The War (Play to Live: Book #6)

by D. Rus

  Dan stood on the steps, looking pale. He was watching the clouds, his head tilted back. I was very glad to see him. To be honest, I was worried for his sanity. To suddenly find yourself cut off from your wife and kids, to be out of touch with everything that makes your life meaningful – that’s hard to survive.

  "Hey, bro!" I called. "Whatcha see up there? Is it gonna rain?"

  Dan was in no joking mood. He turned to me and shook my oustretched hand. I saw a definite thirst for life in his eyes. "Plane…" he said with delight and smiled.

  "Huh?"

  I frowned as my eyes swept the clouds. The others were shouting, pointing at the blue sky. One of the wizards kindly cast a group Eagle Vision.

  I saw it; a four-engine passenger plane flying at an altitude of about 30,000 feet, leaving a crisp condensation trail and slightly altering its course as if trying to find familiar landmarks and the outlines of a landing strip.

  "What the hell?" I breathed.

  "It’s the aftermath of the splitting of the worlds," Dan concluded with content. "While you were dealing with your bug problem, I visited different clusters, monitored chats and collected rumors. You know, in case the separation isn’t final, in case there are still ways to travel between the two worlds."

  "And? Did you find any?" I asked, leaning forward. Information like this was of extreme strategical importance.

  "Not yet. But I’ve seen a bunch of anomalies. The two worlds got torn apart too suddenly and roughly. Like a giant took pity on Siamese twins and just ripped them in two the best he could, by hand. Look what I got on the market square of the City of Light."

  Dan reached into his spatial pocket and pulled out a heavy oval window with the painfull familiar "Do not lean on door" sign. Pleased to see me shocked, he even let me scratch the glass with my fingernail.

  "A genuine Metrowagonmash," he commented. "None of that Mercedes-style modern replica crap! One crafty-ass dwarf sold it to me by weight for silver. Said it was a unique artifact with unknown properties and that he can get me fifty more, some of them – with colored pictures. You follow?"

  I nodded. "You think there’s an abandoned ad-covered subway car somewhere?"

  Dan chuckled. "You’re missing the big picture. What if there’s a whole station underground? Or even Moscow’s entire subway system?"

  I bit my lip. Kilotons of technogenic artifacts, a series of underground tunnels and secret weapon stashes – this really had potential. Especially if…

  "And people?" I asked. "Did any people get carried over here?"

  Dan squinted his eyes as if trying to make out a faraway target. "It is rumored that some did. All I saw was an odd group of nameless headstones shaped like crosses. The guard ogre was muttering something about a ‘rain of humans.’ Maybe someone really did get transported from their twenty-story apartment right to the City of Light, but how would we prove it?"

  "Have you tried to resurrect them?" I inquired, scratching my brow.

  Dan went pale. He hurriedly felt his pockets, then cussed and yelled at someone to the side: "Resurrection scrolls, now! All ya have. And a portal to the City of Light. Move! Max, mind sending an order to search empty headstones into the chat?"

  I nodded. Dan was on the right rack now and would dig up everything there was. He had a very strong incentive: to get back to his family or at least find them among the forced immigrants of AlterWorld. This man would move mountains with a spoon.

  Activating the Alliance control panel, I gave a high priority order. Everyone was to keep a sharp eye out for any unusual-looking objects, especially technogenic artifacts and human footprints or remains. Take screenshots and coordinates and claim the objects as our clan’s property whenever possible.

  "Hey, boys, who wants a watermelon?" came someone’s voice.

  I looked up, dumbfounded, and tried to see through the dull, semitransparent interface windows. Cussing, I minimized the menus into the tray.

  It was a real watermelon! A plant that didn’t exist in AlterWorld was being eaten right in front of us. By a ranger of the deep reconnaissance group who stood but five paces away from Dan. He carefully spat out all the seeds into his palm.

  "We want some too!" the others said, reaching their hands out to him.

  He took out his rare blade made of the fossilized tooth of a Megalodon. It easily sliced through the <_Unidentified_plant_162_Error_HEX_001011111_>. Those around the ranger stopped drooling for a second and looked at the man with respect. This type of knife indicated that its owner was either one lucky devil loved by all the gods, or a first rate genius geek.

  Let’s assume that it was possible to level up to the Great Master of Fishing status. Especially if one really enjoyed sitting by a pond for hours on end. But the rest had to be the work of the great Belorussian random; it probably increased the chances of receiving this artifact to be one in a million.

  The fossil shark’s tooth was one of the dozen treasures at the bottom of the Dead Ocean. In our days, the ocean was the deserts of the Frontier with their scarce ponds in deadly oases. One rare and spectacular sight you could catch there was one man fishing while guarded by a blood-covered, exhausted mercenary group. Brezhnev on a fishing trip in a combat zone, no less!

  Crack! The watermelon crunched under the plain-looking blade.

  Squelch-squelch! A dozen sentients sank their beautiful teeth into the juicy pulp. The fangs of orcs and elves, the goblins’ shiny incisors, and the indestructible molars of the trolls tore the fruit flesh apart. Even an NPC dwarf – the only survivor of the Drunk Division – was chewing with a thoughtful expression on his face, warily savoring the giant berry.

  "Peeps, look what I caught!" a falconer druid broke the silence. He used tamed winged animals for a rather bad high-altitude reconnaissance. The feathered birds of prey had peculiar eyesight; their vision was like looking at a black and white photo through a drop of murky water.

  His shoulder strap, which was always covered with bird droppings, was now empty. Either his falcon got eaten or was flying in circles high up in the sky, awaiting the next telepathy session with its master.

  The druid held out his hands, which were always smudged with dirt as he was constantly gardening. He was gently holding a frightened sparrow.

  "It’s an adult specimen," the falconer said proudly. "Level three. Just imagine, there I was, covering a terror group as it withdrew from the independent Ukrainians’ subcluster. I was spent; almost 60,000 square yards sowed with Burr Thorn! I barely had enough mana left to make a booger levitate. Then this feathered thing comes flying by. A sparrow! In AlterWorld! And it’s a buggy one, the system doesn’t recognize it."

  Tenderly petting the ruffled bird, he continued: "I knew nothing of the fragments of the real world back then, so I concluded that the bird’s a quest thing, a collectible, or even someone’s runaway familiar. I barely managed to pull out a scroll and cast Wrath of the Basilisk in time. It was enough to immobilize a dragon, let alone this little ball of feathers. Cost me a hundred gold plus a handful of onyx for ingredients. I hit several others, including a lone stealther and a desert lion pride. I had to run for it…"

  "So sell it! I’ll give you 500. Kate could use a bird. She misses the real world so much!" a shortish elven enchanter interrupted, carefully slipping his share of the watermelon seeds into his pocket.

  "Get lost!" The druid gave him the finger. "The only sparrow in the world is priceless, like a Stradivarius violin!"

  The sparrow, who had been fearfully looking at one sentient after another, assumed a proud air and chirped affirmatively.

  "And by the way, Sir!" the falconer said, turning to me. "Some greedy Ukranian type had been trying to sell a Husky via public chat. He said it’s the only one in all of the virtual world. Fully vaccinated and has a GLONASS biochip in its hide. The bastard wanted a million gold for it!"

  A husky, I thought dreamily. There were no normal dogs in AlterWorld for some reason. They were either teddy bears, mere accessories for
fun, or MOB mutants best suited for farming. The gnolls are better left unmentioned.

  Basically there was absolutely nothing even remotely close to "man’s best friend" or a "hunting" or "guard" dog.

  "Cool…But outrageously expensive," I replied with a sigh.

  The druid brightened up. "That’s what the boys thought! They decided to check him out and met with him in the guise of potential buyers."

  "And?"

  "So they’re bringing him here now!"

  "Whom, the husky?" I asked, confused.

  "No, the Ukranian himself! Our terror group is dragging him here with his virtual bag and the dog kennel he’s got stashed in there."

  "Thugs," I said, smiling approvingly.

  I wiped the watermelon juice off my face and turned to the enchanter who was already pulling out a second watermelon. More and more people were coming up to him, wanting to taste the real-world delicacy.

  "Where did you get it?" I asked, nodding at the striped fruit.

  The elf smiled. "You won’t believe it, Sir! We were just driving the spiders out of town when we reached the market square. An NPC was sitting there, buggy like that sparrow. He’s an Arabic-looking old man, dressed like he came straight out of a fairytale. He had a whole cart of watermelons for sale. At first, he asked for paper money, but then accepted silver. We bargained to our hearts’ content. He’s got cantaloupes as well. And right nextdoor is a bakery. I didn’t see the baker, but that scent! I drooled all over the place!"

  I exchanged glances with my staff officers and shook my head wearily. What an idiot. He should’ve played as an ogre, not a top elf.

  "Bring that old man over here!" I ordered. "Quickly but politely. Looks like we just got your regular watermelon stand."

  Chapter Twelve

  Saint Petersburg. Peter and Paul Fortress.

  Captain Akimov, the leader of a firefighter squad, sat on the footboard of an ambulance. His absent gaze was locked on the raging flame. He didn’t even flinch when the male nurse sprayed his burned back with aerosol.

  "It’s impossible…" the captain whispered, watching the firefighters back away from the wall of flame.

  A category 5 fire is enough of a threat on its own without anything mystical. But this fire seemed to…have a mind of its own.

  This thought made Akimov shiver. He looked at the site again. The fire counterattacked from the sides. It crept quietly over the timber roof and swiftly surrounded its enemies. It reached the operational rear through the basements, the sewage and the cable pits. Its sparks merged into flocks as the smoke formed runes of an unknown alphabet in the sky.

  The captain, his mind poisoned with combustion products, saw dancing figures amidst the flames and heard the echo of inhuman laughter. He could have sworn that the quick-moving, evil shadows were real. During the fight, he had flown into a rage and personally poured gallons of foam on one of the lithe translucent figures. The hallucination was so real that Akimov even bent down to get a closer look at the defeated nemesis.

  He would never give away what he found among the moist ashes. He would it pass it on to his grandchildren on his deathbed. For if not for that odd pendant on a thick green chain, he would’ve never left the burning building alive.

  The teams from departments three and nine were still giving him distrustful looks. And for a good reason; after the roof had collapsed, he spent almost two minutes wandering amidst the flames, searching for a way out.

  The rumble of a massive fire-fighter helicopter sounded overhead. Hovering over the building, it promptly dumped three tons of water on the fire from the tank it was carrying. The flame gave a roaring sound and dropped for a second before a dense stream of fire jetted out of it, attacking the cable on which the tank hung. The cable was all steel, so there wasn’t much to burn. But it went up in flames anyway.

  The captain smiled crookedly. The flame DID have a mind of its own, but it wasn’t very smart. It should have attacked the helicopter which was now fleeing in panic. Instead, the fire went for the tank, like a dog biting the stick when it really should be going for the man who is using that stick to beat it.

  Another ambulance turned on its siren. A pale EMERCOM colonel was being carried away on a stretcher. How he got burned while standing almost 200 feet away from the fire was a mystery.

  Akimov gave a weary sigh and counted in his head how many commanders remained on site. He was the most experienced of all the officers present. The rest were taken out by the raging fire.

  He rose, decidedly put on the gold pendant, took out his walkie-talkie and gave orders: "Captain Akimov here, taking command. Listen up: the water is ineffective. Use light foam instead. If you see transparent figures in the fire, you better believe your eyes! Attack them in teams of four or five. Oh, and…Does anyone know an exorcist?"

  The flame roared. The walkie-talkie crackled with strange, otherwordly voices. The artifact shone brightly on the captain’s chest.

  Amulet of a Fallen Salamander.

  Effect 1: +70 fire immunity, +200 HP.

  Customization: This is a unique item, the only one of its kind in the current plane of reality.

  Effect 2: 5,000 fire damage points will be absorbed. Recharge: 24 hours.

  Two heavy golems brought the obstinate melon vendor to us. These were distinguished fellows, bearing marks like For Heroism, Breach of Enemy Formation, and One’s As Good As One.

  Very few knew who was actually behind the stern-looking golem exterior riddled with battle scars from the character generation stage. It was really just two under-age boys, gone perma from juvy. AlterWorld accepted just about everybody, allowing them to have a fresh start in life, to build a new biography.

  I had actually sent five warriors to get the man a it was dangerous to roam the city in smaller groups. The majestic capital of the cluster was quickly succumbing to anarchy. Surviving spiders who had broken off Lloth’s leash now patrolled the empty streets. The monsters soon adapted to the situation and obeyed their instincts, trying to break out of their stone prison.

  Strange eyes peered out of dark corners. Their heavy, evil stare could make your spine cold and your legs numb. The hole-ridden astral world and the horrid spatial gap leading to Lloth’s Halls would cost all of AlterWorld’s sentients their blood for some time to come.

  Crazy PKs were trying their luck in the chaos of the split worlds, shooting at others out of broken windows or using stealth to creep up on the wounded and finish them off.

  Since my guys made up most of the city’s population at that moment, they ran into trouble too. It was hard to keep formations and fight monsters while someone was recklessly shooting at you with a crossbow from behind. In a situation like that, you had to throw yourself to the spiders when your HP neared zero, because that way you’d die at the hands of a mob and save your precious corpse in pricey armor from being looted by a bunch of nasty punks.

  This mutual hatred knew no bounds. The city’s air felt poisoned. It was so dense with black rage and purple fury that you could easily touch it and cut it in layers with your blade.

  It was frightening. The world had just been born. It was young and supple like an infant. Our actions and emotions were shaping it right here and now. But humans will be humans. Neither love nor the joy of creation were among some of the things that we so generously shared with this new world…

  How does that song by Russia’s beloved Vysotsky go?

  Hatred disfigures the faces of young ones,

  Hatred is bursting its banks,

  Hatred longs to get drunk

  On enemy blood that blackens our ranks…

  The city saw nothing but death. Gravestones blocked the streets like antitank obstacles. Obeying game mechanics and resisting the physics of the new world, the graves needed to touch but a single pixel of their location to stay upright. They stood neatly and securely on just about everything: thin balcony fences, the tips of fence posts, and even fragile cottonwood branches where enemy archers had been positi
oned, adroitly keeping their balance.

  The ex-game NPCs were going nuts. Everyone drew their aggro because of some algorithms only the NPCs themselves knew about. Reality lifted the primitive behavior scripts. This ocassionally led to unusual situations, making anyone from a street sweeper to a mighty emperor of many capitals go berserk.

  The remainder of my guards became inadequate and got killed off as they tried to disarm and arrest my soldiers, citing some shady royal edict to justify their actions. Some of my guys even ended up in damp torture chambers and had to break out by using the gift from the untimely departed Macaria. And that was the least scary scenario. The worst rumors came from the City of Light where permas were heavily outnumbered by NPCs.

  "Your precious old vendor, Sir!" the sergeant reported somewhat resentfully. "We had to leave three warriors to guard the melon stand to get this mujaheddin to come along."

  Whack! The old man gave him a good clip on the back of the head.

  "Ahmoq ekansan, ahmoq! Maniy ham zhahlim chekib ketdi!” snapped the vendor indignantly and, stretching his hands out to the sky, apologized to the gods.

  The built-in translator crackled and gave us its version with effort: "Fool, you’re a fool! I’ve had just about enough of you!"

  Yeah, my warrior wasn’t much of a diplomat. A human warrior, fist line tank. No small guy to begin with, and now super-tall and muscle-bound due to high Strength and Constitution stats. He was holding the vendor by the front of his shirt, shaking him like a guard dog and looking at me with hope, awaiting the "attack" command.

  "Shoo! Damn…I mean leave the old man alone!" I said as I approached the aksakal and bowed to him. "Forgive their hotheadedness, sir. They just got off the battlefield, hadn’t had time to calm down. I’m sure you understand."

  This guy musta fought in World War I, I thought, looking at the old vendor who had more wrinkles than a dried prune.