The Battle

by D. Rus

  I raised a brow in surprise. "The holy father?"

  "The godfather. A mafioso, come to the virtual world for semi-retirement. An old guard dog at rest. The consiglieri is his right-hand man and adviser. Highly respected and dangerous people in both worlds."

  I shrugged indifferently. "Hm... all right, schedule a meeting. Collaboration with the triad has brought us a lotta loot, don’t see why the Cosa Nostra can’t do the same. And tell the Analyst to dig up as much info as he can on these Sicilian boys."

  In a few hours, after everything had been arranged and the guests were transported to the Super Nova, Don Lucchesi’s envoy came to see me.

  He looked presentable, about fifty years of age, gray hair, crew cut, wise gaze. Most likely the adviser’s real age was over ninety, hence the odd middle-aged avatar. The world tried to balance the exterior and the perma player’s self-perception.

  His level was hidden. But because it looked gray to me and purple to Orcus, I guessed it was around 250. That’s why he looked at me with such respect; it wasn’t often that he ran into players with levels surpassing his own.

  He must have never been to the Asian cluster. While the Europeans lazily rolled outta bed, the Chinese would already be finishing up their first level-up shift, gulping down their breakfast, then moving on to the second shift.

  The consiglieri’s class was also hidden. His old-school business suit contrasted sharply with the magical medieval setting, making others feel like idiots in shining armor in his presence.

  I welcomed him and showed him to a cozy conference armchair. I snapped my fingers, summoning a waitress to set the table with the best cognac and light snacks.

  After bustling about behind the doors as usual, Lizzie slipped into the Small Hall, batting her eyelashes innocently and wearing an apron over her custom leather armor.

  After setting the table, she opened the bottle with a single agile move, poured the cognac into glasses for us, then went to stand behind my right shoulder. Sticking her chest out, she cast an absent gaze into the distance, her hands down by her sides.

  The consiglieri softened at the sight of the liquor. Carefully picking up the glass, he checked the stats of the thirty-year-old nectar and nodded in contentment. "That’s exactly why I asked to meet with you, dear Laith: to get my hands on this wonderful drink."

  I downed my glass, savoring the taste with great delight.

  Status alert! You have tasted the Dark Priest cognac. Age: 36 years.

  Manufacturer: South Seilla vineyards. Master wine-maker: Rolan Buke. Blessed by: First Temple’s Top Priest, Grym. Children of the Night Wine Cellars.

  Effect: +1740 Intelligence.

  Duration: 8 hours.

  Without waiting for my response, my guest downed his glass also. His eyes rolled up into his head from pleasure, either from the taste or from the bonus he'd acquired. At last, he continued,

  "What do you think? Who owns the vineyards in South Seilla?"

  I was at my best that day, or maybe the cognac bonus helped me out. So I scored a bullseye at the first try. "You?"

  "Our family," he corrected me. "When going perma and considering an eternal life, we decided to invest only in long-term projects, with planning horizons of hundreds of years."

  I nodded understandingly. I loved the magic of big numbers myself.

  "And by the way, we’re talking about REAL serious money. We’ve invested a sum with eight zeroes into the vineyards. Bought a few thousand square miles of Frontier lands, morphed them into sunny hills ideal for vines, built nearly eternal cellars, and are carefully selecting wizards for the job..."

  "Sounds impressive and certainly deserves respect. I suppose you have some questions for me?" I inquired to cut his prelude short as I’d already guessed what the deal was.

  The consiglieri leaned forward just a bit, met my stare and rapped out the words with a serious expression,

  "I’m just curious what kind of cellars you have that turn an inexpensive cognac of the current year into aged artifacts! Its presence at the auction at such knock-down prices makes our family’s well-being in the future quite questionable."

  I shrugged: did he really think 10,000 per bottle was cheap? All right, my bad. Didn’t I have a good sense of the market?

  The Italian grew tense. Giving me a piercing look, he rattled off, "Have you found a bug in the game? Bought an exploiter? Have connections in administration? Have an aging recipe? A timeflow-altering artifact? A temporary anomaly? Aha! So it is the anomaly!"

  How the fuck did he guess? Goddamn physiognomist!

  I seethed with rage – got conned like a noob! A cynical eye that dove right into my brain and pulled out such an important secret!

  As a person who constantly communicated with gods, I knew for sure: angering persons of my levels is costly. I was no god, but still, still...

  The air in the room grew thick, the lights grew dim, reduced to barely smoldering coals so as to be as inconspicuous as possible. My rage needed an exit, my emotions materialized into actions.

  My dark wings of power snatched the consiglieri out of the armchair, crucifying him in midair until his joints cracked and his tendons snapped. The hint of indignation in his eyes provoked me to go even further. My invisible wing shot up, and the Italian’s eyes exploded, spurting out.

  "You have sixty seconds to apologize and explain yourself. After that, your blindness will become irreversible!"

  It’s probably scary when your vision just shuts off without any warning from the game about a debuff or a negative effect. And you instantly understand that THIS is forever.

  But the consiglieri still didn’t give up. "You’ll become the family’s enemy."

  I only chuckled. "Don Lucchesi will be at the end of the line, right after the virtual cops, the admins, the Shui Fong triad, the Light gods, the NSA boys and a shitload of others..."

  "You don’t understand! A job duty is one thing. A blood feud is another!"

  "You can tell that to the Sun God’s mutilated mug! Thirty seconds."

  The consiglieri swallowed nervously and made his last attempt to convince me:

  "The Don already has the information. Punishing me won’t do any good. The family seeks friendships, not powerful enemies!"

  "I do, as well. That’s why I’m still talking to you. Fifteen seconds."

  The door was thrown open with a crash. Orcus rushed in. Casting an astonished glance at the bloody man sprawled out in midair, he said in a hurry,

  "Sir, an urgent message from Don Lucchesi! He apologizes for this man, offers ya a nice compensation and has a business proposition!"

  I ignored him. "Five seconds."

  The consiglieri gave up. Wheezing, he dropped his head and whispered, "Please forgive me... My behavior is unworthy of a guest..."

  I barely held back a sigh of relief. I waved my hand, pulling back my powers and rolling back the changes made to the Italian’s aura. I didn’t want to mutilate anybody. My rage subsided but I couldn’t release him without jeopardizing my own reputation. Once you've bared your sword, you must strike.

  Sitting back down, I nearly groaned. The black vortex that swept over my body had no creative forces, just a thirst for destruction.

  The short-circuited magic channels sparked. My aura grew dark in some spots because of the severed flow. My accumulation zones busted, my energy stupidly leaked out into the astral world.

  Boy, was I hit hard. Be you safe and sound, damned consiglieri! You’re sitting here just like new, with freshly-generated eyes, unable to believe how lucky you are. And I’m all set for anabiosis, for snuggling up against Chronos’ cold side for one of those long self-healings.

  Grinding my teeth, I spoke, "What is it you want, consiglieri?!"

  As they say, get the light on your way out.

  Gimmick had left without saying goodbye but made sure to eliminate the witnesses. I didn’t know what his motives were. Perhaps he sought to prevent us from leveling up. Who needs high-level foes?
Or angry pursuers?

  It was in his vital interest to make sure that we’d never find a second Space Rupture Module.

  Perhaps he wanted his revenge for months of playing a role he'd hated? The role of a naïve little simpleton? In which he'd endured slaps in the face and had been distracted from ingenious experiments by annoying routine tasks?

  "We’d discovered nine locations covered with some shit underneath all that moss. It reacts slowly with the mana circuit’s gold, which makes it the ideal insulator with a conductivity coefficient of zero," Orcus reported.

  The whole Gimmick incident was becoming more and more epic.

  "It’s unclear if repairs are possible. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work with mana circuits. Architects, golem builders, artifacts and many others can set them up. It’s the fine-tuning that’s hard to restore, as well as circuitry inserts and general system syncing. Even in the best-case scenario, the efficiency factor will drop significantly, if not catastrophically."

  I nodded. Fuck the freebie leveling up, let the droids spawn once a day! I thought. What mattered was to keep the octagonal coins coming. I had economic reforms to take care of.

  Plus, the high-tech modules were extremely interesting. And the commercial potential of Eva 4 was hard to overestimate. In addition, we could use some new migrants. We’d give ‘em a buncha technology geeks, and they’d leave us those who dream of learning magic.

  "Our stealthers searched Station 27. The Delivery Droid’s not there. We can’t go any deeper. We don’t have the forces to do so as of right now."

  I nodded pensively. I could ask Fallon for help, or Aulë. The duo of gods would reach the bottom of the dungeon with ease. Plus, they might fish out that bare-ass mercenary for us...

  The only problem was that you had to pay for everything. And gods aren’t too fond of solving mortals’ problems for them. Guess we’ll just have to take care of things in order of priority.

  "Gotcha, colonel. As for the Crypt, we’ll keep using its time-altering trick. Keep rotating troops and all ingredients that have had time to age properly. Keep working on those mana circuits quietly. Time’s not an issue here – functionality is, and quality. If you need to, feel free to hire someone on the side. You have my permission."

  "Yessir!" Orcus’s eyes grew a bit blurry; he was simultaneously making notes in his interface.

  I addressed the most pressing matter, "What’s the Tianlong situation?"

  "Hot! And the conflict’s getting hotter. New forces are pouring in every hour. There’s about 15,000 Lightsters over there now, but we expect it to be a 100,000 by nightfall. Our cluster’s all out of easy targets. The alliance’s castles are being taken one by one, releasing troops for yet another mission."

  I ground my teeth. Oh well, we’ll have to meet the main forces behind the man-made event sooner or later.

  But the war had already turned into something bigger than a game event. Its echo had reached the real world. The invisible frontline kept taking lives, while daily event reports kept piling up on the desks of key officials.

  At this stage, our goal was to hold on as long as possible. Time was on our side. Players got tired, real-world folks lost interest, and any sum of money would eventually get spent, no matter how large.

  That’s what we had to work with! Make the enemy lose levels, gear, and precious time. Less fun, more war filth. No duels, just a conveyor belt of destruction, maximum efficiency. Plus diversions, attacks on home fronts and on their wallets.

  I could get my hands on a few AMA scrolls every day! And that would mean two less enemy castles every twenty-four hours. Ha!

  We just needed to last one more day...

  "We should expect the enemy to begin a major assault by this evening," Orcus suggested. "A virtual war phenomenon; a hundred-thousand-strong mixed bunch of an army can’t just sit around doing nothing. Only a continuous flow of loot can keep it together."

  I shook my head. "I think you’re underestimating the enemy. We’ve scared off most of the non-loyal ones by now. At this point, they’re all pretty much ideological Russophobes plus mercenaries they’d already paid."

  "Ideology is secondary," Orcus disagreed. "Primary instincts are also at play. Once they learn how much they’re gonna have to pay for disliking the Russians outta their own pockets, the number of volunteers will rapidly go down. And the mercenaries are there to make money, not spend it. Thus, I do believe the strategy we’ve chosen is the right one."

  I shrugged. He had more experience, perhaps he was right. I personally found the idea of giving up one’s life principles for a trivial income to be on the crazy side.

  All the events seemed to come at us like a high-speed train. Time felt like a curled spring, creaking piteously under enormous strain as if about to break. The battle for the Russian cluster was nearing its final stage. The upcoming Stalingrad – the fight for the First Temple – was our chance to destroy the invading forces.

  I was not the only one to draw historical parallels. Warriors with St. George’s ribbons could be seen everywhere. Many shields bore handwritten mottos.

  Such passion needed directing. Ancient history and the ghosts of our fathers and forefathers standing behind us gave us power.

  A group of crafters hit the Crypt to return in ten minutes. The black and orange spools of St. George's ribbons were put out into the streets; they appeared even on squad banners and the Fallen One’s flag.

  Fall didn’t mind. His AI had been brought up in a Slavic family with many children, its crystal changing color every time as it rooted for the Russians in all those war movies. During his emotional development, he was carried in a pouch by young boys as they played spies and war games out in the courtyards. In the network tactic simulators, he’d fight under our flag till his sensors overheated.

  In a word, he was one of us, down to the last carbon atom. Even despite the fact that the manufacturer had later uploaded petabytes of control loops and behavioral algorithms; despite his having passed the Pentagon loyalty tests and receiving a limited AI-citizenship in the US.

  To win some time before the storm, I jumped into the Crypt. Farming was over, but the place was still crowded.

  Alchemists and armorers were churning out their goods, an annual plan completed in a day. The socialist five-year plans with their slogans now seemed like a joke. It looked like we would have all the supplies we needed.

  Terror-groups hit their bunk beds and the perky-breasted servant girls hard after difficult attacks on the enemy lines. The enemy took no friendly hints so we had to get nasty: hordes of monsters, countless miner and farmer graves, slaughtered NPCs and empty shops, the vendors gone...

  My staff officers and analysts knitted their brows as they looked over the AlterWorld maps and then went to bed. Getting ten hours of quality sleep while at war can really make a difference.

  Urgent negotiations, couples spending hours together waiting for injuries and post-mortal debuffs to go away: this was the beauty of the Crypt. The life-saving beauty.

  It had grown even more crowded. Even the abandoned spiral pathways of the Droid dungeon had been turned into household cellars. Crates of alcohol and vials were piled up beneath the walls. Cheeses and meats dangled from the ceiling. Chunks of pig iron started acquiring characteristics.

  Cursing and the sound of clashing steel came from Station 11. The warriors, tired of resting, were trying to conquer more territory. This pastime had already turned into a sort of competition; every shift, the new Crypt occupants would try to force their way deeper down and seize another hundred feet of living space for the clan.

  Every cubic foot was worth its size in gold. And I mean literally, as the First Temple’s treasury along with other valuables was being slowly transported down there. Lurch kept silent, having an aggrieved air, but security was my primary concern at that point. What if we lose? We’ll need something to keep us going!

  At least this made me feel safe: our resources were secure, and the reserve Su
per Nova above our heads could always be re-conquered with a little extra effort on our part. Losing this battle in no way meant losing the war.

  I dined late and was barely able to stick to my moral principles when one of the best House of Pleasure girls appeared with a silver tray.

  A cream of something soup, fried potatoes and a hare shish kebab; simply irresistible.

  Neither her teeny tiny miniskirt, her undies peeking out or her V-neck revealing everything almost down to the nipples could surprise me. But why did she have to hand me the plates from behind my back, making her firm boobs press against me and as she breathed into my sensitive Elven ear, damn its erogenous zones?! And I knew that she knew what she was doing, that she-devil!

  It’s not like I had made a vow of chastity or anything, but having fun with a girl on that narrow bed, separated from hundreds of other guys by a single curtain, was way below my moral standards.

  After dinner, I tried to get some work done. Messengers began bustling about, diving into the portal like they were being ambushed by snipers. But I wasn’t worried: they had to manage time. You walk outta the Crypt for a smoke and you come back in a week.

  I made sketches of a few of the defensive campaign plans that my analysts had produced. I was no tactical genius, but the combat units didn’t just come across to me as numbers, but as individual warriors and leaders with their different personalities.

  The Fifth infantry was a battle-thirsty one. Can’t have them in reserve again, it might be bad for their fighting spirit.

  The Copperheads had just received completely new commanders. Several officers had gotten promoted and left. The new captain faced difficulties: the ex-mercs were reluctant to obey someone hired from outside. So this unit couldn’t be put in charge of a key location.

  The Third and Seventh assassin groups had busted the Shui Fong-0 wine cellar during the previous raid, and kept a thousand-pint snake wine barrel all to themselves.

  This kind of conduct was punished severely but I didn’t want to lose ten good warriors. Considering that they intended to present the wine at the public table during one of their birthday parties, we let the whole thing go.