by Dmitry Bilik
One-shot.
You’ve attacked a Commoner who is neutral to you.
-20 karma points. Current level: +2000. You gravitate to the Light Side.
“Did I make myself clear?” I asked the other one who was scared witless, although I didn’t even know what I really meant by it myself.
He frantically nodded his agreement, as in: don’t you worry, we’ve learned our lesson. I walked over to the edge and took another look at the smashed icicle on the tarmac below. That’s what my head might have looked right now had I not been so lucky.
I shrugged and headed back home while the hapless ice exterminator tried to bring his partner around.
My anger vanished like a thunderstorm on a beach when all the rainwater had been soaked up by the ground, leaving nothing but clumps of wet sand behind. I didn’t feel I’d been in the wrong. I had neither remorse nor pity, only a slight concern about my own karma and a potential danger of losing the additional abilities my Avatar offered.
And this was a very bad wake-up call. Something quite bad seemed to be happening to me because the old Sergei would have done nothing of the sort.
Then again, was it really so bad?
I opened my apartment door with mixed feelings. Bumpkin was sitting next to the chandelier, looking like a guilty dog. And so he should, because the chandelier wasn’t dangling from the ceiling as normal but was lying in a heap on the floor.
“I just wanted to polish it,” Bumpkin said without taking his huge eyes off me.
At this point, I’d completely simmered down. Everybody should have some sort of release valve like this at home. When you leave work angry and uptight, tired as hell because your spear hadn’t been sharp enough to finish off a wounded mammoth or because you and the other hunters had failed to sell the skin before you’d actually caught the bear — at moments like these, you enter your house and all you can see is a pair of big tearful eyes looking pleadingly at you. So you pick up the hammer and fix whatever need fixing and hey presto! — the problem’s solved. And that’s the end of it. Who needs an animal hide when you can have a polyester comforter? Or who wants to eat a mammoth burger when you can have spaghetti carbonara? Never mind you’re not your hunter gatherer ancestor but a regular city dude: you’re still a man. And that brings your self-esteem back to its normal level.
I walked over to the fuse box and cut the power. Then I went into the kitchen for a bunch of old-fashioned lamp sockets left over by my grandfather. I hooked one up to a length of electric cable which I then joined to a connector block with the help of a test screwdriver, then joined the other end to the remains of the chandelier still hanging on the ceiling.
I switched the power back on. It wasn’t very bright but it would have to do. The chandelier was very old, anyway, and two of the shades were mismatched. I’d buy myself a new one.
You’ve taken the first step toward acquiring the Electrical Engineering ability.
Better than nothing.
“Bumpkin, I’d like you to gather up all the bits before somebody cuts themselves. And stop shaking, please. I’m not gonna kick you out.”
I plonked myself down in the armchair and resumed my reading.
Rethnor, Krein, Burroth, Dijker and Sortonhir. The great city states of Purgator, off limits to even such powerful beings as the Archali and the Kabirids. I’d already skimmed through the chapter earlier the previous evening, just to bring my Axiology up a notch. And to tell you the truth, I can’t say I was that interested. It was a bit like reading a history of some arcane tribe on the other side of the globe. The history of Cesspit was a totally different thing of course, when all the wars in known history had started as a petty scuffle between a bunch of Players.
It’s common knowledge that history is written by the victors. It’s just the way it has always been and always will be. If we’ve already begun to differ in our judgements regarding events that only happened fifty years ago with all the eyewitnesses still alive, what about the early centuries of human history I’d just been reading about?
Still, this morning I wasn’t in the mood for learning. My eyes skimmed over the lines without any meaning sinking in. My thoughts were far away — but every time I tried to focus on them, they slipped out of my grasp. There was a good word for this kind of mental state: stupor.
I threw my head back and closed my eyes. What a strange day.
I awoke with a new sense of urgency. The training session. This Intuition thing was better than an alarm clock. Admittedly, I was a bit worried about how Hunter would receive me. Would he come at all after yesterday’s escapade? Which was his fault actually. He shouldn’t have provoked me.
Thankfully, he was already there, waiting patiently with his frozen hands stuck under his armpits. On seeing me, he nodded and drew his weapon as if nothing had happened. Good. It was even better this way.
“A stick,” I said, breathless.
“It’s not a stick. It’s a bō.”
I shrugged. “Okay. A bō.”
Immediately I collapsed to the ground as the stick — the bō — swept my legs from under me.
“Hey, what’s up?” I gasped. “We haven’t started yet!”
“Just to keep you on your toes.”
The Seeker is inviting you to compete Until First Blood...
Here we go again...
* * *
“Enough,” Hunter said with a nod. “You’re all black and blue.”
“It’s all right,” I scrambled back to my feet. “I have a truly magical potion for that. We aren’t finished yet. I need another skill.”
Hunter shrugged. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”
The Seeker is inviting you to compete Until First Blood...
There was nothing inviting about his style. He was flailing me alive, cruelly and mercilessly. I don’t think he was trying to get even with me because with all my Observation Skills I’d failed to detect any trace of enjoyment in his eyes. It might have hurt, but at least I’d received another level in Acrobatics (which had taken me two time rewinds in a row) as well as Unarmored Combat. I only had one skill left till the coveted level 10. One miserable little skill.
“You should stop opening up when I hit you,” he poked me lightly with his stick. “At least try to pretend you’re not enjoying it.”
“I’m trying to.”
“Don’t just try. Do it,” he said with another lightning-fast lunge.
However, this time I decided not to use the time rewind. I just focused on my inner sensations, then stepped to my left and threw the Katzbalger forward.
Your Blocking skill has increased to level 5.
You’ve reached level 10.
“Now we’re done,” Hunter said, putting his stick away. “Your trench coat, does it adapt to the owner’s level?”
“How did you work that out?”
“Take a look at it.”
I did. Oh wow. Its skirts had changed from gray to brown. I just couldn’t help it. I had to check my interface.
Destroyer Mage’s Trench Coat
Adaptable to owner’s level
+500 to mana.
+16 to damage from all Destruction spells used by the owner.
+11% to absorption of all hostile Destruction spells.
+7% to parrying of all hostile Destruction spells.
My mouth stretched into a beaming smile. Mostly because of the mana, of course. Life seemed to be looking up.
“Now tell me about your journey to Crete,” Hunter said.
I heaved a sigh and embarked on the long tale of my fruitless trip to Greece. How else was I supposed to describe it, if I hadn’t even managed a dip in the sea because of some predatory individuals?
The funny thing was, Hunter didn’t seem at all interested in the Horsemen part but as soon as I mentioned Talsian, he was all ears.
“He didn’t mention any blood mages, did he?”
“Is this something to do with the Chorul?”
Hunter didn’t answer,
he just nodded. After a pause, he tapped a finger on his forehead and added, “The Chorul said that your life was of extreme value. Incredibly so. That’s why I got so het up when I found out about the dangers you’d been putting yourself in.”
“And what makes my life so important? Are you gonna tell me or are you gonna get all evasive again and just drop hints?”
“You’re capable of either bringing equilibrium into this world, or the biggest chaos one can imagine. It’s all down to you. Logically, the Chorul used to think that you’d choose equilibrium.”
“Did he say anything about the Horsemen?”
“He did, although he didn’t mention any particular one. He just said that you had everything you needed in order to defeat Morbian.”
“I was so afraid you might find out.”
“You shouldn’t have. It’s not my battle. I’m not going to help you. It’s time for the boy to become a man.”
“Hunter, you didn’t know Heracles, by any chance?” I asked unexpectedly for myself.
He gave me a long look which was too attentive for comfort. Then he just slapped my shoulder and said with a grin,
“Let’s go. Time to get back.”
Once back home, I had another luscious dinner from one of Bumpkin’s medieval recipes, then opened my interface. Level 10 required some extra attention.
Available points: 3
Strength 29 (x)
Intellect 19 (X4)
Fortitude 26 (x)
Agility 26 (x)
Stamina 21 (x)
Rhetoric 24 (x3)
Speed 16 (x)
An upgrade of your current development branch is available. You have two of the following options:
- decrease the number of charges required for each use by 1
or
- decrease cooldown time 1 sec
Right, let’s do it in order of relevance. Intellect... Rhetoric... and... — ah, come what may! — and Speed. Next. Another point to charges, and I can upgrade my development branch. I’d already decreased my cooldown time once, and 4 seconds seemed to be quite enough. In which case, let’s decrease the number of charges. Where was it... yes! All done. Now each time rewind would only cost me 9 charge points.
“Bumpkin? Where’s that potion of yours?”
He materialized almost instantly with a glass of nauseating swill. I held my breath — because I just couldn’t force myself to smell it — and gulped it down in three huge swigs. Then I gave the glass back to him and promptly curled up on the bed.
I awoke just after 4 p.m. My shoulder was still aching a little, like an old long-healed wound. I downed some hot freshly-made soup just to wake myself up, then dialed a cab. The Switzerland Recreation Park started behind the main city bridge.
I arrived way in advance and spent some time loitering by the central entrance. Then I entered the park grounds and wandered around for a bit. The place was disgustingly deserted. Boring. I walked all the way down to the kebab house which was open even now, despite being winter time. I wasn’t really hungry but I just had to do something to while away the time — and with any luck, bump into that mysterious mugger.
Predictably, I hadn’t found anyone. I was stuck there for maybe ten minutes, watching the frozen Oka River dotted with the dark figures of ice anglers and skiers and an occasional passerby on a winter stroll.
I was back by the monument on the dot — which was a good thing because Arts was already there, and she wasn’t alone. Next to her stood a pale young kid of about ten years old.
Chapter 29
WHAT DO YOU DO these days if you find yourself alone with a young child in the privacy of a deserted public park? You run for your life, that’s what you do. The recent wave of pedohysteria that has flooded over our country makes such a scenario suspicious by default. Where are you taking that child, mister? To the police, you say? You’ve found him standing all alone in the street? Are you sure you’re not a predator yourself? And no amount of reassurances will help you clear your name afterward. The least you can expect is a good thrashing for your trouble.
Having said that, that’s exactly what I’d have done myself — in theory at least. I might have called the cops and made myself scarce before they arrived. Let them deal with it. No good deed goes unpunished is probably one of the most relevant sayings of our time. Because you can’t safeguard yourself from some idiot asking you “If you saved the boy, what have you done with his hat?”[11]
Still, this scrawny teenager who never stopped coughing (now that I’d come closer I could see he was slightly older than I’d originally thought) looked down grimly, completely ignoring me. Like many childless males, I wasn’t very good at striking up friendships with human beings under the age of fourteen. Still, it couldn’t be helped. Arts had already disappeared somewhere saying she’d be back soon, leaving me alone with the boy.
“What’s your name?
He looked up. “Ilya.”
“I’m Sergei,” I said, shaking his hand.
His handshake was weak, his hand slim and pale. Finally it dawned at me that he must have been very sick.
“How do you know Arts?” I asked.
“You mean Auntie Rita?”
“Yeah, sure. Sorry. I meant Auntie Rita.”
“She’s a friend of my Mom’s. Auntie Rita told me to come with her and not be surprised at whatever happened. She said she’d explain everything later.”
Oh great. This was one hell of an informative conversation. Then again, what did I expect? The kid’s name was Ilya. Arts — a. k. a. Rita — must have told him she was a friend of his Mom’s. Then again, she might have indeed known the boy’s mother.
As for his illness, I decided not to ask any questions. It was a bit personal, if you know what I mean.
“Are you all right, you two?” Arts asked, reappearing. “Not too frozen?”
“I’m not,” I said.
“Ilya, are you tired?”
“A little. How far do we need to go still?”
“We’re almost there. They’ve just called me. They’re expecting us. Let’s go.”
“Do you need any help?” I asked, trying to support him by the crook of his arm.
“No, I’m all right,” he rejected my offer calmly but firmly.
So that’s how we proceeded: unhurriedly, taking frequent breaks. Arts and myself walked in front and stopped now and again for quite a while, waiting for the boy to catch up.
We headed for one of the almost deserted side trails. I’d expected something of the sort; what I’d loved to have known was what a mugger would look like and who he was supposed to bring along.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me anything?” Arts finally said when we’d stopped for yet another pause.
“I am. What do you think about the price of the dollar in the stock market? I’m looking for opportunities to invest.”
“That’s not what I mean!”
“Well, the rest is probably personal, if I understand it rightly. It’s none of my business. It’s up to you to tell me.”
She nodded, regaining her silence. She didn’t last very long though. The next time we stopped, she continued while we were safely out of earshot of the boy.
“He’s my brother. We share the same biological father. When I became a Player, I... I faked my own death. One day you might realize that this makes it easier for everyone. I’d never had a mother: she died when I was born. And my father... Ilya, would you like to stop and take a break? To help you catch your breath?”
“I’m all right, Auntie Rita. Everything’s fine.”
Once again the two of us walked in front.
“When I ‘died’, my father took it badly, of course, but at the time I had an elder sister, two years my senior. So he just focused on her instead. After a while, she got married and moved to Bulgaria. That’s when my father met Marina. A nice girl, much younger than him, although he wasn’t that old, either. Basically, they just moved on. Then they had Ilya. I kept an eye on them from a d
istance. It’s perfectly normal. Lots of Seekers do that. I couldn’t approach them via my father anymore because no amount of Camouflage would have deceived him. It was hard for me as well. But I made a very good friend in Marina.”
The kid drew level with us, wiped the sweat off his brow and gave us the thumbs-up, even though his entire countenance spoke volumes that he was about to flake out.