by Arthur Stone
Although... an idea began to form in his head.
Watershed had said something else. His words might have a literal meaning. Cheater began to see.
He knew where he was, and he had some idea what he needed to do here. In an instant, he realized how beautifully Watershed had arranged things. The details escaped him, but he knew the essence of it.
Cheater would, in fact, be able to accomplish this unknown task. Probably. He had to determine when to execute.
His hands were bound. His grenade and revolver were in his inventory, which was inaccessible. He was unsure whether this was indeed that location. Plus, there were other questions which he had not yet put to words.
But if this was indeed the place—the quest was unbelievably complicated. And he guessed the reward would be more than three bags could carry. Cheater had opportunities that most other players would never see.
Despite the shortcomings of this one, its effectiveness could not be denied.
Hands so rough and strong they might belong to infecteds picked the players up from both sides. Metal clanked against metal, and the tape wrapped tightly around their forearms crinkled.
They dragged him off, somewhere, and handed him off to more draggers. Hastily they unwound the smelly face rag, and Cheater closed his eyes against the bright light.
“Hello, you idiots,” someone mocked, nearly right in his ear.
“Ah, so it is you, Noballs! Hello!” Clown replied.
There followed a sound very reminiscent of a fierce blow to the abdomen. The kind which causes the victim to involuntarily expel air from his lungs.
Cheater squinted. His comrade was doubled over, held firm by the arms of a couple of ugly quasis. Not that quasis were ever pretty. A broad-shouldered, tall young man in a familiar black uniform stood in front of Clown. He was blonde-haired, and he had a perfect smile, even and snow white. He looked like he should be on the runway, not punching people.
His smile unwavering, the captain continued. “My name is Colt. Welcome to our fortress. It’s called The Dam, and you’re about to get acquainted with some of its sights.
“Do you always treat guests like this?” Clown asked, his voice hoarse as he unbent his body. “I guess that’s why the tour buses usually skip the Drain.”
Colt’s smile did not fail as he belted Clown again, this time in the face. “Don’t call our fortress that. Bugle does not like that name. The Drain is the Drain, and the Dam is the Dam. Remember the difference, idiot. By the way, Bugle wants to talk with you. Especially you,” he nodded at Cheater. “So, dear guests, unless you have some other urgent business, please follow me. See how polite I can be, idiots, if you’re not rude to me? Bugle’s like that. And you will never, for all of your days, forget his politeness. Trembling, teeth chattering, as you do.”
Cheater exchanged a glance with Clown. His companion’s eyes were dark, demanding that all explosives in the region immediately be gathered here and shoved up this captain’s ass. Let the whole place die with them.
Not yet. Cheater did not yet understand what was going on..
Plus, he could not access his grenade. His hands remained, spread wide apart from his body. There was no way he could reach his chest.
But the System had no new hints. Apparently, everything was going as it should. What should they do?
Chapter 30
Life Nine. Greed
Colt had lied about the politeness part. Nothing faintly smelling of civility was presented to the captives. Cheater wished everything else the captain had said was a lie. Yet, for some reason, he had full faith in the captain’s hints at the unpleasant aspects of intimate communication with this Bugle.
Several silent quasis tied them to long sticks, threaded through their sleeves, without giving them a chance to reach their torsos with their arms. Both Cheater and Clown resembled people condemned to death on the cross. With the sticks in their clothes, they did not carry their crosses so much as wear them.
They were walking cruciforms.
Then, they were led under a wide arch and into the massive fortress courtyard. Only the walls of the Dam resembled a citadel. Everything else was more like a prison. Reinforced concrete, cinder blocks, and bars. Everywhere. A huge warehouse of construction materials must have been on continual reboot in a nearby normal cluster. Some of the materials had been modified, clearly intended for some other project.
The grand remodeling project bore little resemblance to anything medieval. Cheater had remembered a few messages among the NPCs about the Dam. He simply had not understood that they were referring to a fortress of the enemy, and not just some feature of the area. This, it seemed, was the Devils’ main base. It held the passage between the Hole and the Cauldron. The Dam was, obviously, connected to the Drain—the customary name for the area. Water would flow through its floodgates, and vehicles drive along its crest.
Although Cheater doubted the water was flowing now. It may only flow during reboots of areas upstream. Continental geography was complicated.
The courtyard was more than two acres in size. Square in shape, it was not fully visible from the prisoners’ position as they were led along one of its sides. Their view was blocked by military vehicles. Mostly, these included the ubiquitous remodeled trucks, pickups, and so on—but there were also bona fide machines of war. Several dozen armored personnel carriers, infantry fighting and assault vehicles, self-propelled artillery and anti-aircraft emplacements, engineering vehicles for constructing barriers, and armored tractors. Four tanks, relatively modern models, and one strange vehicle couldn’t identify but saw was somehow intended for the vanguard of an assault, completed the ensemble. The unique vanguard vehicle was heavily armored, but with no weapons visible.
Now Cheater understood how it was that the Devils held the Drain so firmly. The System usually did not pamper players by gifting them powerful military equipment. Reboots brought some vehicles in, but they were few and far between. Usually they became burned out cores, only rideable when their insides were replaced. Ancient tanks were even looted from museums and somehow brought back to working order. It was the same with cannons and artillery. Rumor had it that tanks and artillery alike appeared quite often in the central regions of the Continent, but those regions were so dangerous that it was unusual for players to start their games there. Once a player’s respawn bind limit was reached, or when a new player came in, they were assigned to an apparently random region—but usually not there. If you were far from the coast, you had little chance of surviving.
There weren’t even any inhabited stables there. They were the worst of places. Hordes of the strongest infecteds in easily traversable locations, plus all kinds of other evil beasts, like atomites and grays. Players who tried to clear a place for themselves quickly drowned under crowds of foes, no matter how well prepared for the campaign they were.
Their short walk around the fortress ended on the second floor of a squat, square tower. Judging by the window openings, the walls were more than a yard thick up at the top, and below, about one and a half. Even heavy artillery barrages would take quite some time to dismantle this installation. And this was an internal structure. Its defense was relatively poor when compared to the outside wall. Crushing that wall could only be done by a massive enemy army—and the only army in the region was the guys who owned the fortress.
It was clear why most players hated the Devils, and also why they could not oppose them. Judging by the fortress, they were entrenched. Impregnably, irrevocably, indefinitely entrenched.
Cheater and Clown were soon shown that no lack of discipline or caution was tolerated. The process of prisoner detention and delivery was without flaw. Both were placed against a wall and lifted a little, their hands hung on iron hooks curving up out of the concrete. Dozens of these hooks were present here, at varying heights. The captives had to fight to stand, their toes barely reaching the floor. This method of prisoner storage had their shoulders aching within seconds. It was very effective.
>
Cheater and his amazing set of abilities and perks had no idea what to do. Even his Strength and Dexterity could not cope with such bonds.
He was utterly helpless.
It felt like being nailed to a cross.
In the center of the room, a table was covered with various metal implements. Ominous objects for pointing and ripping and poking, and before their use, for the generation of disturbing thoughts in their victims’ minds. Gibbets hung outside the windows facing out on the courtyard, filled with rotting heads. The stench from them wafted in.
It was the worst setting for calm, friendly communication that could be devised. Cheater had expected bad things, yes, but nothing as depressing as this.
This part of the fortress was certainly medieval. Colt ordered two of the quasis out, and posted the other two by the door.
Near one of the windows stood a short man with a puffy face, marred by an intense grimace. He seemed to have a cramp in every one of his facial muscles. Even the corners of his mouth trembled. Something was wrong with him.
Colt collapsed into a cheap plastic chair and began leafing through a well-worn erotic magazine. This occupation fascinated him to such an extent that he did not even once glance at his captives.
Not that he had to. The quasis had the glances covered. Even with no one in the room, the pair could not have escaped.
The door swung open, and a short and painfully thin player burst into the room with a quick and nervous gait that approached running. He had black hair, swept to one side, a tiny mustache under his nose, and military dress, all reminding Cheater of a famous figure from the mid-20th century.
The resemblance was most certainly intentional. But he was trying too hard, even for such an inexperienced theater critic as Cheater.
A piece of his memory came back to him, then. He remembered seeing a film. A black and white movie, with Hitler in it. Yes, the villain was certainly this man’s idol.
A quasi accompanied him. This place was so full of them that Cheater suspected quasis were bred here. He had never seen so many in one place.
The instant the door began to open, Colt jumped to his feet. In less than a second, he managed to hide his magazine, adopt a dumb solemn expression, and raise his right hand in a salute. It was as mediocre an imitation as the pseudofuhrer’s, but at least its speed was impressive. He had clearly practiced. A lot.
The tyrant saluted carelessly in response, turned to the wall, and intently and disdainfully looked at Cheater, then at Clown. Then, he pointed at the latter. “Take this one below. The standard questions, then follow my list. Send me all the answers. Immediately. Do it.”
A couple of quasis grabbed Clown under his arms and disappeared through the doorway. Cheater looked in astonishment at the fat man with the scrunched face. The odd individual had not moved an inch. Not even a greeting for the dictator. However, no one reacted poorly to this. It seemed he was one of those esteemed people to whom the rules of social etiquette did not apply.
The “Führer” approached Cheater, stopped two paces away, and drilled into him with nervous eyes, hands still behind his back.
Cheater went into inspect mode, and the nickname did not surprise him. So this was Bugle, the leader of the Devils, the archenemy of Watershed and all digis in the region. The mysterious NPC dreamed of this man’s brutal death. He had ruined the region’s plans for development.
Bugle continued staring, never blinking. “Hello, Cheater. I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. You were delayed, for some reason.”
“I didn’t know anyone was waiting for me so impatiently,” Cheater said, honestly and grimly.
“So you’re in a fighting mode. Look, I am no fan of beating around the bush. You are not my enemy. You have never been my enemy. It just so happens that a man whom I know well from the old days has very earnestly asked me to help with your case. I promised that I would do everything in my power, and I did. I don’t know what your conflict is with him, but it seems to me that it is not irremediable. There is a chance they will listen to me, if I put in a good word for you. Which would be easy for me to do. Why would I do such a thing? I’m not a charity, after all. I don’t know you. Perhaps you have conducted some ugly business with the digis. Perhaps you are even a digi spy. You could be anything. I cannot help someone I do not trust. But you can try to buy me out. Not with spores. With sincerity. Of course, I can always get the truth out of anyone. But intensive interrogation is not always the best way out of a situation. A person who is interrogated brutally never reveals everything. Oh, he’ll answer every question we ask, yes, but he’ll never offer anything beyond that. What about the questions we don’t ask? He is quickly broken, ready to say anything about anything in order to end the torment. It is difficult to get anything of genuine use out of such a man. I want the answers to the questions we don’t ask. So I’m offering you some honest cooperation. Mutually beneficial cooperation. What do you think of my offer?”
“I haven’t heard the actual offer yet,” Cheater answered calmly, “but I would appreciate it if your—assistants below treated my comrade with some decency. In case we do come to an agreement, it would be best for you not to upset him.”
Bugle’s face twisted. “You two lovers?”
“No. But I fail to understand what my personal life has to do with this.”
“Chosen ones who have stained themselves are nearly as bad as digis,” Bugle hissed like a snake. “Some things are forbidden. Forbidden for all. Forbidden for you, too, no matter how useful you may be to us. Sometimes I just want to become fire and burn, burn all of this filth out of the world. I don’t like this word, ‘filth,’ but it is fitting. At the least, I would pour napalm on the filthiest of places and send them to hell. I would personally light the match that destroyed everyone who perverted the way of nature. So, I ask again: are you a queer?”
“No, honestly,” Cheater confirmed, wondering how a nutcase like this ended up with so much power.
He was shaking. He held his hands tight behind his back, yet still that did not calm the twitching, which could be easily seen.
Bugle turned and looked at the quasi who had just taken a seat by the door. “Show him.”
The ugly thug hastily moved to the table and dumped out the contents of a familiar backpack.
Cheater went cold. His hands clenched involuntarily into fists.
How did they have this pack? It was an excellent item, good for carrying heavy loads.
But how had they found it? This pack had been hidden in a stable three miles away from Glass Factory. Had the Devils followed their new captives’ tracks all the way back, to the hiding place? How had they done it so quickly?
They had it all. This group was the definition of discipline and efficiency. They worked more effectively than Watershed and his team. And that was bad. He had not known how he would get those mods back, but now, he risked losing them all.
It was an impossibly valuable backpack.
Worth a fortune.
Dammit. If he had known in advance that this would happen, he would have given this pack to Watershed, too. Yes, he doubted the ability of the “organization” to pay him back, but that was better than giving it to this Nazi Devil.
This flash of confusion was extinguished in a moment. He regained his focus. He sorted through his options, rejecting the most absurd and unlikely of them.
Bugle continued speaking. “I haven’t dealt much with mods. I have more important things to do than play the lottery. But I am very well informed when it comes to prices. Anyone who suggested this pack was worth less than one and a half million would be shot on the spot at my command, punished for his deception or his idiocy, or both. So many mods, and so much money. You must understand that these sums should never belong to a single person. That is simply unjust. I’m no socialist, as I’m sure you know, but there must be some reasonable limit.
“Yet I believe that property rights must be respected, as long as they do not contradict the ne
eds of society at large. If you are worthy and chosen, you deserve a fair share of this property. Even if it was not earned by many years of hard work, it is still yours. However, as I said, you must be worthy. I am, as of now, uncertain of your worth. If you prove it, my financiers will determine the value of these mods, and you will get five percent. That is plenty for you to arrange a good life for yourself with us. This is a good region. An orderly region. My associates will take care of you, as well, and you will value their help. As long as you do not do anything stupid, eventually, you will have the opportunity to be granted a worthy position in the society of the chosen ones. Or even among my own personal associates. Who knows? Think carefully about your decision. Or perhaps you have already decided, and decided correctly?”
“What do you want from me?” Cheater asked bluntly, having no idea what this lunatic was trying to achieve.
First, he promised to put in a good word with Romeo. Then, he mentioned a place in his gang.
Did he even know what he wanted?
Bugle pointed at the backpack. “As I said, mods are not my vocation. But I know the basics of the business. A chosen one can, after a successful trip to the gray lands, bring back several mods. Sometimes five, or ten, or fifteen. Even twenty. Yes, if the seeker is very lucky, hundreds can be found. It has happened before. Unique cases can yield more than that, I have heard. But those cases are basically legends. Or myths. Still, all of those stories share something in common. No matter how many are found, the distribution remains the same.
“Let’s say one hundred random mods are obtained. Seventy will be lesser, twenty-five average, four greater, and one superior. That is roughly accurate, in any case. In general. More than half of the mods, in other words, should be lesser mods. I have only ever encountered one exception to this rule.” Bugle gestured towards the backpack again. “Only 150 lesser and average mods. All of the rest are superior, for the most part. The rarest variety of mod makes up the vast majority of this find. I was immediately interested in this oddity, of course. I found only one explanation which made sense. Colt, what do you think?”