy. I noticed some soldiers mouth something as they used their fingers to measure the size of their six-packs, mentally trying a tank track on for size. A new fad was taking over the Russian cluster.

  The reporter that accompanied us was a ranger which was only logical as both professions live on their feet. But while I observed him circling our group in wide loops as we proceeded, I couldn't help thinking he must have been doing a bit on the side, maybe mapping out the area for the rangers' guild. Still, formally I had nothing to go on: he could have been looking for good screenshot angles for all I knew. I still had to cough up a couple of guards to cover him though: sooner or later he was bound to walk into something unfriendly, bring it back to the group and slow down the raid by some inevitable scrapping followed by ICU procedures. Which was nothing to sniff at, considering that one minute of downtime cost me nearly two hundred gold. Yeah, right, so I'd counted. And no, it didn't make me a cheapskate. I just needed to have my budget under control in order to be able to set the right kind of tasks. Like, for instance, I'd just received the message from our point men: they'd discovered a pack of rather rare desert wolves and were waiting for my orders. Widowmaker cast me an expectant look: the question was outside of his jurisdiction. I had to make my own decision.

  The easiest thing to do was to growl, "No distractions from the initial objective!" But the route was long and boring and the men's brains needed some exercise, especially if it paid in gold thus diminishing the hire costs. So I had to open Wiki and indulge in some strategic planning. In order to catch one wolf, you needed three soldiers of the same level. Add 20% if the beasts came as part of a pack as those creatures had excellent communication systems in place, complicating the farming process no end. The pack we'd discovered had six wolves which meant we needed about twenty soldiers. Did we have a fast-moving group like that, capable of leaving the ranks for half an hour, then catching up with us? We did. Excellent. One wolf's average loot was about twenty copper plus a 0.5% chance of a jackpot in the shape of a rare item worth one to five grand. Peanuts, I know, but in order to get them, all you needed to do was bend down and pick them off the ground. In another thousand paces, another stop to pick up more money. And again. And what's that over there?—a silver ruble! And that?—a tenner gold!

  Thus our raid group snaked amid the low hills that melted into dunes, constantly letting out the tentacles of farm teams. By the time the night halt came, our treasurer was lugging around nearly six thousand gold and about a dozen rather curious items. It didn't pay for the raid, no way—what it did do was make it a bit cheaper, much more entertaining and considerably more interesting. Anglers know the feeling.

  We stopped for the night openly and defiantly, right on a sloping dune ridge. Bonfires blazed in the night, sending a clear message of our strength and authority to whoever was concerned. But even though we set up plenty of tents, enough to house all three hundred raid members, there were barely forty of us left for the night. The rest had used their right to an eight-hour sleep and logged out.

  Somewhere in snowed-in Moscow or Vologda, magnet clamps clicked, releasing the glass lid of a sarcophagus-like capsule letting out the tired player. Recognizing familiar sounds, a dog raised his head and vigorously wagged his tail. The patter of a child's footsteps was drowned out by a girl's happy voice, "Mom, Dad's back from work!"

  The wife suppressed a smile as she watched her husband stagger to the fridge and gulp some cold milk straight out of the carton. "Everything all right?"

  He lowered his eyes in affirmation as he drank; finally he weaned himself off the carton and caught a breath, tousling the little girl's hair. "Everything's fine, sweetie pie. Just another day at the office."

  I heaved a sigh. The mental picture triggered by the avalanche of logout reports was just a tad too sad.

  The fleeting blues didn't last, though. I had a great team around me, some very interesting people, and none of them were in a hurry to hit the sack: permas didn't have the same sleep needs as human players who were stuck in their bodies aged by life itself.

  So there we sat trading war stories, joking and spinning yarns, not forgetti
ng the ladies present. The nearby hills trembled with the guffawing of a dozen hefty throats, prompting the occasional distant glint of eyes to disappear warily in the dark. I leaned back against Bagheera's warm side while listening to the conversation, drinking some strong coffee and flicking cigarette ash into the flames. I had this heady feeling—a sudden premonition that everything was going to be all right, after all; that even in a thousand years' time I'd be able to sit like I was sitting now by a campfire at night, knowing I could rely on myself and my men.

  A dry twig crunched—a broken limb of one of those sun-dried creeping brambles that clung to the dunes for dear life with their countless thorns as we'd ridden past. The soldiers swung round to the sound as I squinted, peering into the dark. The radar blinked, outlining a target not five paces away. An outpost guard darted to intercept it even though I could see he wouldn't make it.

  "I've found you... I've made it..."

  A girl staggering with exhaustion, her life bar hovering at the miserable 1%, made a few uneven steps before collapsing to her knees by the fire. "Guys, I need your help. We need to get Alexis out..."

  We fed her our best morsels, comforting and commiserating as our fists clenched white at her tearful story—the dreadful story of a slave girl. Me, I couldn't help thinking that her situation wasn't some sick exception from the rule: this could quite possibly be one of AlterWorld's development trends. This was our potential future: the future that was already taking shape in some private locations and even clusters. We knew ruefully little about the situation outside our borders: players everywhere didn't give a damn about international politics which often boiled down to some sick flashmob idea in the vein of, "How about porting over to genocide a few Yanks?"