by James Hunter
“Suit yourself,” he said with an unconcerned shrug.
“What is this place?” I asked, spinning in a slow circle, boots clacking against a dull white floor, the sound dying a few feet out. “It looks like the loading screen.”
“Exactly right again,” he replied. “This is the loading platform. I called in a personal favor to Enyo, one of the in-game Overminds, to arrange this little meeting. I feel we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and that maybe you think some things about me which aren’t necessarily true. I’d like to set the record straight, is all.”
I rounded on him, eyes narrowed, anger boiling up. “You want to set the record straight? You abused and manipulated this system to turn yourself into a king on the day the world ended. I think I know everything I need to. Now, tell me what happened back in Rowanheath.”
He uncrossed his legs. “Everything is fine. Your friend—and my former employee—Abby is alive and well. And without Carrera around to rally the troops, the Keep fell, the main gates opened wide, and your mercenary army flooded the streets, just as you planned. It’s been about”—he paused, canting one wrist and glancing at a stylish watch—“oh, about four hours since you threw yourself from the top of a medieval skyscraper. There are still a few isolated pockets of Imperial resistance, but by the time you respawn, the town guards will have that all sorted out.
“It was a big win for you, and a bold play all around,” he continued. “Very impressive. Naturally, the wikis are exploding and no one wants to talk about anything other than Grim Jack and the Crimson Alliance. How you managed to invade and capture the most well-fortified Imperial city in the South in a matter of hours. Everyone is in an absolute tizzy, as you might expect. The real talking point, though, is what you did to Carrera. Not only did you steal his city, you seemed to kill him. Now, we both know that’s not true—the Hexblade is powerful but not that powerful—but the existence of the Hexblades are still only half-whispered rumors on the forums. Very few people know the truth. Now, with all of that out of the way, maybe we can get down to business?”
“What do you want?” I hedged.
“I already told you, Jack. I want to set the record straight. I get the sense that you think I’m some sort of evil monster. A would-be tin-pot dictator, hellbent on global domination.”
“Aren’t you?” I replied, jaw clenched in anger.
He frowned at me and cocked a don’t-be-childish eyebrow. “Not at all, Jack. I’m an innovator, an entrepreneur, and a businessman at heart. Besides, you make me out to be a tyrant in your head, but don’t forget you owe me your life. Everyone in V.G.O. does. All of this”—he swept a hand around—“only exists because I made it. Because I had the fortitude and the determination to accomplish the impossible and create something the world had never seen the likes of before. You survived an extinction-level cataclysm because of my hard work, Jack. This is my world, funded and built with my money. Why shouldn’t I rule it?”
“The inventor of penicillin saved a lot of lives, too,” I shot back, “but he didn’t demand to be crowned king of the world. Besides, you’ve sold everyone out to thugs like Carrera.”
He grimaced. “You think I like working with people like him?” He shook his head. “No. But here’s the truth, people like him also played a very significant role in saving your life. The bigwigs—the political movers and shakers, the other titans of industry—they’re not here in V.G.O., Jack. They wouldn’t risk the possibility of dying during the transition process. Those people are nice and safe inside luxury fallout shelters, riding out the end of the world in style and pizzazz. They didn’t care about saving regular people, they were concerned only with themselves and their own political power.
“But I cared, Jack. I cared enough to do something about it. But in order to get this operation off the ground and functional, I needed help: money, resources, manpower. So, I turned to the people that could give me what I needed. People like Carrera. I did what I had to do, nothing more and nothing less. And what I said in my Universal Alert is true. Right now, we need strong leadership more than ever. We’re weathering a crisis unlike anything anyone has ever seen, and I intend to see all of us into prosperity.”
“Maybe that’s true,” I replied, “but you can’t just declare yourself emperor over the world. It isn’t right—”
“Oh,” he interjected, “and what exactly would you replace it with. Democracy? A constitutional republic?”
“Maybe,” I said, unsure and feeling supremely out of my depth.
He snorted, laughed, shook his head.
“We have people from all over the world. You may not realize this, but Osmark Technologies set up free digitization stations in seventy-six different countries. Three point two million people made the transition, Jack. Most of our players are from America and Europe, but we also have players from Saudi Arabia, from the UAE, a significant number from China. Those places have never had democracy; players from countries like that wouldn’t know what to do with it. Many wouldn’t want Western democracy even if you offered it to them on a silver platter. And there are other factors to consider: do you honestly think a nearly invincible, level two hundred warrior is going to listen to the opinion of a level ten miner? Not likely.
“Besides, in the end, it’s all the same. One big con game. That’s what you, and the rest of the plebs out there, don’t understand. Politics is a shell game, played on an epic scale. This—what you’re witnessing in V.G.O.?—is exactly what it’s like out there. Or, at least, what it was like before the asteroid. You’ve just had a chance to peek into the factory and seen how the sausage is made, but trust me, multimillionaires and billionaires, they run your country. They run the whole world. They offer the illusion of choice and freedom, but when you distill it all down, an illusion is all it is. We’re just stripping away the façade.”
I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t a political scientist or an intellectual scholar. “So what is this, some sort of sales pitch?” I finally asked. “Some sort of peace offering?”
“Yes and no,” he said, unfolding his hands and picking at an imaginary piece of lint on his slacks. “It is a sales pitch, but not a peace offering. You see, I don’t want you to join the empire, but I have no desire to see you killed or your faction destroyed. In fact, just the opposite. I’ve even arranged for a few of the remaining Faction Seals to find their way into other Rebel-aligned hands. Not too many, of course—I want to keep the upper hand—but a few.”
I squinted at him and rubbed at my jaw. What he was saying didn’t make any sense. None at all. “But in your Universal Message, you expressly said anyone who joined the Rebellion would be punished. So why would you want me to succeed?”
A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. “Because war is good for humanity and it’s good for internal stability. I’ll freely admit that I don’t have a very elevated view of humanity as a whole. We are petty, contentious, and always looking to grab more power. Humans do not thrive in Utopian paradise—our nature won’t allow for it. We need enemies to fight, and when there isn’t an external enemy, we turn into cannibals and attack ourselves.
“I’ve had to surround myself with more than a few unsavory people, and without a threat to focus on, those people will begin to scheme, and they’ll turn their sights on me. Moreover, if there’s a visible, oppositional movement, then all the dissidents and malcontents in Eldgard will leave my ranks in peace and join you. You’ll draw them off like dross, and I won’t constantly need to police my people. It’s a win, win. Besides, the game won’t allow for anything else. I assume you’ve met Sophia?”
I nodded.
“I figured. She and Enyo are ying and yang, order and chaos, Imperial and Rebel. They will fight to maintain the balance—which is why they recruited us in the first place—so I’m simply giving them what they want.” He shrugged, wiggled his nose, then absently reached up and readjusted his glasses. “It’s easier for everyone that way.”
“Wait, so le
t me see if I have this all straight,” I said slowly, tasting the words as though I couldn’t quite believe what I was saying. “Since Sophia and Enyo require a Rebellion to exist, you want to use it as a rallying point, to keep all of the bloodthirsty people you recruited in check.”
“Got it in one,” he replied, pointing at me with a finger gun. “Taking over Rowanheath was genius work, and all of my backstabbing allies will be so worried about what you might do next that it will force them to work together, which is good for everyone. Unity is always best, when possible. So, I’ll rattle my saber, make some threats, maybe even send a few token forces to harass you and yours, but mostly, I’ll leave you alone. You can be the looming threat, while I work to bring order to the chaos.”
There was a certain cold, clinical logic to what he was proposing, but it was also sort of appalling. “Maybe your intentions are good,” I said after a time, “but I’m still going to stop you. I am grateful for what you’ve done, but that doesn’t give you the right to take away people’s freedoms. If I have to live here forever, I’m not going to let you turn it into a nightmare.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said with a solemn nod. “But a word of caution before you pursue any irrational course of action. I am only interested in a perceived threat, not an actual one. The second you cross that line, I will use all of my power to end you, and then I’ll find a new puppet to install. One who will be more pliable. I don’t say that with malice—you’re competent and creative, both traits I admire—but I will do what I must. Just think on it,” he said, before raising his hand and waving me a brief goodbye.
The floor promptly dropped out from beneath me, and I found myself tumbling back through the dark, down into my body for respawn.
Summary
November, 2042
It’s been a busy month for thirty-two-year-old Jack Mitchel:
Three weeks ago, he died.
Two weeks ago, he founded the first Faction in the ultra-immersive, fantasy-based VRMMORPG, Viridian Gate Online.
A week and a half ago the world ended, destroyed by a cataclysmic asteroid.
Seven days ago, he conquered the Imperial city of Rowanheath, bringing all of Eldgard to the brink of war.
Though Jack’s Faction, the Crimson Alliance, has a tenuous truce with tech genius and Imperial lord, Robert Osmark, Jack knows it can’t last. Osmark is devious and power hungry, and it’s only a matter of time before he sends his forces to wipe Jack and his underdog crew off the map for good.
If Jack hopes to survive another month inside of VGO, he must find a way to beat Osmark and his army of bloodthirsty thugs, and a new quest—the Path of the Jade Lord—may be just the ticket. But this quest will be far harder than anything Jack’s faced before, pushing him to his mental, physical, and moral limits. And if Jack isn’t careful, his quest to defeat Osmark and the Empire may end up turning him into the despot he’s been fighting against.
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ONE: Breaking the Siege
I crouched low against Devil’s serpentine neck, put my heels hard into his scaly sides, and jerked sharply on the leather reins, wheeling us around—back toward Rowanheath’s main gate. Pounding wind beat against me, slapping at my face and clawing furiously at my cloak as the city below whipped past us and the spattering of enemy troops resolved into view. More Black Legion members out of Harrowick—though there were a few support mages from the Ancient Ones Faction and a handful of players from the Ever-Victorious Empire, courtesy of Robert Osmark himself.
“Fire,” someone hollered from down below, followed by the groan of wood and the creak of leather as one of the heavy enemy mangonel—specialty catapults on heavy rollers—released a barrage of flaming debris high into the air. They were all aiming for me. Since the raid against Rowanheath a week ago, Devil and I had become minor celebrities, and now every Imperial-aligned player and NPC was gunning for us. It didn’t help that Osmark was offering five thousand gold marks, equivalent to half a million IRL dollars, to anyone who managed to bring me down and earn a confirmed PvP kill.
Devil reacted in a blink, throwing us into a quick dive, avoiding a flaming stone the size of my head, before barrel rolling right, dodging a cluster of baseball-sized rocks. A Griffin—one of Rowanheath’s conjured guardians, now under my control—wasn’t so lucky. A jagged chunk of rubble, burning like an incoming meteor, clipped the eagle-faced creature in one of its wings, punching a huge hole through sculpted feathers. The creature squawked in panic, its broken limb wobbling, no longer able to hold it steady. A second later, the damaged wing simply broke away with a crack and the guardian dropped, twirling in a death spiral toward the ground.
The Griffin, in one final act of loyalty, or maybe vengeance, angled its fall so it careened just over the wall and slammed into an encroaching group of armor-clad Imperials. The ground erupted in a spray of dirt and stone, taking at least one of the enemy warriors—a stocky Dwarf with a gnarly red beard, wielding a ferociously oversized battle-axe—down for good. Exhausted as I was, I couldn’t help but grin a little. Served those jerks right.
Devil and I wheeled about again, loitering above the wall’s ramparts as I searched for the on-duty commander. I spotted him a second later, his narrow shoulders and golden skin easy to pick out as he strode along the rampart, shouting commands at each ballista firing position. “Li Xiu,” I hollered as we swooped by, “we need to get those siege weapons down! They’re killing us!”
Another round of burning shrapnel whooshed overhead; Devil dropped just in time, landing on the cobblestone rampart. Unfortunately, another chunk of flaming stone, this one as big as a football, caught a young Murk Elf woman in the gut; she tumbled backward over the retaining wall, screaming in terror as she fell. Her shriek cut off abruptly a moment later as her body slammed against Rowanheath’s streets, a crimson halo spreading out around her lifeless body. Poor girl. I’d died twice so far and it was far from a pleasant experience, especially with the god-awful debuffs that hit like a car crash at respawn.
The Devs way to incentivize not dying. I shuddered just thinking about it.
“Marisa,” a beefy Risi warrior muttered, uselessly reaching out a hand, as though he could somehow save the woman.
“She’ll be fine in eight hours,” Xiu snapped, his words clipped and tinged with a Chinese accent. “Now, back to work, you er bǎi wǔ, or Rowanheath will fall and then no one will be fine.” The Risi glared at Xiu, who looked frail enough to snap in half, but Xiu stared right back, his eyes squinted, his teeth bared in a grimace, his feet planted wide, one hand resting on the butt of his sword. Xiu was intense. Scary-intense. After a few seconds, the Risi seemed to realize that too, dropped back to a knee, and began working a metal crank, ratcheting back the ballista’s string.
“We need to get those siege weapons down,” I said to Xiu again, fighting to keep the anger out of my words.
“You think I don’t know that?” he hissed, rounding on me, hands planted defiantly on his hips. Xiu was a former chief sergeant with the Chinese People’s Liberation Army, and he didn’t seem to care who anyone was. In his worldview, there were only two kinds of people: those who obeyed Xiu’s orders and those who should obey Xiu’s orders. He was a heck of a commander, though, and had a way of reading the battlefield better than any other faction member we had. “We’re trying,” he grunted after a moment, his tone a hair more civil. “But they’re too far out. Scatter bombs won’t reach, and those wáng bā dàn support mages keep casting force shields to protect troops on ground.”
I thought for just a second, brow furrowed, lips pursed. “I’ll take the Griffins and deal with the mages. Once they’re down, sound the drums and send the spider-riders over in force
. As for the catapults—let’s break out Vlad’s new javelins. They were designed exactly for this kind of thing,” I finished, urging Devil into a loping gait.
“But we haven’t tested the javelins,” he shouted at my back, his words laced with tightly controlled panic.
Vlad, our crazy Russian and resident weapon expert, had been invaluable to our cause, constantly tinkering away in his workshop back in Yunnam, working up ever-new weapons for our troops to employ. Most of his inventions were brilliant—shadow missiles that erupted into a hundred flaming arrows, bombs which released toxic death clouds, cannons with rapid reload capabilities—but most was not all. A few of his inventions had … well, the results weren’t pretty: Players dead, shrapnel littering their corpses. Limbs crudely ripped off. Scorched earth for a hundred feet in every direction.
“We need an edge,” I yelled over one shoulder, a hand cupped around my mouth, “and there’s no time like the present. Load up the javelins—” My sentence cut off as Devil leaped from the rampart, his wings stretching and catching a stiff breeze as we banked upward. We soared over the top of the assembled Black Legion troops, cruising just out of arrow range. Five siege engines littered the rolling green fields in front of the wall, along with a small army—fifty or sixty deep—of hardened warriors, nimble archers, support mages, and clerics armed to the teeth with buff and healing spells.
Okay, time to take out those support mages, before we got our first real look at Vlad’s new death-dealing weapons of mass destruction. I glanced left, then right, catching sight of the stone Griffins soaring above me in a lazy holding pattern, their huge wings pumping as they placidly waited for my orders. “Squad A,” I shouted, focusing on a group of Griffins clutching giant stone boulders—each a couple hundred pounds, easy—in their lionesque front paws. I didn’t need to shout; despite the distance and the noise, the Rowanheath guardians were linked to me in some way I didn’t quite understand, and I could summon and command them even at distance.
