Apostle of the Sleeping Gods

by Dan Sugralinov

I stopped at his table, which was covered with a Dome of Silence. Polynucleotide nodded, letting me know he’d seen me, and kept speaking. Then he pointed at me, laughed silently and the other Axiomites took his cue. Wiping away tears, Big Po invited me in with a gesture. The dome disappeared and I sat at a vacant seat.

  “The Awoken! Guys, he really went and made his own clan! Not bad, Sheppard! I see you aren’t the kind of guy who throws his words around. Ready to bet?” He chuckled. “Well, I don’t make bets with poor people, apologies.”

  “Wesley, I didn’t think you were they type of guy to just throw his words around,” I goaded. “That change?”

  “No, come on...” He was not embarrassed. “I told you clearly that I would only accept an item of quality higher than legendary. But to look at you, you don’t even have the money for a green, so...”

  “So here is what I have to bet!” I took out the legendary Whistle of Summoning, let them read the information, then put it back in my inventory. “Well, are we gonna bet or what? Should we summon an Arbitrator?”

  Ed was the one who told me about Arbitrators, a special kind of AI for resolving disputes. He had sent a standard contract to my mailbox, and I added to it and forwarded it to Polynucleotide.

  “You’re a lucky boy, Scyth!” he exclaimed. “No really, where’d you get your hands on this?”

  “It isn’t there anymore. Read the text.”

  He bored into me with his eyes, but didn’t ask for anything else. With a cartoonish sigh, the leader of Axiom started to read.

  “You really thought this through... son of a bitch,” Big Po said thoughtfully. “Irina, JJ, check this out. Should we take it?”

  “Until the bet is settled, Axiom shall be required to cease harassment of every member of the Awoken both in Disgardium and the real world...” Irina quoted. “It’s a scam. They’re drawing out time, Po. Qualifying matches won’t start for a month, then the games last almost a month...”

  “Well, how to put this...” Wesley mechanically wiped his brow. “If they wanna buy time, it’ll cost them. Alright, I’ll take the responsibility. We can decide what to do with the mount later. Maybe I’ll buy it off the clan for my collection.”

  He exchanged glances with the officers, got some nods of agreement and distinctly, looking at the ceiling, said:

  “I, Polynucleotide, summon an Arbitrator to register a bet between myself and the player Scyth.”

  A flaming blue Eye took shape over the table with a gentle hum. Arbitrators had no level and legend held that they were emissaries of the gods.

  “Subject of the dispute?”

  “A bet on final position of the clans Axiom and the Awoken in the upcoming sandbox Arena tournament. If Axiom places higher than the Awoken, Scyth will give me the legendary Whistle of Summoning artifact. If the Awoken do better than Axiom, Axiom shall stop harassing all members of the Awoken. Here’s the full contract.”

  “Bet registration initiated,” the Arbitrator stated in a crystalline voice. “Subject of the dispute can no longer be changed. If either party initiates cancellation, they will be declared loser. The conditions of the bet have been analyzed and determined to be unequal. Polynucleotide, please confirm that this bet is not intended to manipulate Scyth in another world or illegally transfer a valuable artifact.”

  “No way!” Big Po exclaimed. “Arbitrator, none of this violates the game process! Our clan has superior forces and development and we can decide who we go to war with! After all, that is one of the reasons to make a strong clan! Scyth is proposing an end to our war and I am willing to give him that, if his clan can best mine in the Arena. If they cannot, I want compensation for giving him a breather.”

  “Rejected. Polynucleotide, this is your final warning. Would you like to make an equivalent bet, or do you admit defeat?”

  “Irina, run to storage, quick!” Wesley cracked a fist on the table, overturning a glass of cream beer. “Bring any legendary, the cheaper the better...”

  “You have ten seconds,” the Arbitrator announced dispassionately. “Nine... Eight...”

  Big Po looked like a ghost. His hands shaking, he started dumping epics out of his inventory, and the clan officers started doing the same. But every time the Arbitrator adamantly pronounced:

  “Rejected. Value not equivalent. Four. Rejected. Three...”

  Then the clan leader put forth his final argument.

  Arena Master’s Horn

  Legendary

  Unique item.

  Trinket.

  +20% to all main attributes for whole group.

  Use: Summon ogre-gladiators to fight for you until the end of battle. Ogres are always three levels higher than summoner.

  Cooldown: 24 hours.

  Only for Bard class!

  Chance of losing after death reduced by 100%.

  “Wager accepted. Bet registered. All items wagered shall be confiscated until the bet is finalized and will be awarded to the winning party. Best of luck.”

  The Arbitrator disappeared together with the two legendaries, leaving behind a fading crystalline ring. All sweaty, Po was sitting with his mouth wide open.

  “Aw crud...” I heard from one of the Axiom officers.

  “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Polynucleotide.” I stood up from the table and squeezed Wesley’s drooping hand. “Good night!”

  Emerging from the bubble, I headed for the opposite end of the room. Now that was worth celebrating.

  Chapter 17. Fight!

  I GOT SOME DISTANCE from Axiom’s table-HQ and spent a long time standing at the bar turning my head in search of anyone I knew. The former Dementors weren’t in Dis yet, so I had no company, though we had agreed to meet at approximately this time to discuss the results of the negotiation with Big Po.

  “Hey, hun. Grab me another beer!” a bearded guy at the bar shouted over the music.

  He was dancing to frenetic guitar rhythms performed by a trio of bards, one of whom was a cute girl with an impressively clean voice. First tenderly cooing a couplet about a young thief girl in unrequited love with a hard-hearted raid leader, she then filled her lungs, bulged out her eyes and shifted to a full-throated rasp about her attempt to attract his attention with Leroy-Jenkins-esque antics.

  “It’s a wipe! Wipe, wipe, wipe! Take this! Wipe, wipe, wipe!”

  The abrupt transition made the bearded dude shudder, then he threw his beer mug in the air and started waving in time with the chorus. He must have either liked the song or identified with the subject matter.

  The tavern was filled with appetizing aromas of roasted meat, fresh baked goods, fragrant herbs and ale. The waitresses darted around the room like deft little squirrels as Tashot the owner, a swarthy middle-aged guy with a gut and shimmering bald patch, watched like a hawk. Various mobs and players were coming up to him regularly, and he would take out a thick disorganized notepad and jot something down.

  I heard a clanking notification to say that Tissa had entered Dis and, a minute later, I saw a message in clan chat: “Well, how’d it go?” It wasn’t hard to guess what she was asking about, so I answered right away: “He took the bet! Details tomorrow.” Tissa sent a happy smiley and left the game immediately. Clearly she was leaving to tell the guys my answer. They had all decided to spend this night with their family because we would have to spend the whole next month on nothing but sleep, studies and Disgardium.

  At the oaken tables, everyone was just having a good time regardless of whether they were bots, players or noncitizens. I recognized a couple of them and my lips spread into an unwitting smile.

  In the far corner, I saw my old friends from Cali Bottom: Manny the miner who I’d stood up to Crag for and Trixie. Like all noncitizens, the little man looked like his real self in Dis. He was stomping his feet and waving his hands furiously, trying to get my attention. I waved back and went over to see him.

  The seven workmen were washing down dark dwarven ale to stave off the heat and making eyes at a languid
, beautiful bot. Manny introduced me to his brigade, mentioning what I’d done for him. Their attitudes noticeably changed. They squeezed my hand ardently and patted me on the shoulder while Trixie, slipping out of his seat, ran off to get another chair for me.

  “Will you sit with us, Alex?” Manny asked. “Sorry I’m not offering a drink. You know about the age adaptation effect...”

  “Like alcoholic ale will turn into cream beer if it’s in my hands?”

  “Yep, something like that.” The chief miner summoned a waitress and made an order. ”Even if it stays in my hand and you just take a sip, the drink will permanently change. And I’d rather avoid having my drink transmogrified.”

  “Why don’t you just drink in the real world? Is it more expensive?”

  “You know, not especially,” Manny frowned. “The price of similar stuff IRL is about the same. You might think they’re just selling digital code to a projection of the mind... But do you know what this dwarven swill does to me?” Manny raised a glass. “The VR pod just activates certain parts of my brain, imitating the effect of alcohol. And the thing is, the effect is real. Just like you get from real booze, but it doesn’t damage the body. You understand? No side effects like fatty liver, alcohol poisoning or hangover.”

  “Your order. A dream beer.” The waitress, played by Jersey Locatelli from my school, placed a mug in front of me.

  I took a few big sips and licked the sweet foam off my lips.

  “How are you doing, Alex?” Trixie asked. He added: “Uh, I’m a miner now!”

  “I know, Trixie.” I smiled. “I’m doing well. How’s your grandpa?”

  “Aw...” the little man waved a hand. “Belly-achin’. Everything is wrong with him. He wanted me to say hi if I saw you. So hi from him.”

  “Old man Furtado is breaking down,” Manny sighed. “Alright, let’s drop the sad stuff...”

  He was interrupted by the familiar and somewhat surprised voice of Rita Wood:

  “Scyth? Is that you?”

  “Hello, Overweight!” I turned and answered. “Sorry about that dance... My mom hit emergency exit.”

  “That’s what I figured. I hope it was nothing serious. Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, everything is fine...” I faltered, and though I wanted to talk to her, I didn’t want to offend Manny and Trixie by turning away from them midsentence.

  “Anyway, I’m over here,” she said. “At that table. Oh god, Goosebumps already wrote me a private message saying to invite you. Basically, if you’re feeling like it, come join us!”

  Patting me on the shoulder, Rita walked away. I mentally thanked her for not drawing attention to the fact I was sitting with noncitizens. That, to put it lightly, was considered strange.

  “Manny,” I returned to the conversation with the foreman, “how are your pods different from normal ones?”

  “Ha!” he exclaimed. “Come on with that! In every way! We call ours coffins, and they are locked into Dis only. Snowstorm gives them out for free as part of a charity program for noncitizens. And you know what that means?”

  I shook my head and Manny answered:

  “Characters that enter through our kind of pod are assigned a separate class. We’re not players, not NPC’s, just friggin’ laborers! We get no experience, so we never level. That’s for one. We cannot take combat skills either. That’s two. And that means we can only improve trades and resource gathering professions, that’s three. Praise all the gods that they gave us full perception. But that’s just one side of the coin. Pain sensations are transmitted one hundred percent. So like it or not, the only thing we can do is work.”

  “Or sit in a dungeon,” Trixie threw out.

  Manny hushed the little man and slapped him on the back of his head.

  “How many times do I have to tell you to keep your mouth shut, Trix?” he whispered.

  “What, Alex already knows?” Trixie shrugged.

  “Oh yeah?” Manny asked, surprised in his turn. “Well, he’s not the only one here, dum-dum!”

  An uncomfortable silence fell, which I broke with a question I’d been meaning to ask for a long while:

  “Manuel, is there anything stopping you from buying a normal pod? You could level, play like everyone else and earn money through farming...”

  “Not exactly. There are no formal restrictions against it,” Manny replied gloomily. “Except for... the price. A foreman like me, earning ten percent more than everyone else, would have to save up for twenty years to buy a normal pod of the lowest category. But I’ve got a family to feed, too.”

  “And have there ever been any... noncitizens... that set a precedent? Has anyone ever made it?”

  “Sure, of course,” Manny shrugged. “But it’s like a lottery, you understand? Take a billion people, you’ll always find a thousand lucky souls. Like for example there used to be someone named Rachel Kessler who lived in Cali Bottom a few years ago. She worked washing dishes in a tavern and got close with the chefs. Her and her husband lived an incredibly meager existence while they saved up for a pod... They were saving, but that was only the beginning. It isn’t so easy to get even that kind of capital. Anyway, then she drew on her experience and took the cooking trade. At first, she bought ingredients from noobs: rabbit meat, berries, venison. You know, the stuff every player farms in noobsville. Then they sold it as cooked food practically at cost. That was how she levelled her profession. And they experimented, of course.”

  “I remember Aunty Rachel!” Trixie boasted.

  “He remembers...” Manny chuckles. “Who doesn’t remember her? Now she has her own restaurant in Darant, and her signature dishes are what most top clans use to buff! Well and of course she was awarded citizenship. After all, success in Dis is equivalent to making it IRL. But you already knew that, right? Now Kessler has a boatload of legendary recipes of her own invention, a whole thirty! She might even have more these days...”

  * * *

  After talking with Manny I gestured to Rita and Goosebumps that I would be right back and headed into the tavern kitchen. The Rachel Kessler story had inspired me, and I resolved to work on my trade a bit. After all, we were going to be doing some clan leveling soon and every bonus better food could provide would be welcome.

  But before I could leave the bar, the music suddenly fell silent and bar owner Tashot appeared on stage. He started speaking and I turned, my interest piqued.

  “Honored residents and visitors of Tristad!” Tashot proclaimed, puffed up haughtily and gesticulating like an actor. “Let me remind you that today is the day of our weekly individual mini-arena, the tournament of the Bubbling Flagon! At present, we have only seven registered contestants, and we still need one more fighter. Entry fee: one hundred gold! Winner take all!” Then he coughed and quickly added: “Minus a small commission for the organizers. Let me remind you that the judge of the tournament is the inimitable master of unarmed combat, Sagda!”

  Suddenly, a short man appeared next to Tashot. Wearing no shirt and loose-fitting pants, his long black hair was bundled up in a big braid, its tip glimmering dangerously. He spun in place, jumped up and made a series of lightning-fast punches and kicks, practically hovering in midair. After that he bowed, drawing applause. The things Master Sagda demonstrated seemed like a kind of magic. The trajectory of his blows flickered with a dim blue light, and concentric circles of disturbed air emanated from the endpoint of each one.

  “And let me remind you that we are taking bets on this tournament!” Tashot said after brief applause for the judge. “You may place bets with any of the waitresses or me personally. The tournament will start in half an hour in our back yard!”

  I walked through the crowd as it dispersed, some of them running off to Tashot to place bets. But I was trying to reach Master Sagda, who had already sat down at a separate table. His eyes closed, he drained a glass of dark ale with obvious glee, savoring it like a traveler who’d just spent several days in the desert.

  “Master Sagda, go
od evening! Can we speak?”

  He set down the glass in dismay and turned. There was nothing nice in his facial expression.

  “You cannot place bets here, archer. Go see the owner of this dive or one of his girls.”

  “I’m actually here to ask about unarmed combat training...”

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, understanding. “So you’re one of those types, eh archer? I’ve heard of fools like you, who train themselves in all forms of combat. Idiots! There’s no sense in learning something new before mastering what you already know, and you’ll never master anything if you don’t understand what I’m talking about, even if you had several lifetimes! Dilettantes! I cannot bear such people! So get out of my sight!”

  His tongue was quite loose, but I was familiar this sort of drunken reasoning. People like him formed their sentences on the fly, reaching a verdict without even trying to understand. My mother was the same way. When she drank wine, she would ask questions then answer them, then use that to reach a conclusion that had nothing to do with reality. “Alex, did you have lunch in school? Of course you didn’t. That isn’t good for you, you know! You aren’t giving your growing body what it needs to get stronger.” Something like that. And replying, “mom, I did eat lunch!” wouldn’t change a thing.