World War VR

by Michael Ryan

Chapter Nineteen

  He’s always overthinking everything.

  ~ Samuel Smith

  “Welcome back,” a nurse said. She was elderly, quiet, and didn’t flirt with him. An image of Tina flashed through his mind when the woman stuck a long needle in his arm.

  “Ouch,” he said.

  “Here,” she said, and placed a small bandage on the wound. “It’s just a little prick.”

  “That’s what she said,” a young man in the waiting room joked. He looked at Dale and said, “You seem familiar.”

  “Dale Brown, I’m–”

  “I remember,” he said. “I’m Tom Kapralov. We’re in the same platoon. I didn’t recognize you at first, you know–”

  “Yeah, hey! You look a little different too, I mean–”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m much better looking in in the flesh.”

  “Well, I–”

  “So you’re back?” Tom asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “We had a running bet,” Tom said. “I’m going to owe a few beers–”

  “You guys were betting on me not coming back?” Dale asked. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his platoon gambling on his recovery.

  “Russians bet on everything,” Tom said. “So how was death?”

  “I don’t want to talk…” The room began spinning, and Dale fell asleep.

  Dale woke up in his dressing room.

  Ërin: Welcome back, stud. Did you miss me?

  Dale: Ërin?

  Of course. I’m always with you until the end of the age, or while you’re a soldier in the Nagant War. Whichever comes first, honey. I’m standard gear.

  What’s the posted schedule?

  Training starts in one hour fifteen minutes on range fourteen.

  Dale geared up, checked his stats, and headed to the range.

  “Welcome back,” Smith said when Dale arrived. “Some of the guys thought you’d retired, but I figured you’d be back.”

  “I hope you didn’t bet against me.”

  “Nope. I won a six-pack off Tom,” Smith said.

  “You’d better share with me.”

  “You got it. So, um, tell me, how–”

  “Was death?”

  “Yeah…”

  The rest of the platoon gathered around when they heard the question. Everyone looked anxious, and Dale knew they wouldn’t let him deflect the question. He took a deep breath and explained the best he could. “You guys have no idea. It was beyond horrible and painful. Like Smith said, I had to relive memories I’d forgotten about.”

  “Like what?” someone asked.

  “Like stuff from when I was a kid,” Dale answered.

  “Did you feel physical pain? Like real pain?” someone asked. It was the biggest fear, and separating rumor from fact was nearly impossible.

  “You have no idea,” Dale whispered. “Maybe it’s not as bad as the real thing, although I can’t say I’ve ever been poisoned to death or burned alive, so I really don’t know.”

  “Shit.”

  “Maybe that’s a design feature,” a private suggested. “To, you know, get us motivated?”

  “I suppose,” Dale said. “I’m certainly motivated not to die again.”

  “I was in the hospital for two weeks,” Smith said. “But that was in the early days. They’re getting better with treatment protocols.”

  “Shit,” someone else said, their anxiety apparent.

  “Yeah, shit,” Dale agreed.

  When the training session started, Drill Sergeant Green yelled as they ran. “Let’s go, you maggots! Move it, move it, move it!”

  Dale fell behind.

  At the top of a particularly long climb up a hill, Dale said, “Sorry, Drill Sergeant. I’m not myself yet.”

  The drill had waited for him to catch up. “Welcome back, Private – excuse me – Corporal Brown. Let’s go!” Green jogged ahead, and Dale fought to catch up.

  They joined the rest of the platoon at a weathered gray building with the number fourteen painted on the front in a brownish-green color. A small mouse scurried into a hole.

  “I don’t know if I should be impressed,” one of the squad leaders said, “or assume that Rhith programmers are overpaid or insane.”

  “Maybe both,” a private said.

  “Take a knee, platoon,” Drill Sergeant Green said. He stood in front of the men. “Today we’ll start learning intermediate sword-fighting skills. The first stage of the Nagant War will be fought with weapons from the middle ages. Bronze, steel, and wood. Swords, knives, bows, and bludgeoning weapons.”

  Dale raised his hand.

  “Yes, Corporal?”

  “You called it the Nagant War. Are you saying the war is a game now? Like the MMO?”

  “Don’t take everything so seriously. But it’s a war…and it does hurt to die, correct?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe, Drill Sergeant,” Dale said.

  “Okay, then we’re on the same page. I don’t care if you call it the Second Vietnam War, World War Three, or the First Intergalactic Multispecies War.”

  The drill paced up and down the ranks. “Unlike past wars, where death was permanent, in this war if you get killed, you simply agonize in pain for a while and then respawn.”

  “Isn’t that fucking special,” Tom said.

  “Yup,” the DS agreed. “Private Kapralov understands perfectly, being a student of history. If they’d been able to respawn in his grandfather’s time, the Russkies would be ruling the world today.”

  “Damn fucking straight,” Tom agreed.

  The drill instructor lectured for another hour on short-sword techniques. “The list of different swords, and what each is best at, is long. You’re going to want to study up on the difference between a saber, a rapier, and a katana.”

  Green presented different blades and explained the various styles and the proper nomenclature of the components. “You never know what weapons you’ll be facing, and you don’t want to get caught in a PVP fight defending yourself against a weapon you’ve never practiced with.”

  When the lecture finished, the platoon entered the training facility. Their first lesson with the short sword involved repeating defensive moves over and over.

  “Wax on. Wax off,” someone joked.

  “It’s why you’re so good at fapping,” another soldier said.

  “You know it.”

  Dale became bored after a short time, and his mind wandered while his body went on autopilot.

  That nurse sure was cute. I wonder what it would take…

  Ërin: Are you talking to me?

  Dale: No. Go away.

  Don’t be rude.

  Sorry, but–

  But she sure was pretty. Those eyes. Those–

  Stop, I’m going to–

  “Ouch!” Dale yelled.

  “Pay attention, dumb ass,” Tom said.

  “I was–”

  “You were thinking about pussy,” Tom said.

  “How did you?” Dale caught himself and bit his lip. “Ouch.”

  “Watch out for that Russian, Dale,” Smith shouted from across the training area. “He’s a clever one. Fortunately, he’s a shitty gambler. He owes me a six-pack of Skol.”

  Tom laughed. “You can dream about your putana later,” he said. “Pay attention to my sword now, or you’ll die again.”

  Dale attempted to follow his advice, and they practiced in relative silence until lunchtime.

  After returning from the mess hall, they added shields to their practice. Green demonstrated blocks, parries, counterattacks, lunges, guards, dodges, and various other combinations.

  At the end of the training, Green called them together. “Gather around and take a knee. Platoon, I have a couple of announcements to make. The first one concerns Private Daniels. His actions inside Mount Dog during the training exercises exposed his lack of commitment to the principles of honor, loyalty, and teamwork. He allowed his brother to fall because he put his desires first.
”

  “Boo,” someone said.

  “Quiet down and listen up. This war is going to be won, or lost, as a team effort. There will be times for gathering loot. I suggest you make team agreements to share the work and rewards. No army can afford individualism on the battlefield.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “I don’t like losing soldiers, especially to stupidity. Any questions?”

  Even Tom was quiet, which might have been a first.

  “Okay, next item on my agenda,” the drill continued. “Tomorrow’s training exercise. We’ll be meeting on stage thirty-seven. Check in with Private Chance at the front desk before oh five hundred and proceed to the weapons room. Disssss-missed!”

  At oh six hundred the next morning the platoon formed up and was ready to march when their drill sergeant arrived. Soldiers wore custom-fitted gear and had newly issued shields, short swords, helmets, and chainmail.

  Somebody had made an emblem that read “Mad Dog Dale” and stuck it on his shield. The joke, probably started by Tom, made Dale feel like he was one of the guys.

  Marching was part of the training program because battles rarely took place when soldiers were well-rested and fresh. They sang old marching songs on the way to the field, led by Drill Sergeant Green.

  Administration replaced Brian with a Russian soldier named Galina Rasulova, bringing the platoon back up to twelve members. They were divided into three squads of four, and Dale’s included Smith and the two Russians, Tom and Galina.

  He was happy about the arrangement because he completely trusted Smith, and the two Russians appeared competent. In addition to Tom’s jokester nature, he was also a degenerate gambler and a womanizer, but when it came to soldiering, he was the best fighter in the platoon.

  “Stay away from Galina,” he told Dale in her presence. “She’s a Russian ballerina…so if anyone is going to glue that one–”

  “Pig,” she spat.

  “Rozovyi?”

  “Yes, pigs like you drove me away from the peen.”

  Tom laughed and smiled.

  Dale was confused as to whether he was a decent guy who just liked a good joke, regardless of at whose expense, or if he was a genuine asshole.

  Ërin: Sometimes it’s the same thing.

  At the scheduled time, the platoon walked onto the training field.

  “Attention!” a herald shouted. “All soldiers pay attention to the following instructions.”

  Dale listened with as much concentration as he could muster.

  Ërin: Don’t sweat it, hot stuff. I’m recording everything. I can explain the rules if you need.

  The training battle was set up as a modified melee between two fictional factions comprised of platoons mixed together from various training companies using swords and shields. Weapons were programmed to register injuries and fatal blows; however, pain levels were set at five percent.

  “All living soldiers on the victorious side at the end of the battle will be dining with the base commander tonight,” the herald announced. “As a reward, your favorite foods as recorded in your profiles will be served.”

  Dale: Ërin, can I change my profile to Chinese food?

  Yes, but it’s too late for tonight’s dinner. Primary System Control accessed those files yesterday.

  Shit.

  Why complain? You love Peanut Butter Captain Crunch.

  True.

  “Warriors, take your positions!” the herald shouted. “Three, two, one. Commanders, you may advance your troops at will.”

  Soldiers began moving across the battlefield. “Diamond formation!” yelled Lieutenant Brinkmann.

  Swords flew, shields rang out like gongs, and soldiers grunted, yelled, and sometimes screamed in pain.

  Dale: Ërin, can you verify that we’re at five percent pain?

  Ërin: No, sorry, that request requires administrative privileges I don’t possess. Keep your mind on the battle.

  One of Dale’s platoon members fell between himself and the enemy, which meant he could concentrate on fighting that opponent.

  Dale feinted to the left, moved right, and swung his sword diagonally in a downward sweep meant to catch his opponent in the legs. His sword was blocked, but his opponent overextended and ended up slightly off balance. Dale moved around his enemy, forcing him to attempt a blocking movement against a vicious downward thrust.

  As the enemy lifted his shield, he became even more unbalanced. Dale didn’t follow through on his initial thrust, but instead twisted back to his original position and struck the fighter’s sword arm.

  System Message: Enemy Incapacitated

  Trials & Testing mode: Do not continue attacking.

  Dale moved around the soldier and joined the remainder of his platoon. They’d taken losses, but still outnumbered the platoon they were engaging. When Dale returned to the fight, they overpowered the rest of their opponents.

  Once the first enemy platoon was defeated, they gathered allies and worked against the rest of the faction, one platoon at a time, until Dale found himself with the group of winners.

  A trumpet announced the end of the fight.

  System Message: Congratulations!

  You’ve earned a bonus: Dinner at the Base Commander’s Table.

  Cocktails will be served at 17:30 in the officer’s lounge.

  Tip: Don’t make an officer wait! Promptness is a virtue.

  Notice: No XP are granted in training modes. However, performance evaluations affect rank promotions.

  Dale: Do you have a calendar for what’s up next?

  Ërin: Something’s blocked out, but I don’t have specifics.

  Can you keep track of my appointments and schedule?

  Of course. That’s one of my primary jobs. By the way, the system is asking me to confirm your favorite dish as Peanut Butter Captain Crunch. Shall I substitute Chinese dishes?

  God, yes. Walnut shrimp, orange chicken, and combination fried rice.

  Confirmed.

  “All victors, please report to the main staging area,” the herald announced.

  Of the several hundred soldiers that had started the melee, the survivors numbered no more than fifty.

  Dale and Smith joined them.

  Someone yelled, “Attention!”

  A group of officers approached, and Captain Stone was with them. He spoke first. “Good job, soldiers. That was a fine display of skills. I’d like to introduce the base commander, Colonel Matsumoto. Sir!”

  “Very nicely done today, soldiers,” the colonel said. “A nod of appreciation to Lieutenant Brinkmann, who was quite skilled in his use of the Hiro-Tanka strategy. I look forward to a lively discussion at dinner tonight. We have a special quest to offer those of you who were victorious today. Captain Stone will present the details.”

  “Soldiers,” the captain said, “HQ has released a new training module. Loot and XP are available, and the victors will be the first to run it.”

  “Hey,” Tom said, “that’s an improvement.”

  “Sssssh,” Dale whispered.

  “Corporal Brown! Perhaps you have something more important to say?” the captain asked.

  “No, sir,” Dale said. He flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry, sir.”

  The captain threw him a dark glance before continuing. “You will infiltrate a castle held by an aggressive enemy with a kidnapped princess. You’ll need to be ready to face witches, ogres, trolls, and possibly dragonlings.”

  “No dragonlings,” Colonel Matsumoto corrected. “Too unyielding.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stone said. “You don’t have to worry about dragonlings. However, you do have to worry about war-level pain. It’s the only way to qualify to include loot and XP.”

  “Stone,” the colonel said, “remind them…” He waved his hand across his throat.

  “Death is possible,” Captain Stone announced. “Although if you fight as a team, nobody has to die.”

  “That is all,” the colonel said.

  Somebody yelled, �
��Attention!”

  Lieutenant Brinkmann saluted the departing officers and then dismissed the group.

  “So what do you think, Smith?” Dale asked as they marched into a forest in search of a castle to storm.

  “Of?”

  “This quest.”

  “Sounds fine to me. Loot, XP, a chance to improve skills over the other players…I mean soldiers. Why not?”

  “I’m, well…” Dale frowned.

  “You’re thinking about what happened last time?” Smith asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, that guy, he was a prick,” Smith said. “I know he was your friend, but he was a coward. You can be confident that nobody here is going to betray you.”

  “You sure?” Dale asked. He wanted to believe it, but his experience had him wary.

  “Hey, Dale!” Tom shouted. “I’ve got your back, buddy.”

  “Yeah, what’s the catch with that?” Galina asked.

  “What?” Tom asked. “I can’t be a nice guy?” He smiled wide and outstretched his arms.

  “I trust you like I trust a Moscow cop,” she said. The slender Russian did not smile.

  Tom frowned. “What do you know of Moscow?”

  She gave Tom a dirty look. To Dale, she said, “I’m sure everyone will do their best, but I understand your fear.”

  HQ excluded all officers and NCOs from the training quest, which made Dale, who was the only corporal, in charge of the forty-seven soldiers who’d qualified.

  “Don’t let them see your fear,” Smith whispered to Dale.

  “I’m only nervous because the pain levels are set to normal,” he said. “Whatever that means.”

  “It means that a strike from a virtual sword is going to hurt like a bitch, but I don’t think it’s going to be exactly like a real war. Who’d play?”

  “Who’d go to real war?”

  “Touché,” Smith said.

  Tom and Galina moved closer for their conversation.

  “I wonder,” Galina said, “how anyone figured out exactly how to mimic different kinds of pain.”

  “I wonder, too,” Dale agreed. “How does anyone know what it feels like to get stabbed to death by a sword? I mean, you’re dead if it’s for real.”

  “You think too much about it,” Smith said.

  “Well, okay, but don’t you wonder?”