Hold on, he thought, I have a spare battery. I wonder if there's enough of a charge. Gotta try.
After a quarter of an hour spent messing with cables and plugs, he anxiously reached again for the switch. Come on, help me out, gods of Alterra... Jack jabbed the button and froze, listening closely. For a few moments nothing happened, and he heard only the resounding thud of his heart. Then a thought flashed: well, he had been counting on a miracle. It had been stupid to hope. He could find a thousand reasons why it didn't work — the computer was fried, the battery didn’t have enough of a charge, a bad cable connection... Could have been anything. But then the computer clicked on, the light on the front of the CPU block under the table lit up, the cooling fan roared wildly, and a dim spot appeared in the center of the monitor. It began to spread across the screen, system messages ran...
Jack sighed. Miracles still happened sometimes! They happened rarely, so that people didn't forget to appreciate them. And in front of him the strange, ancient interface was slowly coming to life. The desktop was pristine, except for the Recycle Bin icon in the corner and, right in the center, a lonely little file: "a letter to my daughter.txt". Jack rummaged through the serpentine tangle of cords and extracted the mouse. He opened the file and began to read.
Annabelle, daughter. Tomorrow you will be sixteen years old and will enter Alterra. If you only knew how I've waited for the day when you could finally appreciate what your dad does.
I'll never be able to forgive myself for not being with you on this day. But you already know that the new quarantine law is very strict. I have to stay at the clinic for evaluation. There are already orderlies here in hazmat suits and masks. They're waiting for me to finish this message and copy it to e-mail so that they can take me away. And I barely begged that off these stubborn people, can you believe it? I'm certain that I've not been infected, sitting here in the basement but, for some reason, they're anxious and are rushing me.
I'm so sorry that I won't be there tomorrow to wish you a happy birthday. You know that your mom left me long ago and took you with her... I had hoped for a long time that she would change her mind and come back, that this was the act of someone temporarily possessed, but... alas. Well, you'll be able to see your mama in the game, too. And me. All of us have found a place there. And here's the most important thing: I've made a present for you. When you're comfortable in Alterra and have had your fill of the beauty of Svetlograd, do this. Find the merchant, Jacob, on Trader's Row and accept the quest from him. I'm sure that, unlike other players, you'll understand its hidden meaning and go further, where others won't. You will seek out the Crown of Thergal and lay it on the brow of the statue depicting princess Annabelle. Whose appearance do you think I used for this statue?
Do you remember the nighttime story I used to tell you? About the fair princess Annabelle, the brave knight Beleth, and the evil sorcerer Thergal? After so many years, my stories have come to life in Alterra.
Well, that's it. That's everything. The orderlies are demanding that I hurry up. Happy birthday, darling, and do what I've written here. Put the crown on the statue's head. I guarantee you won't regret it! Something special is waiting for you. It's a shame that I can't give you the gift myself, but nobody has ever gotten such a birthday present. You'll see, it'll be amazing.
I can already hear the footsteps behind me, but I still need to copy the file. I love you.
Your...
The fan at last snorted and died. Under the table something clicked and the screen went blank. For a few minutes, Jack just remained in place, staring ahead thoughtfully. He thought about the old world. It probably had been so beautiful and fair, but forever lost, swept away by the genetic storm of global catastrophe... He wondered, were there any other entrenched islands of civilization like New Atrium? With dirty, moldy crusts of ghettos clinging to them, like the place where he lived? And did the local non-citizen omegas play in Alterra or its equivalent, which the alphas threw at them, like a shiny, lacquered, artificial bone, so that they wouldn't revolt?
Then he shuddered, came to his senses, and at last looked around. He touched the ancient computer display in parting, climbed the stairs, and carefully closed the hidden door behind him. Goodbye, my friend, Simon, creator of the best quest.
Once outside, Jack circled Simon's House to be sure that no one had seen his secret. The Blighted Wasteland — the place wasn't too crowded, and right now he couldn't see anyone nearby.
Then he strode off toward New Atrium and the ghetto. His thoughts were still far away. He pictured Simon Wenzowich, his "possessed" wife, and his daughter Annabelle, who was depicted in a statue in the center of Svetlograd. No, poor Simon could not, did not have time to tell his daughter how to find the Crown of Thergal, and she never placed the artifact on the head of her statue in virt. The sculpture was standing in the square without its crown. Maybe they cut off the electricity too soon or old Simon was forcibly dragged from the computer. Or perhaps the email was sent, but his beloved daughter hadn't read it... Then the Gendemic began, civilization collapsed, and all plans, hopes, and expectations went down the tubes. And Alterra remained. Only it was able to survive the catastrophe. And in a square in Svetlograd, a statue of Annabelle Wenzowich still stands. Waiting for its crown. Waiting for the miracle that a father promised his daughter.
Jack was thinking about how ridiculous he would look, clambering up the statue to put the Crown on its head. He'd have to do it at night. So no one would see.
Translated from Russian by Krystal Diehl
Coming soon!
If you want to learn more about Jack's adventures in Alterra, read the novel
The First Player!
Countdown
a LitRPG short story
by Pavel Kornev
GADGETS are evil.
My silenced smartphone vibrated in my breast pocket just as I was trying to whip out the gun. I loosed off two slugs in rapid succession. Still, I didn't even need to check the target. I knew I'd missed.
Having holstered my 911, I unhurriedly reached into my denim shirt pocket for the still-vibrating phone. I glanced at the screen and cussed.
Did I say gadgets were evil? Oh no. They're evil's henchmen.
The real Inferno-class evil is when your employer calls you on your day off. Somehow I doubted he wanted to invite me to a barbecue party at his place. Quite the opposite, more likely.
Still hoping that it might be about some stupid formality which wouldn't disrupt my scheduled hundred-shot practice, I pulled off the earmuffs and swiped the screen, accepting the call.
"Code red," the familiar voice said. "The file is in your inbox."
Code red? Did we even have one?
I was about to ask him as much but stopped myself just in time. "I'm opening it," I said.
Before leaving the yard and going back indoors, I did check the targets though. Surprisingly enough, one of the two slugs had hit the "corpse" printout straight in the forehead. Still, I wasn't in the mood to celebrate the fact. Not anymore.
I PULLED the plastic cover off the game capsule. I hadn't been planning on logging in today. Still, I booted up and lay on its comfortable bed which looked a bit like those used by dentists, with foam rollers massaging your body under the soft upholstery.
Immediately I half-rose again and removed the holster from my belt. I decided against locking the gun away. Instead I just left it lying on the rotating side table next to the keyboard and the monitor.
The icon of an unread message blinked in the corner of the screen. Disappointingly, it turned out to be only a promotional letter advertising the new Be Yourself! project. For those gamers fed up with seven-foot Barbarians and DD-size Amazons, the game designers offered to have their own bodies scanned, then level them up — or rather, level up their 3D models, anatomically correct in every detail.
Personally, I'd chosen that option already at the beta testing stage. In the past, I used to play all sorts: from burly knights to nimble rogues and Elven
archers, and every time it had taken me ages to get used to a new body.
The game console finished booting and played a soft jingle. I slid on the wire-free VR helmet. Before activating it though, I refreshed my inbox, discovered a new message and opened the attachment. It contained all the instructions, coordinates and access codes I might need.
For a brief moment, everything went dark. Then I found myself in my Dashboard. Its design was deliberately Spartan: the players' minds needed time to adjust to their new environment.
Ghostlike, I slid past the row of the choicest level-99 characters: the highest level currently possible. A kilt-clad Barbarian with a two-handed sword; an Elf with a longbow; a King's rifleman with a musket and a saber; a pirate Orc armed with a cutlass and two pistols under his belt, and lots of others. They differed only in skin color: each and every one of them was me, allowing me to settle into any of them in no time.
Still, I habitually chose my favorite char: the Dark Wanderer, his eyes glowing crimson with infernal flames. A warlock assassin was a perfect fit for today's job.
Ignoring the numerous maintenance screens displaying his stats and skill/ability branches, I reached for a shimmering envelope-shaped icon: a message from the technical department. Immediately the long sequence of nines in my XP column was replaced by the infinity sign.
A new status appeared: Demi-God, opening a new ability branch. Its name was Divine Magic.
Oh, well. The game developers had every right to consider themselves the new demiurges: creators of a new world and a new reality.
Then I was thrust into that world upwards, like a corpse forced out of a freshly dug grave.
The next moment I stood amid a forest glade overgrown with tall grass. Insects buzzed in the air; at a distance, a woodpecker picked at a tree. The air, fresh and pure, was heavy with strange floral scents.
I took a few deep breaths and laughed, drunk with my new almighty power. Even though the code I'd received in the mail hadn't contained the key to true immortality like the fabled "IDDQD" of old, it had improved my already maxed-out skills and abilities manifold.
+50% bonus to every stat I had, +100% to all damage dealt by cold steel and +300% to protection from magic spells. Add to this non-stop mana restoration, and my Dark Wanderer became a true killing machine.
Billowing shadows swirled around me. The grass at my feet withered. I had to take control of my new power and conceal it within me. Run-of-the-mill sorcerers may have had access to higher-level spells — but Dark Wanderers knew how to hide their aura, keeping their abilities under wraps until the last possible moment. The last for our victims, that is.
My mind seemed to have split, allowing me to see myself as if through another person's eyes.
A gaunt dark-haired man stood in a circle of withered grass. He wore a gray cloak over his dark green jerkin. A broadsword and a dagger hung heavily from his wide leather belt. His left hand glittered with magic rings, each more powerful than the next. The relic ring containing the Fire of Holy Exorcism had cost me so dearly in that wretched bone-shattering quest that I'd kept it more as a souvenir than for anything else.
Personal and gear stats began flickering on the screens, reporting the items' remaining Durability. Once the data was saved and synchronized, the split personality effect was gone too.
Powerful wings rent the air. A huge raven landed onto my shoulder. His claws sank into my skin, hurting even through the thick cloth.
"Direction north east," he croaked. "You're expected. Go!"
Having delivered his message, Munin the Raven — the in-game automatic communication module — shot back up into the air and disappeared into the heavens.
I began walking directly through the woods in the direction he'd pointed. My high leather boots protected my legs from the dew. Soon I discovered a trail threading amid the oaks.
A blurred outline flashed past nearby bushes. In the forest, Elves could be a real pain in the butt. Knowing that, I activated Divine Vision. The spell revealed the glowing of several auras belonging to players scattered throughout the trees. They were definitely players — not NPCs. Unlike the True Vision available to sorcerers, my professional spells allowed me to tell the difference.
All the Elves were level 99, their stats hidden.
Definitely not players. Maintenance experts, more likely. Code red, whatever that was supposed to mean.
"Keep on going," the raven croaked. "You're expected!"
The Elves hadn't even looked at me. The path soon took me to a muddy road. I followed it until I came to the enormous dome of the Diamond Veil. The security perimeter had been reinforced with restricted-access Divine Magic, its Durability stat window left blank.
And on top of it all, they had a Higher Paladin of the Crimson Sun Order posted next to four Elementals summoned from the Plane of Fire.
Tongues of colorless flames licked his ruby-tinted armor. I was dying to give him a good whack with the darkest combat spell I had. Still, I overcame my char's urge. Yes, you heard right. As a player levels up, his virtual body soaks up his actions and decisions, transforming his most repeated behavioral patterns into instincts. The higher a player's level, the bigger this transformation is.
A nice warlock? Do me a favor.
Under his watchful glare, I approached the Diamond Veil and pressed my hand to it, feeling the cold of a hostile magic.
"Go!" Munin the Raven croaked again.
Bracing myself, I stepped through the sparkling mist toward the ranger's hut it concealed.
The hut's back yard was crowded with golems rambling about. There was no sign of their alchemist controller anywhere. The bots were in autonomous mode, busy studying severed limbs scattered on the blood-soaked earth.
I counted the remains of five human bodies. Their simple jerkins revealed mithril chainmail underneath, its links ripped by inhuman blows. The place was littered with fragments of charmed swords and broken muskets.
I selected all the bodies, opened their stats and chuckled in surprise. The dead men had been anything but newbs.
Class: forest rangers
Levels: 43 to 52
They'd had plenty of specialization bonuses and magic artifacts. Judging by the nature of their wounds, they had come across some creature of Inferno. In which case I had no idea why they'd had to ask me to come. A demon against five top-level rangers was a fair enough ratio. The guys had been down on their luck, that was all.
But the moment I entered the ranger's hut, it all became clear.
Blood was the first thing I noticed. The floorboards were completely drenched in it, to the point where the gutted body of the sixth victim failed to produce any effect. I tried to focus on it but its stat window was completely empty.
"A player?" I asked a puny old alchemist perched on a stool.
The old man pried himself from his notebook, raised his orange glasses to his forehead and nodded.
"What's the urgency?" I asked, studying the skinned body.
"He got stuck," the old man explained. "Or she, rather. It's a girl. Sixteen years old."
I felt queasy. Not because of the stench of blood. Not at all.
This is full immersion gameplay, you see. Here, virtual reality deceives all your senses, making pain just as acute as it is in real life. But there's still a certain threshold where defenses kick in. When this happens, you first watch your char writhe in agony, then you're thrown back into the main menu where you cry again — not with pain this time but with all the XP you've just lost. But if you're stuck in the game while someone skins you alive... the pain is such you can just go nuts on the spot.
"What could have caused it?" I asked.
"We're looking into it," he pointed at the body. "Your job is to find the guy who did it."
"What do you mean, find? Can't you just check the logs?"
The alchemist removed his glasses and began wiping them with a scrap of cloth. He'd posed his feet on the stool's crossbar in order not to soil his pointy leather sho
es with blood.
"So what's with the logs?" I nudged him.
"A glitch in the Frankfurt data center..." he began, pointing his glasses at me. "No, it's not that! It's none of your business, anyway! Just find the murderer and set a pack of Hell Hounds on him. Hurry! The sooner we retrieve the... the trophies, the sooner we can get her out of her coma."
"So that's what it is, then? That's what Be Yourself! is about? This is a digital imprint of her own body, isn't it? Is that why it glitched? Because it got dismantled?"
"We're looking into it," the alchemist insisted. "Just do your job, will you? The murderer used an astral portal. He's playing as a Demonic Metamorph. That's all we know about him at the moment."
"Tracking him down isn't going to be easy."
"That's exactly why we hired you to do the job!"
Oh was it? Somehow I didn’t think so.
The reason they'd hired me was because I wasn't on their payroll. I was a freelancer — an outsider.
Formally, the murderer hadn't broken any of the game's rules. The PvP mode was one of its main attractions. Naturally, the admins didn't want such incidents to become public. But that didn’t mean they were prepared to suffer problem players gladly. All those top-level perverts, serial killers and stalkers on the prowl for virtual and real-life celebrities was bad for business. That's when they turned to people like me.
You could call us scalp hunters, I suppose.
It's very easy to make a player's virtual life unbearable, repeatedly killing them, stripping them of XP or robbing them clean of their hard-earned artifacts. I'm a stalker, too. The difference is, I only stalk very, very bad guys. I mean, really bad — bad even by the game's all-permissive standards.
You're in Game! LitRPG Stories from Bestselling Authors Page 10
