by D. Rus
"I’ll do the tanking," he said matter-of-factly, taking his place in the small formation in front of the portal platform.
Snowie carefully moved Bomba to the side where, stunned by this cunning betrayal, she allowed Dana to take care of her. With a show of strength incredible in an Elf, Dana shoved Bomba into the heaving crowd of people bidding us farewell.
Bingo!
Taking advantage of this and speeding things up, I gave Orcus the go-ahead. He immediately launched the routine procedures of internal security.
"Prepare to open a Class A portal! All nonessential personnel must leave the Departures Hall! There are waiting rooms at your disposal.”
The people reluctantly backed away, helped along by hundreds of military guards.
After a minute, the only ones left were those who were supposed to be there according to the combat schedule—in case of having opened the potentially dangerous portal to an aggressive environment.
There were dart gun and golem operators, first-line fighters, and a small group of support. They had various tasks: keeping a watchful eye on our guests so as to avoid the Trojan horse scenario. They also supervised the control mage holding the portal open. In case of his potential betrayal, he'd instantly be taken care of in order to disrupt the cast. Plus opposition to any invading forces. No point destroying the valuable structure just because of a chance visit from a PK gang.
The heavy gates creaked closed, blocking the passageways. They couldn't take all that many hits, but a dozen seconds in this situation could mean victory. The embrasures' shutters clanged as the crossbowmen and archers readied to meet their enemy in relative comfort. Heat poured in as the dwarves increased the temperature of the gigantic tanks of molten lead. At a meager six hundred degrees Fahrenheit, it was no magma, of course. But standing in this soup up to your knees could nonetheless be rather uncomfortable.
"We can begin," Orcus said, having received readiness flash-reports.
I caught the gaze of the sensation-hungry journalist who’d gravitated to us after the rupture of our worlds. The guy had worked as a virtual blogger. He’d had no plans to go perma and failed to see that the center of his interests had been steadily shifting to the digital worlds. Well, no point whining now. Enjoy your new home, dude!
I was happy to see that my hands were steady. My nerves were in order, the cells of my body regenerating even as they burned out—praise be AlterWorld! I broke the seal on one of my own scrolls, activating a dormant spell. Then I cast it. Forty-one seconds of forced recitation—a record for portal magic!
I didn't have time to enjoy the beauty of the arch that was about to form. My field of vision was covered with the icons of system messages.
Warning! The world has learned of a new spell! Words of the ancient language have formed an unheard-of hymn that subdues the elements and brings them to order.
Reward: Mad Genius. For every interrupted cast, you get a small chance of receiving the ordered structure of an entirely new spell with random effects.
Reward: +1000 to Fame.
Warning! You've entered the Top 100 most famous creatures in AlterWorld!
Effect: your level of Fame is now grating on other people’s patience. Jealousy takes precedence over gratitude and lies, over truth. The farther you find yourself from your native cluster, the more unusual the reaction may be to your appearance. Don't be surprised if you're taken for an impostor or, conversely, the illegitimate son of one of the gods.
I took in the text as a whole, wondering about its questionable advantages for the universe. With a shrug I closed the windows, sending them into the system tray of the ever-present ghostly interface, and focused on casting. Interrupting the cast and ruining the scroll was the last thing I needed. My tongue had already grown numb and the speed of my hand gestures began to slow.
Complicated spells—in addition to intuitive orders and wishes where the mage alone layers the elements that were subject to his will—have crutches in the form of gestures and phrases of an ancient language. In particularly difficult cases, like long combat casts or without the free support of gaming algorithms, this can be a problem.
39... 40... 41... There!
The massive arch of the distant portal pierced the sky with its massive bulk, stretching a celestial blue haze between them which resembled a view of the Earth from space.
We clearly had lower pressure here as there was a noticeable breeze flowing from the arch, pumping AlterWorld with strange microflora. This might cause a problem. We could all die out like the Martians in their clumsy tripods.
There was an unhealthy odor of soot and decomposition coming from the portal. None of that ozonized conditioned air of sterile laboratories. What else did we expect? Asmodeus had taken care of that.
I gave the go-ahead. "Send in the death row prisoner."
The doomed goblin from the Harlequin's team was shoved towards the arch. He must have screwed up really badly for my caretaker to have decided to use him for experiments instead of the usual exsanguination by swamp leech.
A kick got him going. The leather rope that was attached to the belt of the poor wretch began to uncoil in the hands of the dwarf guard.
Now we had to wait thirty seconds. An anxious Harlequin paced at a dangerous proximity to the portal, either worrying about his associate or getting ready to kick him back in should he decide to come back earlier than the designated time.
Thirty seconds!
The goblin hadn't returned. We waited another ten seconds, and then the dwarf nodded. Pull!
The rope went taut. Had a huge fish swallowed him? The security soldiers drew their knives, ready to perform their killer combos.
There he was!
Laughing nervously, the dwarf pulled out the lassoed goblin. He seemed fine on the outside, his eyes sparkling with a hint of triumph.
"Well?" snapped Harlequin tensely.
The bird brains of goblin cleaners had just enough space to accommodate two ideas: eating and stealing shiny things. Communicating with them wasn't easy, although the caretaker knew how to do it. Every week, he wore down another stick on the backs of the careless goblins.
Looking both valiant and stupid, the goblin stood up straight and squeaked, "All according to plan, boss! I breathed deeply, just like you ordered! I broke the seal of the scroll and a fire from the lamp blazed. It was a lot of work, boss. I need to rest. I'm gonna go...”
The green-skinned goblin tried to take a step, but couldn't move a limb. Judging by the tiny muscle tremors and his buckling knees, he was clearly overloaded.
Harlequin's eyes narrowed severely. "Give it up!"
The goblin lowered his head, reluctantly reaching into his inventory. A shiny, stainless steel bank cart tumbled out onto the cold concrete, followed by a huge piece of thick, greenish, bulletproof glass with claw marks on it. The rather large canister of a fire extinguisher, marked "Foam 100lb", clanged dangerously onto the stone.
"That's all. I swear on my mother's life, boss!" the goblin threw up his hands and with great effort, slowly crawled towards the exit like a doped-up turtle.
I stopped Harlequin whose blood was apparently boiling. "Later!"
I turned to the hound who was sniffing. "Belka, go!"
The dog looked me in the eye, encouraging our psychic connection, and then fearlessly lunged forward. She was still young, reckless, and liked adventure. It was for good reason that the pack gave us its most daring individual for the expedition. She was only level 70, but was gentle with people and had learned to slip into stealth to escape her nest and travel across the vast expanse of the Super Nova.
I closed my eyes, cutting off all unnecessary data and taking in information from the hound's sensory organs. I was bound to end up with a headache today.
I saw a black and white picture tinted with faint thermal patterns. Inside were many shadows, and the darkness was dispersed only by a burning magical device that the goblin had set, drawing mana from the activated scroll.
&n
bsp; Large living objects: none observed. Sources of energy: a smoldering battle pentagram a couple of dozen steps from the portal. Sounds: dripping water, distant whir of machines, the clinking of spent bullet shells under her paws. Smells: I shivered for a moment, then went blind as the hound was stunned by the sheer strength and range of unfamiliar smells. It was like having the military spotlight of a cruiser shine in your face in the night.
I blinked, then opened my eyes as my memory struggled to sort through the smells: burnt insulation, rubber, diesel fuel, and the stench of corpses. Hm.
I turned to my tense comrades. "It's a big man-made area with traces of a previous battle. Looks like magic works. Nothing living. We can go in."
Snowie nodded childishly and, hurrying to disappear from the burning stare of his wife, stepped through the portal. Dan and Fuckyall went in next, followed by myself and Tommy the snow leopard. Zena went in next. We were through!
My heavy boots crunched over the countless bullet shells and broken glass. I quickly looked over the area, using the checklist developed by our analysts. Rippling with interference, the combat radar struggled to draw out a third of its normal range. No hostile markers. The internal interface was in its place, albeit harder to call up than usual.
The buffs and skills of our avatars worked, at least partially. Our usual cocktail of both Elven and Night Vision allowed us to see the entire length of the Alpha Zone hall.
"We go according to the plan!"
On hearing the command, Snowie, Belka, and Fuckyall as a second support tank carried out combat security while Dan and I conducted primary inspections. Zena launched a test chain of macro spells, from a simple glow worm to the Astral Protector.
On the wall covered in scorch marks and pockmarked by bullet holes, there was a big red letter "A". We’d made it precisely to the right location: this was apparently how the younger generation believed “alpha” to be spelled. So much for their Greek alphabet skills.
Our group slowly stole out of the enormous glassless frame of what once must have been an aquarium. This looked like an enormous receiving chamber for any otherworldly visitors. Scientists couldn't help but seal it in bulletproof glass studded with sensors and security features.
I raised my head up. Apparently, I was right. I could see equipment mounting beams under the ceiling, still holding melted blocks of electronics and a bundle of four-barreled machine guns twisted together into a crazy knot. Amid all the bullet shells and hexagonal shards of tempered glass, we also discovered some shiny gold coins on the floor.
"Mana regeneration in the negative," Zena unexpectedly reported. “Presence of magic registered. Cast times increased by a third. The effectiveness of spells reduced by about half. The Astral Protector isn't responding.”
I chuckled. It could have been worse. Though it could have also been better.
"Soldiers, check it out!” I commanded. “Belka, stay alert!"
I renewed my Bone Shield, watching the restoration of my mana. My Spirit parameter was quite high.
It was true, after all. It was the same as if I was standing in battle—minus nine units per tick. That’s instead of the usual plus twenty one. I crossed my legs and sat in a meditative pose, doubling the regeneration rate. Every time that the mana bar twitched, growing, I performed some simple calculations.
"Minus thirty units per tick. During meditation I have a positive balance of plus thirty-three."
Fuckyall quietly added, "Confirmed. Minus thirty and plus fifty-one."
So! I knew that paladins had many Spirit-boosting practices but this was just too much.
However, this was to our advantage.
Zena once again broke into the conversation. "Guys, are you following your health? Have you been hit by that poison DoT?"
I nervously shuddered and searched for the icon in an acid-red frame among the smattering of other icon buffs. It featured an evilly grinning skull with two drops of blood and an infinity sign under it. This meant that it was a poison of average strength and unlimited time, most likely tied to the area.
"Twenty per tick," Snowie said, almost nonchalantly. Trolls had a high natural immunity to poisons as well as a natural and professional regeneration which could make an easy job of any weakish debuff several times over.
"Forty-six," Dan echoed. "It seems that having received organic matter—instead of gold—in the form of angry demons, the Yanks sprayed the room with some sort of chemical weapons agent to sterilize the portal zone. In laboratories, security protocols at such a level are fairly standard."
I looked around at the mess, paying special attention to the enormous vault-like doors that had been ripped out along with the massive doorframe that now lay helplessly around the black gap of the exit.
"Well, it doesn’t look as if it helped them a lot."
"Nope," Dan said, pulling yet another cart out from the debris and standing it on its rubber wheels. He squinted appraisingly at the mutilated machine gun. "We could throw it in with our trophies."
Zena sparkled with the dim lights of low-level magic. "Guys, I'm testing antidotes. I'm starting from the most basic. Light Generic Antidote—not much... Medium Generic—insignificant attenuation of the poison. Strong Special—there's a decrease!"
Fuckyall shook his head in amazement. "This is some strong combat chemistry. It poisons you gently but tenaciously, like an STI."
I didn't agree. "Maybe for you it's gentle. It would kill a human in two ticks. By the way, we're taking on poison again. This area is definitely contaminated. Pointless trying to heal now. In any case, regeneration is interrupting the damage." Continue the inspection!"
Wagging her bald stick of a tail, Belka ran up to me and dropped another discovery at my feet. It was a severed human hand in a tactical Kevlar glove. I peered at a pale tattoo that read, SF Airborne ODA.
Having been brought up by TV and video games, I was completely indifferent to the sight of the dismembered hand. I was more interested in the pistol that was clutched by its bluish fingers.
"Clever dog," I praised the hound. Unwillingly she released her trophy.
A Beretta. My favorite name of a girl. Wiping the dust off of it with my sleeve, I read the label: 92FS. This was the easily recognized Italian classic, so loved by the army and Special Forces. Comfort, power, and precision. At a hundred and fifty feet, its dispersion wasn't greater than a packet of cigarettes. I was no weapons expert, but he who’d ever played Jagged Alliance could always find his way around a gun shop!
The slide was back in the locked position. Cartridges: nil. The one-handed commando had emptied the clip firing.
I tucked the pistol away into my inventory and stroked the armored snout of the dog who had a weakness for affection. "Good find, girl! Now if we could only find a crateful of ammo somewhere, we would have no need for Santa Claus."
For a second, my mind got sidetracked. Could our kids really will the bearded red-robed old man to life? The children's faith was surely strong enough! Santa definitely belonged with our divine ilk. Knowing the power of materialization, I was quite prepared to add my own spark to the emanations of the children's hearts. Let the old man ride around in his sleigh, handing out presents to the little ‘uns. Why not?
I shook my head, coming back to reality. Ah, Max. There you were, contemplating the pure and good in the world whilst walking over severed hands and studying pentagrams of some bloody rituals. The mind boggles.
I moved farther out in a spiral, simultaneously checking our current time. Thirty seconds in Alpha Zone. According to our plan, we had ten minutes until the first exit. At this point, we would send a messenger to our nervous clanmates—a short situational report—and then we’d go out on a long independent expedition, collapsing the mana-intensive portal behind us.
"There's a body over here," Dan commented on his find.
I walked toward the sound of his voice. Some rickety crane girders blocked my way—that was where the Americans must have been moving big cargo. I ducked unde
r the crane, then walked around the collapsed server rack already cannibalized for the crystals of its disk drive.
Dan was leaning over a body in a dirty lab coat. Before my very eyes, the counterintelligence agent removed the ID badge from the unlucky guy’s lapel and put it in his inventory. Bringing home the bacon. Did he want a trump card for talks with his colleagues in Moscow? Quite possibly...
Our interfaces tagged the victim as Dead Body. No interactive markers available. No extra info: neither decomposition timers nor icons for any special abilities or professions. I knew that you couldn’t really use the word “flaying” in relation to a person, but we are men of games—simple and as utilitarian as a crowbar.
Just in case, I commanded, "Zena, try to reanimate this lab rat."
She knew better than question the order. Silently she cast Resurrection. The heavenly trumpets sounded a little duller than usual, and the miracle didn't happen. Zena sent us a screenshot of her interface:
Cannot revive an inanimate object
I glanced at the open chest of the body, at the hollow space where the heart should be, and silently agreed: it was inanimate indeed. This was a body without a soul. And I had a funny feeling I knew who’d taken it.
Dan winced, completing his search of the body, turning his head away as far as he could. The stench was deadly, though it could have been worse. The decomposition had been decelerated by the almost-complete sterility of the lab.
Finally, Dan moved back. Picking up scraps of paper from the floor, he began to scrub his hands in disgust. Then his gaze locked onto the printed text. He paused, reading. He tensed; then quickly he began to rake up the scraps of paper into a heap. In one smooth motion he swept it into his inventory.
"What is it?" the curiosity was killing me.
"Logs for the cargo shipments," Dan reluctantly responded, continuing to rake out pieces of paper from under the shelves.