The Clan

by D. Rus

  Max's mom Anastasia Pavlovna was finishing her daily manipulations over her son's body. She'd already changed the almost-dry diaper, wiped his skin with a damp sponge, massaged his main muscle groups and replaced the saline bags on the automatic IV drip.

  She swept away an unwanted tear and stroked her boy's cheek, dry and scratchy like parchment. He was so gaunt. Not everyone would have recognized him as the once-cheerful young man who could have lost a few pounds. Between his deadly disease and the extended coma, they had eaten his body on the inside and transformed it on the outside.

  Anastasia Pavlovna glanced at the dozens of sensors that covered her son's body stretching their bundled cables to a massive console brought into her apartment by the Chronos workers.

  It had all changed so quickly. After Max contacted her, she had barely made an appointment when a couple of young and aggressive sales managers stormed into her apartment, pitching to her in the best traditions of neuro linguistic programming. Good job they were followed by a very nice girl called Olga, apparently a friend of Max', who came running after them—very sweet, intelligent and strangely sad. They would have made such a nice couple. Anastasia Pavlovna would have loved to sit with some grandchildren while she still had time.

  The girl had easily overrun the two. Under their pained stares, she had crossed out half of the contract's clauses fighting for the best offer plus some extras on top from their VIP reserve. Anastasia Pavlovna had herself heard one of the managers whisper in Olga's ear, "You stupid idiot, what do you think you're doing?" She had very nearly asked the bully to leave her house at once and only the sight of her son's pale face had stopped her from doing it there and then.

  She hadn't waited for the money transfer from her boy. She signed the contract on the spot and paid the deposit out of her own savings including her 'funeral money'. That didn't matter so much, really. As long as her boy was all right, money would take care of itself. Besides, hadn't Max told her he was earning a good wage in that AlterWorld of his? He definitely made enough to rent that lovely cottage for her. He also had some very no-nonsense friends: one of them, Vladimir, was even now sitting by the kitchen window monitoring (as he called it) the front door. She'd told him so many times it wasn't worth the trouble, told him she was too old to be bodyguarded like that. But he wouldn't listen, would he? He was always one step behind her, turning his head this way and that, checking the surroundings. A fine young man, even though he'd never offered to help her with her shopping bag. 'I'm awful sorry, ma'am,' he'd say, 'but my hands must be free at all times.'

  Recently two more had joined him. Oleg usually stayed in the car. Constantine came late at night to replace one of the other two. It would be a good idea to cook some meat balls for them, you couldn't expect them to stay fit on all those pizza orders and rice cakes wrapped in synthetic seaweed.

  The heart monitor beeped, its alarm disrupting her thoughts. On its screen, the neat curves gave way to sharp peaks and scary dips. Her son's heart missed another beat, and again, followed by a long pause. The monitor's anxious whine grew as the peaks straightened into a thin horizontal line. Come on now! Start beating! Hold on, son, keep on fighting!

  An emergency call light blinked, summoning a Chronos resuscitation team. The hospital's remote operator hooked himself up to the resuscitation equipment that crowded around the headboard of the capsule. The day before, she'd had to sign a hospital waiver and pay for the VIP-class home care. Without that, they would have taken him away to some hospice where he'd have faded away like any other coma sufferer.

  The operator sent the charge command to the defibrillator and activated the pulse generator. The sharp click of the jet injector startled her. An empty adrenaline cartridge rolled across the floor.

  "Clear!"

  Her son's body arced, convulsing. The autosampler methodically injected the contents of the first-aid container into the IV drip. On the monitor screen, the hospital doctor's face frowned, concerned.

  "Clear!"

  Whiffs of smoke rose from the capsule's sensitive electronic components. There had to be a cutoff system there that disabled any non-core hardware, but it didn't seem to have worked. Again the jet injector clicked, sending an empty atropine cartridge spinning across the parquet floor.

  "Clear!"

  The monitor was still whining when the corridor filled with the stomping of many feet. The Chronos men were the first to arrive.

  Hope in her eyes, Anastasia Pavlovna looked up at the hospital doctor on the monitor screen. He turned away momentarily, then forced himself to answer her stare, shaking his head. Then the monitor blinked, the picture replaced by a list of the resuscitation procedures. The arriving ambulance crew took over from him. He switched off.

  Half an hour later, Anastasia Pavlovna sat at the table, barely responsive, clutching some sedatives in one hand and an official pen with a built-in ID check in the other. She wasn't even looking at what she was signing: the death certificate, the ambulance crew report, the burial certificate that stated her son's body was to be laid to rest cryogenically. She was almost happy she couldn't see or hear much: the last thing she wanted to hear now was the squelching sounds of a machine that was pumping extra liquid out of her son's body, replacing it with cryoprotective solution.

  A text ringtone made her jump. She froze. This was the tone she'd assigned to messages coming from her son's number.

  Not yet knowing what she was doing, the mother looked up at the comms bracelet. She touched the screen, opening the incoming message. A wide smile lit up her face.

  He's alive! My boy's alive! Oh, thank you, AlterWorld, thank you!

  * * *

  We were finishing our alcocreams when my chest seized up quite painfully. I winced, rubbing what had to be the heart area.

  "Whassup?" the ever-observant Zena asked.

  "Dunno. Feels like my heart's just played up."

  Her eyebrows rose. "You're not going to become the first perma who popped his clogs from a heart attack, are you?"

  "I hope not," I smiled back, concentrating on my body sensations. The pain seemed to have subsided, or was it my imagination? My nerves were like live wires with all the recent events, and the shock I'd received that morning could have well added its pound of flesh. I was surprised I wasn't hearing voices yet, let alone suffering phantom pains.

  Her stare unfocused briefly, then she was back with us. "He'll see you in ten minutes. Are you ready?"

  "Yes, ma'am!"

  "Good. Freckles, finish your mojito and give Max a lift to the Guild. And you can show him to the office. He doesn't have much time."

  "Sure," the female wizard mumbled, clinking her spoon as she scooped out the last of her soft-green poison of choice from the bowl.

  In theory, virtual liquor didn't have intoxicating properties. But in practice... It could simply have been brain chemistry playing up; alternatively, the drink could trigger existing subconscious reflexes, but it was a fact noticed by many: the alcohol did affect you. Some more, others less, but no one was a hundred percent immune to its effect apart for some die-hard teetotalers and rehab rats whose subcortex didn't possess the necessary neural links.

  That explained the fact that the girls were just tipsy enough to move to the next stage of the dating game, some quite prepared to skip it and move directly to the inevitable horizontal stage. Yeah, right. Bomba especially could use a strong male hand. The other girls weren't exactly beauty pageant material, either. Having said that, the time spent in AlterWorld had somehow changed my perception of beauty. To my eye they seemed quite cute even if a bit homely, though had I met their team in real life, I was guaranteed a few embarrassing moments complete with a pair of soiled pants and some early gray hair.

  Freckles checked her bowl again and, finally convinced it was empty, sat back in her chair. She sent me an invitation to join the group, waited for the acceptance notification and announced with the intonations of the first man in space,

  "Off we go!"

&nb
sp; I had barely jumped to my feet when a micro port pulled us out of the café and onto the teleport pad opposite the mercs' Guild building.

  "After you!" she motioned me into the main gates guarded by a pair of golems.

  I forced the last mouthful of Elven beer down my suddenly constricted throat. I pulled the spoon—which could now be considered stolen, I suppose—out of my mouth, studied it in astonishment and hurled it aside. "Come on, then."

  The VIP conference room was dripping with over-the-top luxury. Its walls were lined with tapestries depicting the mercs' exploits: the Nagafen raid, the week-long defense of the entrance to the Valley of Gold, and the storming of the Citadel of Gloom.

  I sat in a comfortable leather chair. The Coordinator's powerful figure towered across the table opposite. Apparently, the corporate dress code that demanded all minor staff to wear Goblin guises didn't apply to him. Personally, I wasn't sure that a malicious snout with its finger-long fangs sticking out between black lips was a good working image to communicate to his VIP conferees. But judging by the fact that his green mug with its recognizable tattoo on one cheek kept recurring on some of the tapestries, the Coordinator hadn't always been a staff pen pusher. He must have come up through the ranks: his tough-guy appearance must have initially been generated for the battlefield, not office chitchat.

  He gave ear to my request, his direct stare unsettling. Then he paused, thinking. He seemed to have made up his mind as he sat back in his chair and spoke,

  "You see, dear Laith, there are several problems with your request to begin with. But let me start with a question. How are you going to hack the dome?"

  That got me thinking. I really didn't want to expose my ability in front of all that crowd. At first I'd planned on using the Shadow of the Fallen One that guaranteed me some nominal anonymity. Very nominal, because even Snowie was quite capable of putting two and two together and sussing out the ability's proud owner. And I didn't want them to make me do their dirty work for them. But wait—there was a solution. Costly enough to make my inner greedy pig clutch at his heart, but a solution nonetheless.

  I reached into my bag, produced my handmade scroll and laid it on the table. The orc peered at it. His nostrils twitched greedily; his hand jerked mechanically as if to grab it.

  "Hm. Are you sure you want to waste a unique item like that? Why not sell it to me? I'd pay you two hundred thousand in gold. You don't really need it to deactivate the dome. Just hire an extra hundred wizards and they'll do it for you, for less money too. What do you say to that?"

  Yeah, right. I'd give it to him, and then the scroll would resurface at the worst possible moment, probably under my own castle walls. Not mentioning the fact that the spell cost at least a million. The merc wizards would take at least half an hour to break through the shield. As if I had that kind of time! I probably could just about handle the guards with their 15-min respawn times, but regular players could step in, too, and they respawned instantly.

  No, giving matches to children wasn't a good idea. "With your permission, I prefer to act fast and be sure. So how much do I owe you for hiring three hundred top warriors for a five-minute coup?"

  With a disapproving shake of his head, the orc began talking up his prices. "The minimal hire is twenty-four hours. It would take me about two hours to gather the force you need. Five hundred each, that's a hundred and fifty thousand in total."

  "That's a lot," I tut-tutted. "No wholesale discount?"

  He gave me an encouraging smile, like, there would be if you wait a bit. "I haven't finished yet. As the proposed op has a more political rather than military character which may potentially affect the Guild's relationship with some of AlterWorld's top factions, a risk ratio comes into play, doubling the price. That's in case I give you my permission to proceed. Which I won't because under these conditions, the money is of less interest and can't serve as a means of payment."

  "Then what will?"

  He gave an indifferent shrug. "Possibly, the return service of a comparable caliber or," he pointed his eyebrows at the parchment, "a unique item of similar value."

  Wasn't he cornering me, the bastard? No, Sir, I don't think so! The higher his interest in the scroll, the less I wanted to satisfy it. I just didn't happen to like shady types with unclear agendas.

  Under his sour stare I put the parchment back into the bag. I felt for a Tear of a Phantom Dragon and placed it onto the table. The orc's eyes glistened. Tilting his head, he read the stats and beamed. Gingerly he picked up the stone, his sensitive fingers stroking it.

  "Very well, dear Laith. The Tear is valuable. I think I know what we can do with it," his eyes stealing toward an enormous scimitar on an expensive mahogany stand. "But... I'm afraid it's not enough."

  Looking into his gleaming yellow eyes, I slowly reached for the second tear. The Coordinator leaned forward, his cheek twitching. "Still not enough!"

  Oh, well. Their combined value was between a hundred and two hundred grand. True, not quite enough, but considering their scarcity... Very well, Sir, take and choke on it. My Lena was probably standing up to her waist in baby Dragons' tears now...

  I lay the third tear onto the table.

  "Not enough."

  Wasn't he a bit too greedy for a senior manager? He could use a lesson. Fuck the whole hire thing—if it failed, I'd just have to try something else. I could always turn to the Vets: I could ask them to give me Lt. Singe's men to cast the Minor Power Dome on top of the 30-sec immunity I got from the Shield of Faith. I just might make it.

  Again I reached into my bag and started pulling my hand slowly out. The orc leaned forward till he lay on the table, his clawed hands twitching. Then his stare froze, uncomprehending, first on me, then on the protruding middle finger that I'd produced from the depths of my bag.

  "W-what do you sug-gest?" he stuttered.

  "What do you think? All finished! No more stones! And those that you have already may just have all run out, too. Some people should keep their greed on a short leash. Now. Three Tears against a proper three hundred squad, fully equipped and buffed to the teeth. Deal?"

  I was about to offer him my hand but reconsidered. This dashing armchair warrior made me question his combat past. His brutal looks, his tapestries with his own image lovingly portrayed in the foreground, his scimitar on the mantelpiece... He could just be a militarized office rat—I'd seen his type in real life. They love wearing camos and cropped hair, have a house collection of a dozen knives and burn the night oil at all the relevant forums. Never mind they never did army service. Or if they did, they were on kitchen duty.

  But this character didn't quite fit the mold. Too smart, the bastard. A millionaire daddy's spoiled nerd with Harvard behind his belt, casting jealous glances at pumped-up movie hulks? Could be.

  In the meantime, the orc was combatting his own inner greedy pig. After a minute's thought, he scooped up the crystals and recapped,

  "Three hundred sentients. Average level, one-fifty. Plus the buffs, catalog price forty grand. Combat time: ten minutes, after which the warriors are ported back and the contract is considered closed."

  "I thought you said the contract was for twenty-four hours?" I asked. I could always find ways to use all that manpower. I could send them to farm a dungeon or find other ways to keep them busy.

  He shrugged. "That's as may be. Still, the conditions remain the same. You've just said it was a five-minute job. That's why you got this price. I can recalculate it for twenty-four hours, if you prefer. Fancy that?"

  Scumbag. Never mind. Every dog has his day, especially when the dog has absolute memory. A thousand years later, I'd still remember this day and the way he pulled my strings. Actually, the same applied to me, too. I should really watch my tongue and go easy on making new enemies. This wasn't Kansas anymore. Time wasn't going to heal anything here.

  I gritted my teeth and shook my head. "Not really."

  "Excellent. I'll PM you the contract template shortly. I'm going to summon my
junior coordinator to accompany you for the duration of the contract. This is a compulsory condition in case of hiring fifty personnel and over. Now you'll go to assembly hall six. No, it's not a factory floor but a large hangar-like depot. That's where raid parties are formed, briefed and buffed. You are the raid leader. Choose the teams' leaders as your officers. Try not to split existing groups unnecessarily as it may lower the efficacy of the whole force. The junior will tell you. That's it, then! Thank you for thinking about us. It's your money for our swords. Have a nice day!"

  He shouted the last of his speech at my back as he ushered me out of his office and gestured at me to a solemn-looking Barbarian warrior who was waiting in the reception area.

  I swung round, sending caution to the wind, about to tell him everything I had boiling inside me, when his office door was promptly closed in front of my very nose. I recoiled. "You piece of-"

  "Yes, Sir!" the voice barked behind my back.

  I turned around to face the Barbarian. He offered me his hand. "Allorienar, which stands for Widow Breeder, or Widowmaker as our guys here call me. But for you, I'm Alexis."

  He gave me an open smile. I enjoyed shaking his strong hand callused by sword use.

  "That one," he nodded at the door, "just forget him. It's the management's protégé, some top dog's son. Lots of attitude and an enormous artifact collection. He lays his hands on everything that's not bolted down. Half our guys dream of busting his stashes. Right then, let's go to the assembly room. I've got the contract details already. Looks like it's going to be fun. It's been a while since we gave the Lighties a rocket. Actually, what would you say to a bit on the side? I'd like to invite a couple of reporters to join the group. They pay quality money for an invitation to a good scuffle. Mind you, it's always better to milk them ourselves because the information will leak, anyway, even if only seconds before we jump. Someone always talks. Happened lots of times. Keeping a large raid secret is not easy, and those hacks will pay anything for a tip.