by D. Rus
Following a short disorientation after entering the portal, I immediately ran into Orcus.
"Grab that invite, Sir! Hit the Crypt. Everyone’s already there!"
The clan wizard exerted himself as he summoned a portal. I bet my servants had aged a whole day during the seven seconds it took him to cast that spell.
My ear-choppers raced past me, hurrying to fall in. A red alert is no joke. It’s like a fighter jet pilot taking orders when his plane hadn’t even left the ground yet. The Children of the Night were buffing up in a rush, picking up extra weapons, getting their accumulators and lining up outside in equal squares of specialized units.
The demons jogged into the armory in a straight line. Lightfighter greedily drew in the evening air as he looked at the she-elves with lust in his eyes.
A young servant drove my eight new golems into the heavy artillery yard. As usual, it was filled with the din of the elaborate sledgehammer, cussing voices, and the abrupt ringing of metal.
I began to feel sick after slipping into yet another portal. My body was roughed up by the different realities, climates, air pressure, and all the other things that change when swapping one’s locations.
The Crypt was barely recognizable. It boasted the comforts of a submarine. Quietness and mutual politeness were diligently upheld, as there are normally certain specifics to the communal lifestyle of a hundred intelligent beings sharing a small space.
There were the three-level plank beds with curtains, a TV, a few friendly gals from the House of Pleasures, flower pots, intricate doilies, and a bunch of photos on the walls. Hygiene was highly maintained, and every inch was being put to good use, considerably allotted toward someone’s personal space.
The warriors smiled to themselves at the moans coming from the heavy booth built for intimate needs.
A huge red cat sat underneath a plank bed – clearly someone’s quest familiar. It was licking its balls. The animal was nervous. It kept glancing around, obviously wishing it had eyes in the back of its head. It could’ve used those, too. A quiet pop sounded, and the familiar white plush flashed behind the cat’s back. Its eyes widened, its muzzle twisting in panic.
A strong kick in the ass drew a heartrending meow from the cat’s throat and sent it flying to the other corner of the room, spread-eagled. The off-duty guards laughed in unison. The cat’s tired owner cussed under his breath. I smiled. Hi there, Winnie.
Crates of the best cognac stood beneath the Crypt walls. Murky alchemic substances were being fermented in barrels. A stocky mule was taking inventory of droid assembly instructions, octagonal coins in sealed bags, and carefully packaged tech.
Gimmick had settled in the far corner. He now sported a few wrinkles and a torn scar underneath his left eye. A look of sadness and hopelessness was imprinted on his face. His tiny worktable was piled with droid innards.
A little to the side was the crafters’ area. It consisted of a field smithy, a grinding wheel, a stack of work materials and half-finished products. The work schedule hung on the wall, defaced with hand-written swear words.
Over in the kitchen corner was a pretty chef with an unusually thin waist. She’d obviously gotten herself appointed to cook because of other things besides her culinary talents. The girl was smiling pensively as she slipped pieces of pickled meat onto the skewers.
Noticing me, she gave a worried gasp, jumped to her feet, and hurriedly went through the supplies; potatoes, onions, carrots, eggs, sour cream, ham... Fuck me, damn Russian salad again!
I waved her away and put my hand to my throat, indicating that I was extremely full. I then quickly followed Orcus to the officers’ quarters. Heavy curtains separated them from the public area.
These quarters were more comfy. Narrow, carriage-like beds, a dinner table about a forearm’s width, and stools that could only fit one butt cheek, adorned with colorful handmade ass cushions. The hottie servant poured coffee for the officers as they studied their cards.
"Whatcha playin’?" I asked.
"Preference, Leningrad variant. One octagonal silver per whist. Wanna join?"
Widowmaker finally looked up from his cards. His face spread in a happy smile.
"Sir Laith, finally!" My clanmates cheered as they tripped over their stools to welcome me with hugs and backslaps.
"Whoa! I’ve only been gone for two hours, hardly a cause for celebration!"
The officers laughed in chorus.
"Max, for you it’s been two hours! Our personal timers have just hit five or six months of offline mode. Fuckyall and his zombie hottie had just celebrated their third anniversary with all their guard! Our bad, we invited him as an ally. But hey, he’s our best attacker. He and his guys got the highest levels, so they are trying to take the next station."
I didn’t have any objections. The Vets would also need a few top stars leveled up. Such a bomb could not stay secret for long. Info about the Crypt would surely leak out. Can’t seal up a bucket with a match.
The clan stats blamed a bug. During the last two hours, the Children of the Night battle squads’ levels increased by four on average. I surveyed my officers. Each one had gone up ten to fifteen levels. Not bad.
I sat down and sipped cold coffee from someone’s mug. Thirst would linger on for a few more hours after the oven-like Inferno. "Fill me in on the Crypt situation."
The Analyst raised his hand. "It’s tougher than expected. First of all, due to the asynch time flow, we can’t keep a permanent portal. It slams shut in seconds. Teleporting’s our best option, but this invites serious delays. Every time you go to grab some smokes, you come back in a week."
He waited for the laughter to subside, then continued, "Secondly. No possibility of living space expansion. Our curtain is like a hollow spindle which goes deeper and deeper. It conceals the dungeon’s spiral. Hammer through the walls, and you free the flesh-eating shroud. Then it’s hello, respawn. That’s why we’ve limited the personnel numbers down here. Ninety persons is the most that can fit in here with minimal comfort. Ideally, that number should be thirty."
The others voiced their agreement. After Super Nova’s luxury apartments, they’d grown weary of these busy barracks.
"And thirdly, farming’s rough. We just aren’t strong enough for this damn dungeon! Sure, we’ve shortened all the monster spawn intervals to an exact three minutes. But even at Station 5, our top level-190 fighters have to face a 300-level Guard Droid! That’s a foul at best! The guys get taken out time after time, even with the Cover Golem and the crossbow turret, which, mind you, are not cheap. Overall, Station 5’s our ceiling with a near-zero efficiency factor. Just too many deaths. Fuckyall’s troops are farming Station 6 right now. They’re going for level 200. But what we need right away is new tactics and better gear! That’s all I have."
I tapped my fingers on the table as I thought things over. "Understood. I’ve got a few ideas. But moving on: what are the Lightsiders up to?"
Their faces grew dark. Orcus spoke, "The Lightsters had caught us by surprise. And no wonder. They’ve got pros, perhaps government agents. We’re a joke in jumpsuits. Nine Alliance castles got attacked. Three were seized, including the Veterans’ Forest Castle. They’re looting the castles in a rush to get rid of them."
I gritted my teeth. "How did this happen?!"
"Spies were clearly involved in two of these cases. Massive betrayal. They leaked the passwords and messed up the control artifact settings by taking over the Control Room and busting up the Accumulators. What happened in the third instance is unclear. The Astral Mana Absorption spell knocked off the castle’s roof. It was most likely read from a scroll. They’re figuring out all possible Arsenal leaks."
I gave a solemn chuckle. "I’ve an alibi... been hanging out with Tavor."
Orcus waved his hand, indicating that I remained above suspicion. "That’s not all. If we want to stay friends with the Chinese, we need to help them right away. The Mao's Legacy spokesman is outraged. Their lands are being actively wip
ed out. Our allies are going down the drain. We’ve only twelve hours to decide whether or not we interfere. It’ll be too late after that. The Koreans are also facing trouble. Can’t say if we’re to blame, but their sudden reinforcement increase was not met well. Their foes are joining forces and are quite powerful. The situation’s expected to get worse."
As he spoke, my officers unrolled maps depicting the current state of affairs, and hung them on the walls. The maps had been drawn out with love and in great detail; patterns and naked girls adorned the edges. My tacticians had had plenty of time to kill.
"Our economy also took a hit. They did some jobs in the Original City, worsening our relations with them. The Alliance’s cigarette factory’s been destroyed. All NPC workers’ve been wiped out. Supply storages and ingredients are gone. The Gigantic Fly-Traps and the Millefleurs fields have been attacked. The farmers got slaughtered, even the freelance ones. An analog of the Emperor's Smoldering Delight hit the market at dump prices, no age limit."
Damn, evil on all fronts. This definitely wasn’t one of those usual game scuffles. This was the iron grip of some hardcore pros.
"You probably know by now that low-level areas are run by PK groups. The in-chat wailing can be heard all the way from The First Temple. But even worse is this: half an hour prior to the conflict, several attempts had been made to capture our clanmates and high-ranking Alliance officers. Some attempts were successful. The Children of the Night had supposedly lost seven people. We haven’t heard from the captives. Moreover, they failed to resort to Macarian Blissful Death, making us suspect that a divine-power artifact is preventing them from doing so. Probably Deceased God Relics or some half-beaten temple."
"Now that is bad..."
Orcus nodded in agreement. "We’ve been offered to exchange children for captives. They’ve made ambiguous guarantees; something about blissful futures and international protection. Also, the clan’s journalists are run off their feet by the new wave of disinformation spread by our enemy. They’ve set everyone against us, even in the real world. We’re being sued on fifteen counts of kidnapping and detaining children by force. Church officials promise punishments, and the Doc missed the control session. We’ve been expecting all of this, but we underestimated the scale. The PR experts we’ve hired are launching countermeasures. The lawyers are on it as well. We’re fighting the image that the AlterWorld mass media’s hung on us: the dark terrorists who use children for shields."
I gave him a thoughtful look. "That TV have recording gear?"
"Yes, the best kind."
"Good. There’s something I recall about the Sun God we could use against him. His Patriarch has heard and seen some things he shouldn’t have. Also, those reporters we bought – get them cracking. Tell our watchdogs it’s D-day. They gotta switch up their workbooks. Up our newspaper’s circulation volume, make it a free mod."
Widowmaker sighed. "Yessir! Sir, doesn’t this mean war?"
Chapter Nine
The FOL (Forces of Light) Headquarters. Chat log excerpt:
"Sir, Target-19: South Castle, The Veterans. Their dome’s of a higher caliber than we’d thought. We’re falling behind schedule."
"Send reinforcements from the First Wave reserves. A new set of siege engines and the 3rd hundred Galicians."
"Sir, yes, Sir!"
"Reporting from the Gentlebreeze resort: all terrorism suspects have been handled with Category C techniques. Twelve confessed, three agreed to cooperate."
"Proceed with the investigation. I authorize Category B interrogation."
"Sir, yes, Sir!"
Report from the real world raiding parties:
"Petersburg-6: 78 top-clan officers from the Russian-cluster have been denied access to the virtual world. We are requesting additional capacitors for EM-dischargers, armored cars with the virtual provider’s company logo, and increased defense forces. Some of our guard have been hospitalized following attacks by those banned from the virtual world."
"Moscow-3: access to the virtual world denied to 62 top-clan Russian officers and fighters. Our people on the force and in city hall can do no more. We ask to be put in touch with our officers in order to neutralize the independent virtual center with the 1300 capsule capacity."
"Permission granted to bring back agents Chess Player and Musician."
"Sir, yes, Sir! Newbie resistance is increasing. Our best PKs have been forced off a third of all the farm locations. The enemy is using a total of 6,000 players."
"Ok, these numbers are what we expected. Proceed to the second phase: attack on the enemy’s economic regions."
"Sir, yes, Sir! Observer reports, Sir: Puppet is still not found. Analysts predict that he is most likely located at Targets: 4, 19, or 28."
"Proceed to sub-plan execution: ‘Trap’ and ‘Bait.’ The aforementioned Targets’ instructors are to come out of stealth mode. Fighting unit – status zero!"
"Sir, yes, Sir! Attention! Code Yellow! Tactical plans mistimed! Clans partially out of control:
"Right Cause: denied orders to demolish the seized castles. Nominal clan leaders claim castles as private property. Most of the clan’s forces are tied up in the youth massacres within city limits."
"Forest Brothers and 888: the instructors cannot stop the massacres at the ingredient storehouses. Attacks on the enemy production capacity are behind schedule."
"Werewolf: have abandoned their permanent stationing locations and are attempting to seize a minor stronghold on the cluster’s northern front. Are currently ignoring all incoming orders."
"Real world groups Moscow-1, -4, and Petersburg-2, -3: connection lost!"
"Russians in Eva4 have begun a large-scale strategic attack! Allocating 90% of the analytical AI for a tactical response to Eva!"
"It’s a war alright!" I agreed. "And we’ve lost the first round. Orcus! You and those cocky Veterans have missed everything you possibly could!"
My counterspy habitually jumped to attention, "My fault, sir!"
"Much good that does us! Have our intervention goals been prioritized? How about the situation forecasts, the available resources? Or do you all need more time to finish your card games with the clan’s silver for prizes?! It belongs in the treasury!"
"We only took a little, and the prizes are nominal," Widowmaker put in, only to receive a punch from the Analyst.
The latter got up, drawing attention to himself and thus muffling the incident. He briskly gave some numbers,
"Clan’s available resources: 408 warriors, average level 177. Ranks as the 19th strongest in the Russian cluster. But thanks to the Crypt, we are steadily gaining 4 levels an hour. Our second and third lines: 129 hybrid classes and 96 supporters – clerics, enchanters, mules and the like."
I nodded. This was quite a force, only slightly weaker than the aggressive Vets. The stream of those wanting to join us showed no sign of drying up despite our overzealous efforts to catch the rotten among the recruits by thoroughly testing each and every candidate. We accepted every fourth applicant, which made the Children of the Night only that much more prestigious. Capes with the clan’s insignia were donned with pride, like a national guard badge.
But our main powers were well-concealed and out of sight.
"Additionally, our hell hounds have had good litters: seventy adult ones by now, plus pups – the third generation’s currently maturing. Most of them are ours, perma. The Valley’s quality grub is helping the packs grow exponentially. Another year or two, and we’ll face the Australian rabbit problem. Even now, the Inferno dwellers have cut us off from a series of good farming locations. They’re keeping the warm meat for themselves to get fat on."
A disturbed howl came from the depths of the dungeon spiral. One of the hounds sent there to level up overheard our conversation and warned us.
The Analyst cleared his throat in embarrassment and continued in a quieter voice, "As for the dragons: Vertebra’s unlikely to go beyond the Valley, unless Lena can talk her into it. The fledgling
s, on the other hand, are easy to persuade. Each can take out a ton of enemies who are unfamiliar with their fighting tactics. Then, there are the hired she-elves; about three hundred strong, all of different caliber. That practically doubles the clan’s strength."
"Add two hundred Silver Legion demons to that," I put in. "Kick-ass levels, although quite fucked in terms of gear."
The Analyst nodded and paused for a minute, noting the info on his clipboard.
"And to top that off, our leveling-up techniques are way beyond the joined forces of any alliances. We’re like an infantry battalion in charge of a tank division. This is all thanks to Max and his talent for turning any pile of dung into money, as well as his odd luck and legendary greedy pig."
I nodded discreetly, accepting the deserved compliments, and tried not to look too displeased. The habit of feigning poverty, which I’d acquired back in the real world, made me uncomfortable every time my true earnings were brought up.
The Analyst continued, "We have twenty of Gimmick’s crossbow turrets. Highly efficient stuff, and crazily expensive. They’re no longer produced due to full exhaustion of ingredients and Durin’s refusal to allot treasury money for them."
He gave me a questioning look. But I only shrugged. If Durin didn’t give him money, that only meant he’d hit his spending limit. Half the clan had been working to please the Analyst lately, anyway. The building of the uber-golem has been sucking our resources like a giant vacuum cleaner.
"Then, there are three mobile Domes with quite a few accumulators, and a few dozen various catapults and arrow-launching machines. The heavy arms unit consists of a dozen recon and assault golems and our key siege force: eighteen Heavy Golems. It should be noted that an hour of this unit’s work costs us a hundred and nine thousand gold. The Juggernaut is being worked on relentlessly. He’s about 80 percent complete by now. His orientation begins in three days. We’ll need divine blood for the blessing. Max, what about those gods, will they help out?"
