by D. Rus
Catching Eric's grateful glance, I gave him an inconspicuous wink. He must have already looked through his skill list and—knowing his appetites—must have already chosen a dozen abilities he could use had he not been nearly stripped of referral XP from a good seven hundred of already-dedicated players. Thank God I didn't depend on these parameters, otherwise I'd have been running around like a headless chicken doing other people's jobs instead of my own farming bit.
The thoughtful General nodded. "Very well, Max. Now go and get yourself some rest. You look like a vampire with those bloodshot eyes."
I exchanged handshakes, waved my goodbyes and left the room, heading for my apartment.
There, Cryl and Lena were happily lounging in the soft chairs, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, talking over each other as they exchanged their last farming experiences. They'd very nearly done level 30 in just a few days which admittedly couldn't have been too hard for people who'd invested real money in the game. Lena screamed with delight when she saw me. As she fell around my neck, I felt something warm inside as if hugging my little sister after a long separation. Cryl didn't seem to be jealous. His eyes betrayed his pleasure at seeing me. This was my family, the Children of the Night.
Once we've had our hugs, I sat them down and gave them a summary of the last few days' events. The news of our own castle, with its First Priest as their leader and Macaria as their patroness brought my authority to a height previously unknown. That's why they enthusiastically accepted my request of joining the ranks of religious workers. Even the Help of the Fallen One didn't automatically make Cryl a priest but rather defined his religious preferences and offered him some unknown freebies.
The kids jumped up and pulled some serious faces, preparing for the ceremony.
"Not so fast," I stopped them. "We need to get everything ready first."
As they stared at me, uncomprehending, I scooped a couple handfuls of vials out of my bag, lining them up in strategic rows that ensured prompt grabbing, filling and closing.
"Now listen," I said. "I'm pretty sure the goddess will come to have a look at her new disciples. Her arrival will be accompanied by the natural phenomenon of the Sparks of Divine Presence, which will be the first pillar of our upcoming financial well-being. Once the celestial window is closed, grab the vials and scoop the Sparks into them."
I looked around the room choosing a relatively empty corner. Pulling the rag aside, I pointed, "Come and stand here."
Casting one final glance at their deadpan faces, I stuck my tongue out and gave them a wink. It wouldn't do greeting the goddess looking like a funeral procession. Young people are naturally giggle-happy and they don't need much prompting. When, to the jingling of the bells and the glittering of the snowflakes, Macaria's face peeked out of the celestial window, all she saw was two happy geezers grinning from ear to ear. Herself blushed with (I suppose) the Fallen One's energetic advances, she nodded and gave me the thumbs-up.
The portal window glazed over, shrouding her face. With a pop, the air thickened, revealing the bastard Winnie standing right in the middle of the precious sheet of celestial snow. Cringing, he wiped his filthy paws and sloshed across the puddle toward the fireplace, kicking and stomping out the precious Sparks.
"You pig!" I selected him as target and slammed a mental fist on the priest skills panel.
I really don't know what I meant by doing this. It all happened too quickly. Either I meant to cast a curse over him or report him to the gods for getting in the way. Instead, Winnie got ordained.
The bells jingled again, anxiously this time, and the goddess' annoyed face—her lips slightly bee-stung—didn't promise a joyful rite. Seeing the would-be priest, she raised her eyebrows, her eyes fixed on me in surprise. I shook my head, shielding myself with my hands, gesturing I had nothing to do with him. The white bastard finally awoke from his momentary confusion and was now trying to make himself scarce. As if! Panicking, the creature launched a string of unsuccessful teleport attempts rattling like a machine gun while Macaria, having blocked his teleport skill, turned round and said something to somebody behind her back.
Could it be I'd been too cruel to the white monster, I thought seeing the Fallen One's scowl. As his glare fell onto Winnie, his face cleared; tilting his head to one side, the Fallen One chuckled in surprise.
"That's funny," I heard him mutter. "I could use that..."
Reaching out of the window, the Fallen One grabbed Winnie, pulling the creature toward the portal window. Have you ever heard a wounded hare scream? Probably not, otherwise the ranks of animal protectors would have soared into millions. That was the kind of scream Winnie had emitted. Meeting Lena's begging stare, I nodded and activated my Appeal to Gods ability.
"Listen, AI 311, make sure you treat him well, okay? He's not bad at all..."
The Fallen One glared at me, his voice pounding in my immediately-sore head. "Don't you talk back to me. It's my business what I do to him. And one other thing. I'd appreciate it if you gave your dedication shit a rest for tonight. Otherwise I'll be forced to make sure you don't enjoy your own matrimonial state for the next hundred years or so."
The window slammed shut. My two friends grabbed the vials, hurrying to pack away the glittering carpet of snow.
I just stood there scratching my head and thinking of an appropriate answer.
* * *
An economic evaluation of the Happy Dreams private virtual prison model.
The first private for-profit correctional facilities were officially introduced in the USA in February 1983.
The Act of Congress 6133 approved April 203X makes provision for the digitization of long-term inmates.
Social advantages:
Complete elimination of violence, drug trafficking and escape attempts in digital mode following the procedure recommended by the Department of Corrections.
Psychological testing shows that digitizing increases the first-time offenders' chances of successful reintegration into society 19%. This figure is 5% for repeat offenders.
Financial advantages:
A six-fold increase in prison population density;
Guard staff decrease 75%;
Payback period of 11 months;
Expected profit: $9000 per convict per year, depending on the virtual world, the more popular and populated ones being the most desirable in regard to their farming and crafting potential.
Chapter Sixteen
I congratulated the two on their priestly status. Then I lectured Cryl on the importance of the Voluntary Death skill and meted out their responsibilities for the next few hours. I gave them access to the auto buy, entrusting them with the pen-pushing task of sifting through the messages and answering them using a few templates I'd jotted down. All the really important stuff they had to forward to my PM box. I scheduled the dedication ritual for one p.m. the next day. With one final umpteenth yawn, I motioned them out of the room.
They couldn't have been more understanding. Chirruping like sparrows, they made themselves scarce. Funny how the dissociation of visual and behavioral patterns can affect brain functions. On the outside, Lena was the epitome of an Elfa, sophisticated and sensual: the AI-perfected idea of male doom. But that was visually. My brain was boiling over her childish hopscotch gait, her open-mouth curiosity and bright-eyed enthusiasm. So while my mind was screaming, she's only a child! it was unable to stop the drool from running down my virtual chin. I just hoped that Cryl understood it, too, and was able to postpone any heavy-duty courtship for another couple years.
It looked like the day, however crazy it had been, was finally over. I had to admit I'd already started to regret getting caught in the stream of events that had taken me to the top of AlterWorld's political life. How much nicer would it have been to sit by the Gnoll Hill smoking the gentle monsters. It had to be the proverbial fear of responsibility speaking for me, the unwillingness to step out of my comfort zone.
Thus sympathetic with myself, I headed for bed. Time to cat
ch a few Zs. Time to dream of a beautifully fat female pig... oops, that was my inner buddy raising his own sleepy head. Would be funny if he developed into a separate being, then materialized- oh, no, giving him a name probably wouldn't be such a good idea. It was probably better to only mention him allegorically, the way cavemen did when they spoke of the world around them. We still have no idea how they called their totemic animals—the bear, for instance. All we know is that they tried to disguise his true nature somehow, for fear of the animal hearing his name and answering the call. Their superstitions fit our reality so well they must have known something important. My little piglet would have made a fine majordomo! Having said that, I needed his services too much to part with him. Nightie night, Piglet!
The next morning was late. After a big breakfast, I began sorting out our financial situation. I checked the auctions and discovered over eight hundred potential followers willing to part with a grand to get dedicated by the hand of Macaria. Holy moly, this priesting job seemed to be more lucrative than even the tobacco business. Then again, the tobacco thing had a future while this was definitely a one-off, a quick gig on the side akin to stealing the collection box.
The customers kept paying, their money clinking into the auto buy account where it sat, frozen, until the deal was consummated. Either the Admins were playing safe or they just jumped at the chance to make money out of thin air. If you thought about it, there had to be about a billion in frozen assets on various accounts at any given time. The accounts and their owners changed but the sum, on average, remained the same. So nothing really prevented the Admins from depositing it at 3% annual interest, that's thirty million a year. Nice and polite, the way these things are done in a democratic society: "Sir, would you be so kind as to face the wall, hands behind your back, please, feet wide apart. Please allow me to fit you with a pair of handcuffs, for your own protection, Sir, thank you very much for your cooperation." Bastards.
The Inferno portal auction was especially gratifying. Over a hundred grand there, plus lots of questions from raid and clan leaders. Interestingly, it wasn't necessarily the same person. Managing a clan and taking it on raids were two entirely different skills. I could understand their impatience: I still remembered the news feed mentioning a raid to another plane where the total value of auctioned loot amounted to millions. It definitely made sense for top clans to be involved. And as for all those Chinese and Korean entrepreneurs, it was a gold mine. Their labor camps had switched from making T-shirts and license plates to farming virtual items long ago, their sweatshops thriving all over AlterWorld.
I decided to create a scroll with the Portal Spell written on it, then hand it to the auction winner. This way it secured his and my anonymity plus gave me some time advantage. Time was what we needed right now, its absence grabbing my throat, dictating me its will, controlling my actions. Do you really think I'd have sold the Vets the coordinates of my Gigantic Fly-Traps field for next to nothing had I had one year of quiet life in front of me? Never.
My only two clan members had already woken up—if they'd even gone to bed at all. The auto buy's unread messages counter kept clicking, growing and decreasing as the kids worked their way through them. I rummaged through the PM box and discovered a report from the security agency complete with their standing order receipts. Their fees paled into total insignificance next to the auction purchases and impending earnings. The thought that I spent less on my mother's security than I did on the Temple's guards of honor made me physically sick. Under my inner greedy pig's unexpectedly approving stare, I sent a request to treble the security, adding to it a hired help I'd found through some recruiting agency. It was about time Mom quit busting her hump doing her own cleaning, cooking and shopping. She needed to get some rest. She also needed to get a medical checkup and maybe go to some health spa or other. Knowing her, I knew she wouldn't do it, but then again, I still hoped I could talk her into going perma mode sometime soon. It wasn't as if AlterWorld needed many primary school teachers, but then again, why not?
Thinking about the health checkup made me remember my own miserable frame, apparently still comatose in the capsule's snug interior. According to the bodyguard's report, Mom returned to her old flat twice a day to perform some life support procedures such as replacing the glucose IV drip, changing my diaper, wiping my body with a damp sponge, all the while talking to my motionless body which was apparently on its very last legs approaching the red line foretold by the doctors.
I paused, thinking. It wasn't nostalgia alone. My body and I, we had much in common. We'd been through a lot together. And if there ever was a chance to preserve it—don't even ask me why—I had to use it. My mind was apparently immortal which meant that one day I might come back, albeit temporarily, to that joint-creaking frame, even if just to have a stroll along the streets of Moscow—if Moscow still existed, of course. Seventy thousand dollars didn't sound like a lot of money any more. I wrote a lengthy letter to Mom, giving her Olga's Chronos number and asking her to mention the code phrase, Laith, Level 52 High Elf, in order to make an urgent cryonics contract. She'd already had a power of attorney to act in my name, and as for my death certificate, soon it wouldn't present too many problems. The new expense did smart, but I had that feeling that I'd done something very right.
Mom would never agree to go perma while I was still alive. But Taali—she would need a capsule of her own very soon. It was never a good idea to use one of those underground digital parlors as they were all regularly raided by the Feds who pulled the naïve idiots out of their paradise of choice and blacklisted every one of them. Those who were suspected of suicidal or digitized behavior were ordered to visit the nearest ID center for a retina scan—apparently, it made digitizing much more difficult. Absolutely voluntarily, of course. Alternatively, they were sent for compulsory treatment in a closed medical facility.
So what I needed was a second-hand capsule. I already knew how to hack one and where to get all the rigged gear and jailbreak chips. This was one shady market the authorities would have a hard time cracking.
AlterWorld was buzzing with all sorts of operators offering real-world services. The auction was flooded with their offers:
Only for perma players: assistance in family reunion.
A FIVR capsule for daily rent, completely renovated.
Bugs for sale, hard and soft! Entomologists don't need to apply.
This last offer interested me the most, especially because the vendor had been in business already for over a year, his profile boasting tons of positive feedback. Once he checked my digitized status against some arcane database of his, he promptly answered my PMs, agreeing to find a capsule, do it up, then deliver it to the address given. With all the bells and whistles plus his commission, it cost me three thousand dollars. I could live with that. If everything went as he'd promised, they'd deliver a functioning FIVR set to my mother's in the next two days. But the vendor's unobtrusive offer of 33% off if he could have his capsule back once I didn't need it any more made me realize another thing. It looked like I would end up with two more bodies in need of cryogenic procedures. Burying them would be sacrilege. At this point, my inner greedy pig gritted his teeth at the prospect of parting with another hundred and forty thousand bucks. Yeah right, who said the rich had it easy? I cost more in maintenance than some goddamn aircraft carrier.
I'd have loved to text Taali, even if just for a quick smilie exchange. But I couldn't. She was already lying low, avoiding any eventual electronic trail. No phone calls, no logins nor bank card transactions, moving around only in covered transport. She had to be cussing under her breath as she was adjusting to her new gun. Then again, she could be enjoying its quiet report and gentle recoil. Her shoulder must be all black and blue from her old Vepr. From what I'd heard, this was how they'd detected women snipers during the Chechen war.
We'd planned her to act in five to seven days. Fingers crossed. I knocked the bedpost. Good luck, old girl.
The clock showed past
midday. Enough spending! Time to make some dosh. I contacted the auction controller, confirming our meeting in a café on the town square. I'd made the reservation well in advance to provide for any eventualities. It was a good thing I'd done so, too: the central square of the Original City was bustling with eleven hundred and forty would-be disciples awaiting dedication matched by about the same amount of bystanders. Ten auction representatives were already working hard for their 3%, keeping order and separating the onlookers from the customers.
Next to the auction controller sat a sturdy man in an unknown uniform, his clan tag in full view: Virtual Police. All right... The use of this word combination was prohibited when naming any clans or characters. So this had to be a true to life virtual pig, the real living and breathing thing, if you can say so about a cartoon avatar. Actually, the likes of him weren't regular characters—they used special accounts that gave them rights similar to the Admins', allowing them access to databases, internal control consoles and lots of other important things. A law passed seven years earlier obliged every virtual world developer to create this kind of puppet for Federal needs.
The auction controller rose, offering his hand. "My name is Chris. I'd like you to meet Officer McDougall, Chief Inspector of the Virtual Police Control Department."
The cop wasn't particularly courteous. Glancing in my direction, he gave me an excuse for a nod.
The controller explained guiltily, "The law demands the Virtual Police monitor all deals between players that exceed one million dollars. The balance of your yet unsecured account exceeded that limit an hour and a half ago."
Yeah, so the Feds thought it gave them the right. "You'd make much better use of your time if you tried to monitor all instances of forceful imprisonment," I scowled back at the cop. "Any idea how many people are stuck in cells and cages? How many are bound to torture posts?"