by D. Rus
The Fallen One gently kissed the child, sighed heavily, and reluctantly handed him back to my mother.
"Here, nurse. Let him grow up among people, like me, in his own time. The better he understands you, the easier it will be for him to rule this world. And me... I'll always be here."
The Fallen One waved his hand towards the exit, implying they were free to go. Catching my questioning look, the god nodded. "Stay here."
Waiting until the last person disappeared through the gates of the Temple, the Fallen One sighed wearily and practically collapsed onto the throne. With a barely noticeable hand gesture, a fat stream of energy stretched from the Altar to the god.
The Fallen One drank the pure energy, straightening out his withered aura channels and filling his empty reservoirs. Over the course of the battle, the god had laid it all out, giving the impossible, and even incurring considerable debt to the universe.
The slab of the Altar began to significantly heat up. Pretty soon I had to step back, not wanting to endure the pain and lose hits to the burns. Little streams of the fused inlays on the black slab began to flow: gold, silver, and mithril streams with little islands of precious stones. Quite an expensive puddle, if you asked me.
I threw my ten percent of the Altar's power to the hungry god. Without opening his eyes, the Fallen One nodded gratefully.
Deciding to take advantage of the god's good mood, I raised the question that had been torturing me. “Fallen One, you're... I'm sorry about Macaria."
The Fallen One opened his eyes and looked at me in surprise. He gave a mournful smile. "A mouse gave birth to a mountain. Without the permission of the Head of the Pantheon, your wishes are nothing more than an appeal to the universe. So for me, those forty milliseconds that passed from the moment of the request to the decision and confirmation were the longest in my life. I destroyed her...”
A shadow covered the Fallen One's forehead. The god sighed and shook his head, driving away dark thoughts, and then stared back at me. "Have you made up your mind to go to Earth? I won't try to dissuade you. I can't calculate the variability of outcomes, but maybe it's for the best. So listen closely. I have a few important requests for you...”
Chapter Three
Earth. Urgent message from the Civil Defense Center. Forced activation of all sound and display devices.
System tags: Urgent. Must read. Confirm receipt.
Warning! This message is for residents of the following districts: Far East, Siberia, and Urals. Due to the nature of the enemy and the inability to establish a continuous front line, HQ has decided to create a focal defense system. Anchor points will be large cities; closed towns; army, state, and mobilization reserve warehouses; parts of Strategic Missile Defense; Navy bases; strategic aviation airfields; spaceports; and other areas with readied border defense. Citizens are advised to prepare for evacuation. Charts for the evacuation convoys will be sent to your communicators.
Warning! Watch for incoming messages! Tactical nuclear weapon strikes possible! In case of receiving the signal: "777", take cover immediately! Do not turn off your communicator. Rumors that demons can infiltrate its signals are not substantiated.
Once again, the meeting had to be postponed.
The crowd refused to leave the courtyard, eager for celebration and close contact with the clan leader. It seems that these honest people had become distressed, having been abandoned for a week. It's the same terrible feeling that weighs on a mother when her child doesn't come home on time and refuses to answer her calls.
I had to agree. It's uncomfortable at the very least to lose a clan leader to whom both the legendary Super Nova and the loyalty of two pantheons of gods are tied. As an individual, I had already long ago turned into a banner for a large part of the people in the Russian Cluster. But the military part had lost its flag and disbanded.
I didn't claim my banner was holy, but AlterWorld was straightforward and visually telling. No philosophies or esoterics, but only the sparkling icons of the leader's raid buffs: Commander's Aura, Blitzkrieg, Guiding Star, and Hand of the Gods.
Everything was clear and simple. Our leader was well! Legs moved faster, muscles hardened, luck flowed, and gold dropped considerably more plentifully. How could you not have loved that?
To compensate for their singed nerves, the crowd craved bread and circuses. The unanimous recommendation of the staff officers and psychologists was to avoid snapping at the people; let them relax and enjoy themselves a little. These recent weeks had been just insane. Soldiers had worked themselves to the bone, not sparing any ammunition. We're still not sure what the cost of the Battle for the First Temple was. It could be as much as a million dollars and a century of precious man-hours wasted. All given to the frontline. Victories were costly.
Heaps of rusty blades and tattered armor falling apart at the seams were scattered everywhere. Soldiers spilt blood like water. The crafters in the Crypt didn't see the sun for years. Someone from analytics came up with a frightening figure: the visual appearance of the average member of the clan aged by three-and-a-half years. AlterWorld was like that. What your heart felt, your face betrayed.
Widowmaker happily plunged into the familiar atmosphere of the organization of the urgent celebration. The goblins bustled about, clanging gold and silver dishware. The best, non-perishable food was pulled out of inventory, having been saved for just such an occasion and made with the rarest of ingredients. The result was the height of skill—something any master would rejoice in creating, something that Fortune herself would appraise, bestowing the Unique status on the new item.
Less than an hour later I was already sitting at the head of a table for senior officers. This masterpiece of our crafters stood on a separate platform, offering a view of the festival and putting those sitting under hundreds of curious stares.
Eating in such an atmosphere was difficult, so I talked more and proposed toasts. As the saying goes, "Shut up, just smile and wave."
My first shock was the pale-faced baby in the arms of Dana who sat next her husband, the first Dark Paladin of AlterWorld. Just in case, I looked around for Screwyall. We couldn't afford another episode of Mr. Bean.
But no, everything was alright with him. There he was, at the head of the children's table by right of his collective value. Everything he’d done had been counted towards this implicit ranking: the kid’s participation in real battles and his victory in the Junior Tournament, never mind he’d fought with the youngest. Add to this the beginnings of a shy courting of the clan's first beauty, the fair Irina. She was the dream of every teenager, her avatar a pirated copy of a Hollywood AI actress.
Oh, yeah. Some of these girls—and maybe all of them—were in fact old ladies who’d counted on the chaotic situation in the real world to go perma in an illegal capsule. They’d probably had to hole up in some basement for the first few weeks, waiting to digitalize and minimizing the chances of being ratted out by a jealous rival. That takes notable will and determination.
And anyways, if a girl decides that she is a suitable match for Screwyall, then she won't have to wait very long for her partner to mature. AlterWorld is responsive. If a boy desires her with all his heart, then he will speed through childhood for the sake of a woman's beauty. One year turns into ten so that his mother would barely recognize him.
I shook these fantasies from my head and returned to real virtuality. I once again glanced at the person sitting next to me.
"Fuckyall!" the proud father of the biggest family in the Russian cluster introduced his child to me. He then lowered his voice and whispered, "My real name is Yaroslav. But that's only to friends!"
In response to my astonished look, Dana modestly lowered her eyes. "AlterWorld hasn't run out of wonders yet...”
The second shock was when the empty chair reserved for the guest of honor was filled by the Fallen One, along with his son in his hands. A surprised and delighted hum swept through the hall. We were growing up...
We were like a group
of buddies who’d been happily getting drunk all night in each other's company and then had begun to show up with their wives and going home at eleven. And then, already balding, surrounded by a rapidly growing number of rug rats, they’d avert their gazes as they hurried to be back home by nine: because tomorrow they’d have to drive to the kindergarten, elementary school, and work. Then one day they looked up to realize that they were sixty and they were all alone. Their kids had their own lives, and their half-forgotten friends had long since kicked the bucket.
The Fallen One didn't pay much attention to the excitement of the congregation, but rather to playing with the gaga-ing baby. However, being among thousands of unconditional believers was definitely to his benefit. His sallow complexion became pink, his tired shoulders gradually straightened out, and the magic that swirled around the Fallen One gained strength and became brighter. Plus, the child himself was preying on him as best he could, deftly tapping into the family flow of energy and the bounty of others.
However, the Fallen One accepted the toast in his honor, taking the bowl of artfully cut rubies that was offered to him, drinking the whole thing, grunting in surprise, and giving out an obscure buff, For Success in Your Great Endeavors."
The dwarf butler nodded with satisfaction. He patted the top of a tiny barrel—holding no more than a couple quarts—that was shackled to his powerful wrist with mithril chain. Pressing the precious cargo to his chest, he left in the company of two gloomy security guards sporting the insignia of the guards of the Mountain King. These little people could always sense which way the wind blew and were famous for their striking ability to get along with any authority.
But living in harmony with the Fallen One was sufficiently easy. The Fallen One had no interest in unnatural rituals or child sacrifices.
In general, Slavic AIs had one undocumented feature: their enhanced emotional and social qualities. Where work required high levels of communication, care for fellow beings and responsibility (provided the corresponding moral reward was right), we were simply the best.
The opposite was also true. In space, at autonomous factories and military bases, in automatic nuclear submarines and on other solo missions, cold logic was more appropriate. Such facilities were manned by individuals raised in AI-boarding schools or in those trendy three-person families.
The number of people in the hall grew. In AlterWorld, night is pretty relative and filled with activity because a perfectly healthy body only needs three to four hours of sleep. Many chose to lie around in their beds longer, but only out of habit and to enjoy a brief lie-in.
Places at the tables filled up rather quickly. The festivities spilled out into the courtyard.
It was an impromptu celebration at its finest.
Girls wore silly costumes that in the real world you wouldn't see, except perhaps at an exclusive party for eccentric millionaires. There were cascades of jewelry, yards of sheer silk, and many, many ideal, photoshopped bodies. Glitter and gloss.
And the guys... everyone was a little different.
Those with a penchant for armor and weapons were hung with them like Christmas trees, their cold steel catching on the clothes of their neighbors.
Others just couldn't part with their newly-acquired artifacts. Like a random helmet made from a bear's skull or a six-foot scepter strung with the head of a Lich, spewing out insults and curses in the the language of the dead.
Yet others proudly sported their bare torsos or wore their shirts unbuttoned more than I would be comfortable with. Still unbelieving, they’d glance every now and then at the wide plates of their pecs, huge biceps, and raised blocks of their six packs. Weren’t they the lucky ones!
AlterWorld’s old-timers were easy to spot. These days, fine suede and natural cotton in the colors of the clan's emblem—black and silver—were all the rage. No rings, earrings, or amulets. Those were for noobs! Pounds of jewelry and brass knuckles started to drive you crazy already after the first thousand hours of farming.
Etiquette permitted a small knife on your belt, but none of those annoying special effects. A darkness-glowing, poison-oozing dagger is fine for the battlefield, but not for the dinner table!
Still, it’s true that paranoia never sleeps. I had no doubts that each and every deceptively relaxed soldier had in his or her inventory a few sets of gear for any occasion. Should an enemy's portal shoot open in the hall right now, a bystander would be shocked to see a thousand people covered in steel and bristling with magical blades in an instant.
Several grills were going in the courtyard, their aromatic barbecue smoke whetting the appetite. Taking advantage of this opportunity, those with cooking skills hurried to show off their abilities and add a couple more points to their skills, just to prove to themselves and everyone else that burning time and money on Cuisine was worth it
The Arena was already echoing with the clangor of combat steel amid the incessant flashing of killer spells. Warriors were busy holding fixed fights, promptly resolving arguments and conflicts in order to acquire and instantly lose considerable sums of money. I didn't mind. Whoever won them, the clan treasury automatically received five percent of the bets. The preoccupied squint and anxiously rotating ears of the goblins scurrying about were proof enough.
I stepped out for a smoke, surrounded by my inescapable entourage. I still wasn't mentally prepared for the role that had been thrust upon me. Reverence often confuses a person—genuine reverence, not the self-serving kind. The constant fuss around yours truly was a strain; the mega-ton weight of my new responsibility was crushing. The rise was too sudden. I’d had no time to get used to it, my departure from my comfort zone too unexpected.
Inhaling and releasing a cloud of pearlescent smoke, I flicked the strawberry ashes and glanced at Craky whose phantom head loomed over the embrasures of the wall of the inner perimeter. His pleading eyes gleamed like anti-aircraft spotlights, his wings nervously fluttering, eager to carry the dragon over the wretched barrier.
"He’s a big boy now," I said to no one in particular.
Nearby, Eric followed my gaze. "He is. In the last team battle, this crazy duo earned more than a hundred levels. They won't get past the arch of the gates. They're thirty feet at the shoulders!"
"And what's he doing behind the walls? Too shy to enter?"
The First Priest of Macaria grimaced. His cheek nervously twitched. "He eats everything in sight, the bug-eyed bastard! We won't let him in, now."
Our friends around us grinned knowingly. There was clearly more to the story. Smiling in anticipation, I prodded Cryl. "What's the deal?"
Eric angrily knitted his eyebrows, but my little secret agent ignored his silent protest. "Eric's tactical group combed the Ninth Sector of the Frontier. Well, the lads stumbled upon a gift from Earth: a brand new Range Rover."
Eric emitted a heart-wrenching groan. "Brand spanking new! The price tag was on the windshield and it had factory seat covers!"
"Yeah, it was obviously transported right out of the showroom...” Cryl agreed.
"I'd been drooling over one of those since the third grade!" getting all worked up, Eric grabbed at his shirt over his chest.
"We couldn't get the car going. The electrics were dead, like after an atomic blast. Basically, we pushed the car through the portal and parked in the courtyard of the Super Nova, causing dissension and jealousy among the clan members. But...”
Eric distinctly whimpered, but Cryl had no mercy, "By the morning, all that was left of the car was a few worthless bits of plastic. The dragons had devoured two tons of high-tech iron without batting an eyelid."
"Bastards!" Eric gulped down a fair amount of beer.
Everyone around was already openly laughing. The naughty little Craky, feeling the anger directed at him, beat a hasty retreat, disappearing behind his phantom shield.
Suddenly the lighthearted atmosphere ceased. Their voices fell silent one after another as the warriors’ combat intuition kicked in, making their hearts wail in grief.
I turned my head towards the courtyard, looking for what caused the sharp change in mood. Alyona.
The tiny two-year-old girl, the one with a piercing stare and a tattered doll walked through the crowd. She didn't touch anyone. She didn't ask them to move or get out of her way but people silently parted in front of her. Smiles fell from people's faces, their stares lingering on the barefooted figure.
The little girl walked straight towards our group. One of the officers couldn't help it and stealthed, unable to look the child in the eyes.
My cowardly friends parted, allowing Alyona to walk up to me. Clutching her homemade doll to her chest, she looked up. Her eyes were of an immense blue, with a teardrop frozen in a corner of one of them. I staggered, as if looking down from the top of a skyscraper. The chasm was calling me... The deep, the deep, I’m not yours...
"Uncle Laith, have you seen my daddy?"
I looked around helplessly. Orcus shook his head. My private chat pinged.
He was left in reality. He didn't manage to digitalize. She doesn't know. No one had the heart to tell her.
The little girl stared at the special agent, then shook a disapproving finger at him. "It's not polite to whisper. I can hear you. And daddy... he has to come back. He promised!"
Turning towards me, the little girl held her doll even more tightly and asked, "Uncle Laith, please meet him here. I know you will! Help him, please! Don't give up! I miss him so much!"
Without waiting for a response, she once again moved forward silently, whispering a children's song like a prayer,
Let daddy come, let him hear me,
Let daddy be always near me,
I know he’ll come and smile
To his poor lost child...
"Oracle?" whispered one of the analysts.