Avatar of Light

by Dmitry Bilik

  “He’s grown, as you can see. Everything went well until...”

  “What is it with him?”

  “Leukemia. It’s getting quite bad. He’s already had one bone marrow transplant, and now he needs another one. But even an idiot can see that his chances are slim.”

  “That’s why you decided to make him a Player?”

  “Human illnesses are nothing for a Player,” she said. “Once he becomes one, he’ll soon be able to heal himself.”

  “Why can’t you just cast some magic on him?”

  “Do you know many restoration spells? Something to stop bleeding or restore health? I’ve even spoken to some Seekers who specialize in healing.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. It’s just as complicated as my drawing. In order to heal a disease, you need to fully understand its nature. Secondly, you need to have a complete knowledge of how bone marrow works and what could be wrong with it. In short, you need to be at least a medical student. And I might have even found an expert eventually, but time is an issue.”

  “Auntie Rita, is it far still?” the boy asked. He looked like death warmed up even though we hadn’t walked very far.

  “We’re already there.”

  I looked about. We were in a deserted alley lined with gnarly leafless trees. The trail in the snow must have been cleaned at some point, but by now it was already completely covered over.

  Two dark specks in the distance kept approaching, eventually turning into two figures.

  Their manner was a bit strange. They staggered like two drunks supporting each other. But once they’d approached close enough, I could see that the shorter one of the two was walking against his will, “encouraged” by a burly orange-skinned Purg who pushed and kicked him into motion. Advancing in this manner, they came over to us and stopped about thirty feet away. The short one was an Areometh, the big one, a Conjurer.

  Welcome to the funny farm, guys.

  “Please! You don’t understand!” the Areometh made a dash for us but struggled in the Conjurer’s tight grip. “They were bad people! All of them! They did some awful things! And they would have continued doing them, had I not stopped them!”

  “What’s his development branch?” Arts asked, ignoring his pleas.

  “There seems to be a little problem,” the Conjurer cringed. “No matter how hard I tried to talk sense into him, he just refuses to speak. I could try again if it’s not very urgent. I know a few ways of making people speak.”

  Hearing that, the Areometh shrank back. Apparently, he’d already gotten a dose of tough love from his captor. He was lucky that Arts was pressed for time — as lucky as a lab rat could be who’d escaped the lab table only to become a python’s dinner.

  “I’m afraid, time is something we haven’t got,” Arts snapped. “What a shame. Well, I suppose we’ll have to take him as is.”

  “He’s an Areometh,” I said.

  Immediately, three pairs of eyes were on me. With the exception of Ilya, of course, who showed no interest whatsoever in the mysterious appellation. He hadn’t struck me as a very curious type, anyway. He just stood there kicking the snow with his boot.

  Arts frowned, looking surprised. “That means he can obtain information about objects through tactile contact.”

  “Not just objects,” the Areometh hastened to explain. “People too. And that’s the most important! I can see right through them! All their thoughts, their actions and motives. You’d think they’re holier-than-thou but they’re all full of crap.”

  I gave him a closer look. He was a scruffy little runt, skinny as an autumn leaf, his eyes ablaze with madness. It’s true that not all Players survived the temptation of their freshly-gained powers. There you were, living your regular life, and then all of a sudden you lost your marbles — or at least that’s what it must have looked like to you. You’re suddenly capable of seeing a new world, completely different from the one you’ve been living in. And not everybody can adapt to the new rules. Some — like the late Talsian or like this guy here — went completely bananas.

  “If dirt is what you’re looking for, you’re bound to find it,” I said.

  “You two can talk all you want,” the Purg interrupted, “but me, I’d rather get the hell out of here and move my butt to some far-off tropical paradise on the other side of the Network to get the most out of your money.”

  Arts chuckled. “And then you’re gonna come back and keep doing what you’re doing?”

  He shrugged. “One man’s meat is another man’s poison. What’s with the money?”

  “The other half, as promised,” Arts threw the money on the snow.

  She had the dust packed in sturdy bags — not quite as big as potato sacks but not every cash courier would be able to lift all four of them. The Purg forced his prisoner onto the snow, stepped forward and picked up the money which promptly vanished into thin air.

  “You’re a pleasure to do business with. Hunter wasn’t lying.”

  I tensed. “Hunter?”

  “Later,” Arts said.

  “Okay, now the main part,” the Purg said, lifting his prisoner by the hair.

  The molten snow ran down his face like blood. I shuddered.

  “I could do it myself, of course, but still it would be better if the kid did it himself,” the mugger said. “That way he’d receive the bonus of a skill and a spell. A Divine Avatar is probably out of the question: the guy doesn’t look as if he has anything of the kind. So?”

  “You,” Arts told him, standing between her brother and the other two.

  At this point, the boy surprised me. The whole time, he’d acted as if he had nothing to do with what was happening. Now, however, he raised his head, looked at Arts and asked in a quiet voice,

  “Is he gonna kill him?”

  “Not at all,” Arts lied. “He’ll just make him give you something. It’ll help you get better.”

  The Purg shrugged again. “Whatever.”

  A short curved knife appeared in his hand, the kind that butchers use to skin animals. He deftly moved the blade, leaving a rusty brown line on the criminal’s throat, deep and deadly.

  Wheezing and gurgling, the man grabbed at his throat but it was already too late. The snow under him had already turned crimson, greedily soaking up the blood. I gulped nervously. For some reason, I thought about Talsian yet again.

  No idea how long it actually took — a few seconds or even a minute — but then it was all over. The dead man vanished as if he’d never even been here. The snow turned white again. The only thing that still reminded one of the prisoner’s recent presence was a light dusting of ashes, the kind that forms when coals had completely burned away. But these, too, were dissipating quickly, as if the earth didn’t want any part of him.

  “I’ll see you around!” the Purg shouted.

  A long tentacle materialized out of nowhere and reached out for me. I jumped out of its way just in time, somersaulting and getting a good dose of snow down my collar. I drew my sword. The tentacle stood upright on the ground, defying all logic and common sense. More importantly, its intentions appeared to be quite aggressive.

  I met its next lunge in a slightly more dignified manner. Crouching, I took a swing with my Katzbalger which uselessly sliced through the tentacle as if it were thin air. Suppressing my desire to dodge its next attack, I stood my ground. Strangely enough, the tentacle didn’t do me any harm. What the hell?

  “Him and his jokes,” Arts said, turning back to me. “I told you he was a Conjurer. And a very good one, too.”

  “He must have done it to distract us from following him, to discourage any idea of catching up with him and getting our money back,” I realized.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Ilya suddenly joined in the conversation.

  “How do you feel?” Arts asked him.

  “Very strange,” the lad admitted. “I can see lines of text right before my eyes. And I have a weird feeling inside.”

  “You’l
l have to get used to it. Let’s go. It’s no good hanging around here. Sergei!”

  I startled, realizing I was crouching just in front of the dead Player’s remains. My fingertips were covered in his ashes, so fine that I suddenly remembered the chemical term for it: “solid aerosol”. I sniffed at it but it was odorless. And with every passing second, it continued to disperse.

  I rose to my feet. “Let’s go.”

  We moved off all together, slower this time. Arts was supporting her brother by the shoulders while I walked next to them.

  “Won’t the guards be looking for him?” I asked.

  “If they are, they won’t find anything. There’s already been a mission issued in Moscow to kill him. So no one’s gonna cry in their soup.”

  “In that case, we might as well collect the reward,” I joked sadly.

  She stared at me for a while, trying in vain to work out whether it was a joke or a serious proposal. “I’m not interested in making Ilya’s situation public. So I’d be perfectly happy if this Areometh guy simply disappeared. Let them carry on thinking he’s just laid low somewhere.”

  “And that Purg of yours, you sure he won’t talk?”

  “No, he won’t. Muggers don’t really like talking about their dealings. Those who do, don’t usually live very long — and they get fewer clients.”

  “I just hope that Ilya’s okay with all this,” I said in a low voice.

  “You don’t need to speak about me behind my back,” the lad said, turning his head. “I understand everything. Auntie Rita already told me that I would get better and become a Seeker. And that after that, the world might change. And she’s right: everything has already changed a little.”

  I didn’t say anything. What was there left to say? Although he’d indeed become a Seeker, he would be forever locked in the body of a teenager. What would become of him after a few years — ten, or even a hundred, provided he lived that long? An experienced Player trapped in the body of a slender youth.

  We reached the park’s exit where a car was already waiting for us — or rather, for Arts and the boy. Apparently, they hadn’t counted on me joining them. Arts told me as much, looking slightly embarrassed:

  “We’re off to see Ilya’s parents. They think we’re out for a walk. And I need to explain to Ilya how to behave around them now, that sort of thing.”

  I nodded and extended my hand to the boy. “Good luck. Stay bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  “Good-bye,” he said seriously.

  His handshake was dramatically stronger now. Even though his sickness can’t have regressed so quickly, the process must have already started. Arts must have done the right thing. She’d hired a mugger to locate the wanted murderer, and had her brother initiated. She could have chosen any helpless newbie Player who would have become easy prey for the mugger, but she’d wanted a criminal. Which would explain the exorbitant price she’d paid.

  She’d done everything perfectly rationally. In which case, why was I so consumed by doubt? This little accident in the park, to which I’d basically invited myself, had left me with a strange aftertaste. I wanted to wash myself clean and forget the whole thing without ever thinking about it again. And I really couldn’t explain what made me feel that way. Wouldn’t I have done the same for my own family?

  In order to stop thinking these holier-than-thou thoughts, I switched to more practical matters. I pulled out my phone and searched the map for light fixture shops. There seemed to be one just close by but it was only open until 6 p.m. So this wasn’t an option. There was another one a couple of bus stops away, right on Gagarin Avenue.[12] It was closing in twenty minutes, giving me a slim chance of making it.

  The cab flew down the streets devoid of any traffic, arriving in a mere five minutes. The shop was situated on the ground floor of a five-story building. The glitzy shop sign suggested the worst kind of shabby chic, and the shop assistants’ unhappy faces spoke volumes about their standard of service... or its lack thereof. I could understand them, actually: nobody wants to serve clients after hours. For that reason, I didn’t wish to prolong their agony: I just asked them to show me the cheapest ceiling lamps and chose one of them, a made-in-China affair with three lamps pointing down, which cost me $40, as well as a set of energy-saving bulbs. It looked quite decent. I could easily have bought something prettier and more expensive — but somehow I doubted that my personal house exterminator would appreciate a $1,000 Egyptian cut-glass chandelier.

  I called a cab. After another hour of staring out the car window at traffic jams stretching like bubblegum into the distance, I finally arrived home. I absolutely had to get myself a mount: a snapdrake or even a flyback. In these times of nanotechnologies, the string theory and the hadron collider, traffic jams were an absolute anachronism.

  As I entered, I caught myself thinking that I was already getting used to all the mind-boggling aromas issuing from the kitchen. I’d developed a good appetite. Meaning, I was getting a bit too self-indulgent.

  Bumpkin sprang out into the hallway and checked the lamp box with the curiosity of a child rummaging through her parents’ supermarket bags. Once he’d realized that the box contained no foodstuffs and that the lamp wasn’t going to add to his kitchen register, he dashed back into the kitchen with the same gusto.

  Suppressing my stomach’s complaints, I cut the power, fetched a stool and hung the lamp on the hook with the aid of my phone’s torch. I connected it, stuffed all the wires under the ceiling rose, lifted the whole thing up and secured it. What a great shame that the only thing they teach you in shop class at school is how to build flippin’ birdhouses when they should be teaching you the basics of plumbing and electricity. Had I not had my Granddaddy to teach me, I’d be now stuck sadly in a pitch-black room with a quality birdhouse for company.

  “Bumpkin, did you know that a summer soup is supposed to be eaten in summer?” I asked as I sat down at the table.

  “You asked for something fresh, so here you go,” he said with a helpless gesture.

  I wanted to grumble some more but shut up just in time. How in hell’s name did he do that? This was a basic summer soup — made with kefir, of all things — and still he’d managed to make me lick my fingers. As soon as I’d emptied the plate, another one replaced it, with chicken Kiev this time. I did recognize the chicken part — while Bumpkin who’d adopted all the panache of a Michelin-star restaurateur, enlightened me as to its proper name.

  As soon as I raised my fork in order to prove that the poor chicken hadn’t died in vain, my cell rang. It could have been Julia: despite what she’d said about her being busy, she must have been missing me. But this was a strange number that wasn’t listed in my phone.

  I hesitated, thinking it was probably yet another cold call offering me a one-of-a-kind bank card offer or a new competitive phone tariff (whose only advantage was that you’d have to pay more for it in the end). Still, it wasn’t the case. I heard a familiar voice, realizing there was no such thing as a coincidence.

  “Good evening, Sergei.”

  “If you say so.”

  I heard a chuckle. “I can hear you recognized my voice.”

  “For sure, Max. Or is that not your real name?”

  “Of course it isn’t.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything. It’s my family. My father would like to speak to you. I hope you’ll be prudent enough to agree and render this service to him. There’s a lot at stake, including your own family’s wellbeing.”

  I ground my teeth, suppressing a curse. “When?”

  “Right away.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll text you the address.”

  He hung up. Furious, I slammed my fist down on the plate. The plate smashed. One of the chicken pieces dropped to the floor, another stuck itself flat to my hand. Bumpkin gasped and made himself scarce.

  The phone vibrated. An address appeared on the screen. I’d have to calm down. Now it wasn’t jus
t my life at stake. And then I’d have to think what to do about this stupid Archalus and his family.

  Chapter 30

  WHATEVER YOU SAY, you can’t get plums from a cactus. Often children unconsciously copy their parents’ behavior without really stopping to think whether it’s good or bad. So if you want to raise kids properly, you should start with yourself.

  The father of the false “Max” was an Archalus. He was also much the worse for wear. He didn’t seem to have any human virtues to speak of — and apparently, his son had taken after him.

  Max’s father looked as if he’d been around the block a few times. The tip of his left wing was deformed, the flight feathers of the right one appeared to have been charred a long time ago. Add to this a crooked nose and a scar on his lip, and the result was as far from a battle-weathered warrior as you can get. If anything, he looked like a thief who’d just been caught and gotten a good hiding.