by Alex Bobl
Was Baboon following her? The road seemed to be empty. He and Avtik were probably busy sorting it out in the bar... either that, or the arriving police was busy sorting them out.
Finally, the houses... a playground... a few benches... Yanna slowed down and rearranged the bag slung over her shoulder. Time to catch her breath.
She headed for a building entrance and took cover from the rain under the canopy. Reaching into her bag, she produced both phones and swapped the batteries, then opened Skype.
A large avenue bustled in front of her. Cars roared. Glistening its windows in the sun, the tower of RussoVirt reached for the sky, humbling the buildings around it.
* * *
"Phew, he's alive!" an orc's broad mug loomed out of the darkness, complete with knotted beard. "I was getting worried."
Attila raised himself on his elbows, looking first at Beast leaning over him, then at Wayfarer who stood with his back to them. Wayfarer lifted his staff, casting a weak scarlet light at a tunnel and a rail track disappearing within its depths.
A rail track? Why? Weren't they supposed to be in a fantasy world? Having said that... Attila scratched his head. Of course. The Steam Tunnels. The Dwarven clan of the Engineers Under the Mountain were the only people who tried to practice technology — or rather, some basic mechanics — in the Canyon. According to the story, the Engineers had set up their settlement under Deadville. Then after some time, something terrible had happened to them. Other players told all sorts of stories about the caves and tunnels. This was one of the Canyon's most mysterious and perilous locations, second only to the Citadel.
The air was dry and stale. He sat up and coughed a little. His throat rasped; he struggled to breathe. He rubbed his chest and cast another look around. "Where's Battlemaster? I thought he was with us?"
Although he spoke softly, a thousand echoes picked up his voice and carried it down the dark tunnels. Beast sighed, shaking his head. Attila frowned. He remembered the snapping of crossbows and the wide open eyes of Battlemaster collapsing on top of him...
"I got it," he said, climbing to his feet.
Wayfarer turned around and motioned for both to follow him, then hurried down one of the tunnels.
"Can you walk?" Beast asked. "No bones broken?"
Limping, Attila followed Wayfarer. "Why did they attack us?" he asked. "I understand that there's no love lost between the orcs and the Drow, but still..."
"It's not that!" Beast interrupted him hotly. "Besides, I knew Battlemaster and Meatloaf too. They used to be all right."
From a distance, they heard Wayfarer's voice, "Alpha took them over."
Attila tried to walk faster but a stabbing pain in his side stopped him. He slowed down, but the pain wouldn't go. "Does that mean they've become part of him?" he said through clenched teeth. "Like the clerics and the mobs? But they're human, not NPCs. Does that mean that Alpha can control players too?"
"I know!" Beast perked up. "When we all had a headache — it was probably Alpha trying to take over our minds," Beast knocked on his helmet top. "We probably had stronger brains than the rest. I don't think he can control everyone. It didn't work with Battlemaster, either."
Attila gave it some thought. "I think," he said, "that it's not us Alpha needs. He needs Wayfarer. That's why he planted those Drow in our way. I don't think anyone needs us that much. But he — hey, do you hear us, we're talking about you! I wonder why Alpha considers you a threat?"
They received no answer. Wayfarer's staff kept tapping on the rocks and rail sleepers, its crimson light sliding along the walls and the low ceiling. The tunnel was gloomy like the devil's rectum, Attila thought, smirking sadly at the simile.
A small railcart loomed up out of the dark. Wayfarer stopped.
"I love it!" Beast exclaimed. "Never seen anything like it in the Canyon before! And what's that behind it... it can't be a steam engine, surely!"
"If it is, it's cold and useless," Attila said. "How are we supposed to start it?"
Wayfarer crouched next to it and reached under the cart's bottom. Something clicked and began rattling, then stopped.
"The Engineers under the Mountain knew elemental magic," he said.
"That's right, I remember reading about it in the guidebook," Beast crouched next to him and looked under the cart, then opened a small door at the back. "Aha, you see? That's the boiler! I absolutely love all these steampunk gadgets. Basically, here's the furnace, but... ah, I know! You can rekindle the coals with a special spell. And this is an automatic feed... excellent, no shoveling the coal by hand. The coal is fed through this valved pipe into the furnace."
Wayfarer said something to him; Beast objected. Listening to them argue, Attila climbed onto the bench in the cart's front section, facing all sorts of pedals and gear sticks. His sheathed sword clanged as he sank on the bench and closed his eyes, gasping. He struggled to breath. Something seemed to be pressing against his chest, constricting his ribs. The sharp pain in his side didn't go. His heart began to hurt.
He sat there listening to the clanging sounds from behind him. The cart shook. It would be a good idea to start the Eye, he thought, and check its settings to make sure it didn't play up again like it had in the marshes. He could launch it to check out the tunnel in front of them. But no, he wasn't up to it at the moment. He was too weak. All he wanted to do was sit there in silence resting with his eyes closed.
A fireball flared up behind him, humming and crackling. Attila could smell something burning. He heard a long clanging sound, followed by Beast's excited voice.
The bench shuddered under him. Slowly the cart moved, shaking, going faster and faster. A large lamp hanging on a hook in front lit up on its own.
Attila looked back. Wayfarer climbed the cart and walked over to him, looking in front of them. Beast scrambled up in the back and rubbed his hands.
"There we go! Do you think this tunnel can take us right to Deadville?"
"Probably," Wayfarer answered. He sat next to Attila, stood his staff between his knees and reached for a long gear stick. He yanked on it. The cart rolled faster.
"And what if we..." Beast stopped. They heard a far-off clattering noise echoing in the depths of the tunnel, as if someone was bashing a hammer against a steel gate.
"What's that?" Beast demanded. "Are you sure no one's waiting for us there?"
No one replied. Not that he needed an answer. All three of them stared into the dark, tensing up. Attila's hand closed over his sword handle. The cart kept gaining speed, rattling them down the Steam Tunnels.
Chapter Fourteen
Yanna had decided against taking a cab. That way they could track her down; besides, it wasn't as if she could afford it, either. She jumped off the bus and headed for the RussoVirt tower.
Already as she'd been riding the bus, she'd noticed that Moscow was in a state of unrest. Never a calm relaxed city, it was now tense and alert. About fifty protesters paced the sidewalk in front of the RussoVirt building, contained by security. A slapdash banner hovered over their heads, BRING OUR CHILDREN BACK!
But of course. There must have been so many people, especially children and teenagers, who now lay in their rooms comatose, connected to Gryad via suits, helmets and capsules. And if someone had forcefully disconnected them, did that mean that they had died right there and then in their parents' arms? It was a miracle that this initial unrest hadn't yet grown into a fully blown panic.
She elbowed her way through the crowd and walked up the steps leading to the RussoVirt doors. Two solemn men in dark suits stood there, checking the visitors' invitations.
Yanna joined a small line of people waiting to be let in. Just her luck. She'd hoped to at least get as far as the lobby. Apparently, even that wasn't that easy.
She had no plan of action whatsoever. This was the building she needed to infiltrate. Those were the security guards letting the lucky few into a large lobby humming with people. What's a girl to do?
The line moved fast. The secu
rity guards were almost upon her. One was short, the other tall with ginger hair. The people in line showed them brightly colored cards and were flagged through a turnstile.
Two people left in front of her. One. What now? They were going to intercept her!
Yanna hated these situations. She was just too timid for them, to the point of shaking. That was it. Her turn. The security guards stared at her expectantly.
There was nothing left for her to do. She reached into her bag and began rummaging through it, realizing she must be a sorry sight.
"You should've got it ready, miss," the short guard said. "Now you're keeping everybody waiting."
His ginger partner was looking at her with interest. Yanna dug into her bag up to her elbow and sighed. Mustering up enough willpower, she looked ginger straight in the eye.
"I don't seem to have it," she said ruefully. "I must have lost it somewhere."
"Sorry, miss," the short one said. "You can't go in."
"But I-" she was next to tears, embarrassed, despising herself. Why was it that she was always so cool and tough online, hung with knives and bossing men around, shooting and fighting, and now... she couldn't even look them in the eye like some wretched doormat!
"I... I, I really had it," she tried to assure them. "I'm from the medical college, the RussoVirt administration sent us a few invitations, we cast lots to..." gosh, what was she saying! Doormat was the right word. No, worse.
The ginger guard cast her a reserved smile. "Very well. In with you, then."
The short one shook his head, insistent. "Sorry. It's invitation-only."
"It's okay, Igor," the ginger one dismissed him. "Let her through."
"We can't-" the short guard barred the entrance with an authoritative arm.
Ginger forced his arm aside. "I said, she may go."
Then he added, leaning closer to her. "I'm finishing my shift in ten minutes. I'll find you in the lobby, okay?"
"Absolutely!" she squeaked happily and ducked into the crowd, utterly hating herself.
She despised herself down to the soles of her sneakers. How humiliating. Why was she such an embarrassment? Why were other pretty girls so confident, twisting men around their respective little fingers, but she was exactly the opposite? Back on the train in the company of Avtik and Baboon she'd pulled it off though, but now...
She shook her head. Oh, yes. She'd just pulled it off again. She was inside — and that was all that mattered. Excellent. Time to get going.
The lobby was overflowing with show benches and display stands showcasing the corporation's achievements. RussoVirt's latest devices sat in tall glass jars. Any other time Yanna would have paid attention and studied each and every one of them. The "driving suit" which allowed you to control a real-life car was absolutely awesome. But now she had more pressing matters to attend to.
She walked past colorful kiosks where pretty girls in RussoVirt uniform — blue miniskirts, matching stilettoes, jackets and berets with the company's logo — were selling various goodies, helmets, suits and other accessories.
The other side of the lobby was taken by a stage with a screen flashing with bright images of the company's commercials. A man was giving a talk, surrounded by a curious crowd.
Upstairs. She needed to get upstairs. Where were the elevators?
She spent some time walking in circles until finally she noticed the elevators to the left off the stage. Each had a security guard posted next to it. And these weren't the relaxed kind she's encountered earlier. They stood focused and alert, their gazes studying each person who approached, even though they didn’t ask them to show any IDs.
Not many used the elevators, though. And they were probably all corporation workers so the guards knew their faces, that's why they didn't ask them for any identification. But the moment a stranger tried to use them...
She went off to look for the staircase and soon found it — behind a locked glass door in the lobby's far corner. She glimpsed the ginger guard's carrot top in the crowd. Dammit! Yanna ducked behind the nearest kiosk. Time was pressing. She had to get upstairs, but how was she supposed to do that?
She heard voices from inside the kiosk. The salesgirls were changing shift too. The kiosks were basically just tubular frames covered with fabric printed with the company logos. In front, a large flap of fabric formed an awning.
A zipper rasped. A girl stepped out of the kiosk, hurrying somewhere. Yanna peeked inside. The salesgirl stood with her back to her. The space behind her was cramped with stacked-up boxes, a chair and a coat rack. Wrapped in plastic, a set of salesgirls' uniforms hung neatly folded on a hanger on the rack.
This was her chance.
Yanna bit her lip and reached in behind the salesgirl's back, feeling like diving into a frozen lake. She pulled the hanger off the rack and shrank back, catching the languid surprised stare of a customer on the other side of the makeshift counter.
She hurried away on rubbery legs. Her heart rattled a staccato in her ears. She stole a look around. Now she needed to change, but where? Apparently, in the ladies' room.
She found it quickly: an echoing cave of off-white marble veined with gold, beautiful and mind-bogglingly expensive. Two women hovered in front of the mirrors by the sinks.
Yanna walked into one of the cubicles, so clean you could eat off the floor — which was more than she could say about her own kitchen. She hurried to change. But what was she supposed to do with her own stuff? After a moment's hesitation, she crumpled her clothes and stuffed them into the bin.
Smoothing out her skirt, Yanna walked out. Her overnight bag looked weird next to her new outfit, and so did her sneakers. Still, it had to make do. Even if she found a matching pair of shoes, most likely they wouldn't fit her.
The two women by the mirrors were already gone. Excellent.
Yanna paused in front of the mirror, adjusting the narrow skirt that kept sliding up with her every step. Bummer! She gave herself one final once-over and cringed. She looked like a hooker.
Smoothing out the badly-fitting jacket, she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out, heading for the elevators. One had just opened, letting in a few people: a man and three women, one of them a salesgirl in an identical uniform. The guard by the elevator entrance scanned their faces with his stare. If only he doesn't look down at my sneakers, Yanna prayed as she approached the elevator.
She stepped toward its open door. The guard peered at her. Yanna raised her hand as if to adjust the beret on her head, shielding her face. The guard stared at her like a presidential bodyguard at a suicide terrorist. Yanna's blood ran cold.
A walkie talkie in the guard's hand sprang to life. He raised it to his mouth, speaking. Yanna dove into the elevator.
The door closed. The elevator whooshed upward. Yanna glanced at herself in the mirrored wall. Her lips were shaking, panic in her eyes. She had to pull herself together. Staring into the mirror, Yanna forced her face into an official but friendly mask.
The man left the elevator first, followed by two of the women who exited on Floor 9. The remaining salesgirl kept casting surprised glances at Yanna's sneakers. Then she looked up. Yanna smiled, meeting her stare.
Sternly the girl returned her smile and exited on Floor 12.
Once alone, Yanna breathed a sigh of relief. She was shaking. Looking in the mirror, she tried to smooth out her skirt until the floors' digital display stopped at 15.
The elevator dinged softly. She walked out. The doors slid close behind her back, cutting off her escape route.
She stood in a long corridor. One of its walls was lined with windows offering a breathtaking view of Moscow. The other wall was one eternal row of glass doors leading off to various offices. They all seemed to be empty even if she could hear muted voices coming from somewhere ahead.
She tiptoed over the fluffy carpet until she came to a door announcing,
Chief Programmer
She walked past it without slowing down, casting a quick peek through the
glass as she went.
She saw a desk and a couch. A man lay on the couch face up, wearing a massive helmet with a bulbous transparent visor. Cables were running from the helmet to the computer on the desk. An IV drip stood by the couch.
Was this Healer? Or rather, what's his name, Robert Artov? It definitely looked that way.
Closer to the window stood a second desk. A nurse in a lab coat perched on its edge, exhibiting a well-rounded knee. A guard stood facing her.
Why a guard? Yanna faltered. Another thought replaced the first one as she realized: Robert Artov was alive. Probably, unconscious or comatose, but alive nevertheless. Did that mean that he hadn't really died when the mobs had killed him back in his marshes hut? Or had they failed to kill him at all? What if the clerics had only managed to immobilize his game char with some kind of spell, sending the real Robert Artov into a coma?
Artov's office was separated from the corridor by the secretary's cubicle. A desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, a small couch by the wall. And lurking behind the filing cabinet, a locker in the corner. The furniture was sleek and modern, all plastic and silvery metal, but the locker was old, dented and scratched, as if no one had bothered to take it to the dump.
According to Wayfarer, the key from the utility room was in the locker. Yanna stepped toward the door. The nurse was sitting with her profile to the door; the guard was facing her with his back to the entrance. Shooting the breeze, the two of them. The nurse's body language said it all — the seductive poses she struck in the unconscious desire of a female fancying a male. Very well. No need to distract them.
Yanna stepped out of their field of view and pushed the door. It swung open without a sound. Yanna walked past the filing cabinet and crouched in front of the locker.
She pulled its door open. Inside was a box filled with some crumpled papers, paperclips, a few used batteries and a broken stapler. She dug her hand deeper, her fingers closing around something. There. A bunch of five keys on a ring.
