The Savage Realms

by Willard Black

Mercer’s stomach clenched at the sight of the old man bleeding out on the floor. The crowd at the windows gasped. Someone yelled, “They killed Buck!” The cry of murder went up. Now, instead of a pair of pikes in hobnailed boots, they’d have a dozen. No time to worry about that now, thought Mercer. He blocked a half-hearted attack by Kid Creole and then Hardin came wading back into the fight, sword swinging. Steel flashed and beat out a tortured rhythm as the two men struck frenzied blows. Hardin wasn’t holding back. He was in for the kill, swinging with everything he had. His sword notched and rang. Sparrow pressed in from the other side, and then Mercer was defending against all three men.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead and arms. He gripped the battle axe with white knuckles. Blood coursed through his veins and his heart trip-hammered in his chest as he tried to keep pace. Several times he narrowly missed having his stomach cut open. Another whistling attack came in low. He parried just in time and shuffled backwards across the room, trying to keep himself between Drake and Hardin’s crew. He growled at Drake to hurry it up.

  Between breaths, Hardin grunted, “Don’t let him cast!”

  Kid Creole sprang over a bench, overturned another table, and tried to dart in from the side. His sword was raised straight overhead for a killing blow. If he took Drake out of the fight, it was only a matter of time before they got Mercer too. As big and strong as he was, they would surround him and wear him down eventually. It would be a messy death. Mercer dodged left, drew his sword one-handed, and used it to cut at Kid Creole’s exposed legs. It was a sloppy blow, and too fast, but the blade licked the Kid’s inner thigh. A hot gush of shockingly red blood pissed over the hardwood floor.

  Kid Creole stumbled back a step. His eyes went to his wounded leg and his mouth stretched wide in horror. The sword slipped from his hand and clattered across the floor. He let out a piercing shriek, gripped his thigh, and sat down hard.

  The move had opened Mercer up to attack. Sparrow’s blade rang off his chain mail shirt. It was enough to unbalance him. Mercer stumbled a step, and Hardin’s blade bit into his shoulder.

  Exquisite pain gripped him with molten fingers. For a brief second, Mercer was back in the baking hot desert, stretched out on the sand, blood soaking through his BDUs. His lips peeled back from clenched teeth. He reared back, lashed out with the sword, and followed it with the axe, using large, sweeping blows to keep his enemies at bay.

  “Move!” Drake shouted.

  Mercer leapt aside.

  Drake thrust out his staff and uttered an incantation. Mercer felt the crackle in the air and heard a rending crack. A bolt of painfully bright lightning arced across the common room, caught Hardin full in the chest, and threw him. He crashed through a table and came to rest on his side.

  The attack left a charge in the air and the smell of ozone. Sparrow ducked his head and pulled his shoulders up around his ears. The hair on his head was standing on end.

  Mercer used the distraction to his advantage. He spun the axe around and hammered Sparrow in the head with the blunt end. He was pulling his blow, but the impact made a meaty crack. Sparrow screwed his eyes shut and went stumbling away, clutching his head with one hand. Blood welled up between his fingers.

  Hardin lay on his side, a burn mark on his armor and his eyebrows singed off. He gave a few spastic jerks, let out a low groan, and reached for his sword, but by that time Mercer was standing over him, the tip of his blade at Hardin’s throat.

  “Yield,” Mercer said.

  Hardin’s lips pressed together, and he drew his hand away from the sword hilt. Mercer kicked it away.

  Another crackling charge filled the air and made the small hairs on Mercer’s forearms stand on end. Drake was already pulling together another attack. He said, “The next one is fire, Hardin.”

  Hardin showed his empty palms. “Alright.”

  Sparrow had recovered. He managed to stand up straight, still gripping his weapon, but blood painted one side of his face. He put his back to the wall and held the sword point out, not in offense, but to keep Mercer at bay. Without Hardin to back him, he wanted no part of the fight.

  Kid Creole was stretched out, clutching his thigh and moaning in pain. Blood piped from the cut in bright arterial sprays. His eyes rolled in their sockets and his face had turned a waxy shade of white. “It hurts,” he croaked. “Oh god, it hurts!”

  From outside, they heard the rattle and clank of guardsmen at the run.

  “We should get the hell out of here,” Drake said with a look at the dead innkeeper.

  “Too late for that,” Mercer told him. “We haven’t got horses. They’d ride us down. We wouldn’t make it a mile.”

  “M-M-Mercer,” Kid Creole managed to say. “I’m in a lot of p-p-pain.”

  “What do you want me to do about it, Kid?”

  He glanced down at the red fountain bubbling up between bone-white fingers. “I’m b-bleeding out.”

  “Looks like I hit your femoral artery,” Mercer agreed. “Not much to be done about that.”

  “I don’t . . . don’t want to be in pain,” Kid Creole said. “M-m-make it quick.”

  The town peace officers had reached the inn, a little winded, and demanded to know what was going on. A dozen different voices clamored to be heard, but the main point—that Hank had been killed in the scuffle—made itself clear. The guardsmen pushed and shoved their way through the crowd.

  Mercer looked at Kid Creole. His face had gone from white to blue. The shakes took hold of him and another hot wave of blood squirted out of his leg. There was no helping him; he would bleed out, but it would take a long time. No sense letting the kid suffer. Mercer nodded. “Alright, Kid.”

  Kid Creole clamped his eyes shut and turned his head aside.

  Mercer swung his axe in a tight arc. The blade buried itself in Kid’s temple with a meaty crunch. The spectators gasped. Kid’s body went limp. By that time the town guard had pushed through the crowd. Half a dozen men in hobnailed boots, armed with clubs and short swords, filed through the door. The leader, a tall man in a pie plate helmet and leather cuirass ordered everyone to lay down their arms.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Allison spent the next week looking for licensed gaming centers. Her job search was all but forgotten. She had broken the code, mapped the coordinates, and knew where to find the money. All she had to do now was collect, assuming no one else got there first.

  She climbed the steps from the subway onto a busy boulevard and glanced around. The sky was overcast with a threat of rain. She spotted a brightly lit neon sign that advertised VR GAMING – LOWEST PRICES – OPTIMAL NUTRITION – LONG TERM BILL PAY. Her body positively hummed with barely constrained excitement. She felt driven, like fate had brought her to this point, or maybe that was just wishful thinking. All she knew was her life was in shambles and she might be the only person in the world who knew where to find ten million ByteCoin.

  The only thing standing in her way was finding a gaming center with open pods. She had been to six so far and none of them had open availability. The promise of ten million dollars had inundated the game with new players. The last six gaming centers she had visited said they could put her name on a waiting list and call when there was an opening, but they couldn’t say how long that would be. Allison learned that once you were in, you could stay as long as you wanted, assuming you were making enough in ByteCoin to pay for your pod. The gaming centers took 1 to 1 1/2 percent of anything players made, and Snowstorm Entertainment took another 1 percent off the top. Then the tax man would get his share. Allison had crunched the numbers; after the government got its slice of the pie, she’d have roughly six million dollars left over.

  Six million is plenty, Allison told herself. More money than I’ve ever seen.

  All she needed was a gaming center with an open pod. She crossed the street and made her way toward the doors. A swarthy-skinned man in tattered jeans and a loose sweatshirt stood with his back to the wall of the building, his hands stuffed in his pocket
s. His hair was matted and in bad need of a wash. Allison got a whiff of pot as she passed him.

  “Looking to join a game?” he asked. “I know a place that can get you in. Real clean pods.”

  She ignored him, hauled open the heavy glass door, and stepped inside. The reception area was a well-appointed space with cushy leather chairs and a polite secretary behind a desk who greeted Allison with a smile. “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to join the Savage Realms,” Allison told her. She felt silly saying the Savage Realms. It sounded like something a little boy would get excited about and conjured images of brawny men in loincloths, hunting lions with spears.

  The secretary’s smile never faltered. “I’m afraid all of our pods are filled and probably will be for the foreseeable future. In fact, all the servers are totally booked. At least until someone finds the prize money. If you really want to join, I can take your name and put you on a waiting list.”

  Allison felt a hitch in her chest and swallowed a lump in her throat. Desperation crept around her heels like a black dog, waiting to pounce. She said, “Please. I have to get in. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  The secretary shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Please,” Allison said. “Please, I know where the money is. I just have to get into the game.”

  The secretary gave her a patronizing smile. “That’s what everyone says.”

  “I’m desperate.” Allison put her hands, curled into little fists, on the counter and ignored the tears building in her eyes. “I lost my job. My car got repossessed. My phone is going to get turned off any day now. I need that money.”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” the secretary said.

  While she was speaking, an ambulance screamed to a stop out front, lights flashing and siren wailing out a long song. Allison turned to look. At first she thought there had been a traffic accident. But a pair of paramedics unloaded an empty stretcher from the back of the truck and wheeled it through the door of the server. The secretary buzzed them through a set of double doors to the left.

  “What’s that about?” Allison wanted to know.

  “Players get injured in game,” the secretary explained. “Sometimes they go into cardiac arrest in the Real.”

  A stone dropped into Allison’s stomach. “Does anyone ever die? I mean in real life?”

  “I haven’t heard of anyone dying. But plenty of players end up in psychiatric wards. The mental toll of dying in game can be very hard on the mind. It’s a growing problem. You know that inspirational speaker? Parker Graham? His son ended up catatonic and Graham started a non-profit charity for wounded gamers.” She fixed a frown on her carefully sculpted face. “Are you sure you really want to join?”

  The double doors opened again and the paramedics wheeled a man, writhing in pain, out on the stretcher. His face twisted in a grimace and his eyes bulged. He gripped his stomach with skeletal hands. “My guts!” he shrieked. “Help me! Oh, God! Somebody help me! I’m dying!”

  The paramedic crew hustled him into the waiting ambulance, fired up the sirens, and swung out into traffic.

  Allison turned back to the secretary, who shook her head at the scene, like it was something she had seen all too often. The siren trailed off. Allison swallowed a lump of hot fear and said, “You’ve got an opening now.”

  The secretary gave Allison a long-suffering face. “It’s not that easy. I’ve got a waiting list.”

  “Please,” Allison said, more desperate than ever. “I’ll give you one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Have you got a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Not right now,” Allison admitted. “But when I get the money, I’ll give you a cut. I swear.”

  The secretary made a face to show what she thought of that, picked up the phone, and dialed a number. She waited for someone to pick up and said, “Hello, Mr. Parks? We’ve just had an opening come available. Are you still interested?”

  While the secretary finalized Mr. Park’s slot in the game, Allison stepped outside, choking back tears. The ragged man with his matted hair was still leaning against the building. He grinned at her. “Want in?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The man had an unwholesome look about him, like he knew where to buy bath salts, or a gun. Allison kept walking, or tried to anyway. She made it three whole strides before she stopped, bit her lip, turned back. He stood with his back to the wall, and his eyebrows raised in silent expectation. Allison said, “I don’t want to do anything illegal.”

  His face morphed into a sly grin. “I look like a criminal to you?”

  She shook her head, started to apologize, and said, “Never mind.”

  She turned around and started to walk away. He left the wall and caught up with two long strides. One hand caught hold of her sleeve. “Wait. Wait. You want in the game, right?”

  “Yes,” Allison said without slowing down. “But I don’t want to get in any trouble.”

  “From what I heard, it sounds like you’re in trouble already,” he said, keeping pace.

  “You could hear that?” she asked.

  “There’s plenty of money to be made in the Realms,” he told her. “Even if you don’t find the prize money.”

  “Have you played?”

  “I used to.”

  She stopped. “Not anymore?”

  He shook his head.

  A cool wind blew hair across her face. She pushed it out of her eyes and said, “What happened?”

  “Got busted for hacking,” he admitted. “But that was a long time ago. I did my time. Now I work an underground VR server.”

  “Is it legal?” Allison wanted to know.

  “It’s legal,” he said. “Just unlicensed.”

  “I don’t want to break the law.”

  “No trouble,” he assured her. “It’s not illegal. Just unlicensed. There’s a difference.”

  She hesitated, caught by indecision. She wanted in but every gaming station in the city was full. Every second she waited brought someone else closer to the ten million.

  As if reading her thoughts, he said, “With ten million on the line, you’re gonna have to cut a few corners if you want in. The authorized gaming centers are all full. Seems like everyone in the country wants a shot at that prize money. Hell, you probably couldn’t find an open pod in Bangkok. It’s only a matter of time before someone gets their hands on that money. I can get you in, if you’re interested.”

  Allison chewed her bottom lip, nodded, and said, “I’m interested.”

  Another sly grin spread across his face. “Follow me.”

  He led the way along a trash-strewn alley that stank of spoiled cabbage to an unmarked metal door and banged on it with an open palm. The sound echoed within. A moment later, a stout man with a sagging gut straining a beer stained T-shirt hauled the door open and waved them inside.

  Allison nearly missed the step down. The fat man grumbled at her to watch her footing. She followed him into a stuffy-smelling basement with a low ceiling and bare concrete floor. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, then she saw a large open space with row upon row of pods marching to the back wall, and nearly every single one of them filled with sleeping people of all ages and ethnicities. Beside each pod stood a small black CPU with blinking lights and cables snarling up the floor. Each sleeper wore a helmet connected to the processors. Some of the people jerked and thrashed. Others lay like corpses, their mouths hanging open. Some of the gamers were as young as twelve, others were in their sixties and seventies. The computers gave off a steady hum and brought the temperature of the room up to a stifling heat that made sweat form on Allison’s forehead. She shrugged out of her coat.

  The fat man motioned her over to a folding table laden with a state-of-the-art MacBook connected to several server towers. He turned to the man who had brought Allison and said, “I got three more pods, Joe. There’s a grand with your name on it if you can fill them before five o’clock.”

/>   Joe ducked his head and left.

  The fat man turned his attention on Allison. “The Realms?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Please.”

  “O’ course,” he said more to himself than to her. “Everyone wants in now that there’s ten million bucks to be found. Sign here.”

  He handed her a clipboard with a release form filled front and back with tiny print. “I charge 5 percent of whatever ByteCoin you make.”

  “Five percent?” Allison said. “Other gaming centers only charge one.”

  “You’re welcome to try and find a place that will give you a better deal,” he grumbled.

  She looked at him and he stared right back. She thought about reporting him for allowing underage minors to play in a virtual reality game clearly indicated for adults only, but where would that get her? He would be out of business, and she still wouldn’t be in the game. She scribbled her name on the bottom of the release and dated it. After that, she used her thumbprint to link her bank account, filled in a few details and then, with her account set up, he crooked a finger.

  A technician with a tablet was moving between pods, monitoring vital signs. She spotted them and fell in line. The fat man showed Allison to a pod almost all the way at the back of the basement. There was an ugly stain on the faded canvas mat. The man motioned for her to sit, told her to have fun, and stalked off. Allison perched on the edge of the pod. The technician knelt down beside her, sorted through a tangle of hoses and electrical cords, and found a thick rubber hose. She took a four-inch-long needle in cellophane from her pocket, ripped open the clear plastic, and fixed it to the hose.

  “What’s that for?” Allison wanted to know.

  “You new to this?” the technician asked. She was a middle-aged woman with plump thighs and wrinkles around her eyes.

  Allison nodded. “First time.”

  “This is your feeding tube,” the technician explained.

  Allison looked around at the other sleepers and realized they all had tubes snaking under their shirts. While she watched, a clear plastic tube delivered a mixture of greenish goop into the belly of a sleeping man.