by D. Rus
The athletic one allowed the sloppy man to catch up and pass him. The man stopped in front of me and, barely catching his breath, saluted me. “Max Nazarov? I am Major Nechaev, special staff division of the Eastern district. I have been appointed as man in charge of your evacuation. Did you get here all right? We were getting worried, you’re four hours late! Great job taking that beast down, by the way! Bam, bam, and she’s a puddle of slime! We’d need two attack planes or a copter unit to deal with just one such monster. If we’re expecting it, and if the battle happens on our terms... Wow, attaboys!”
I let the excited major sing his praises to us; when you’re saved from certain death, such euphoria is excusable. As he kept jabbering on, I took note of the important things he said and frowned – he had gotten here suspiciously quickly. How far is Alaska from staff headquarters?
I asked him this question. The optimistic major gave me a friendly smile: “Why, that’s no secret, the staff headquarters are in Khabarovsk. It’s on all the maps, even tourist maps.”
I guessed the distance, shocked, “So it’s safe to say that Khabarovsk is 2,500 miles from here?”
The major nodded, “Almost three. This is all a coincidence. Due to the military situation and the lack of commanding officers, I was deployed along with a unit from the 14th special mission brigade to protect the base of... never mind the details; the point is, the base is on the Chukchi Peninsula. We turned out to be the closest unit to you that was also qualified to conduct an evacuation, and I’m their senior intelligence officer. Honestly, I’m no task force member, just a staff officer. But an order is an order. Besides, it’s not like they could send a submarine fleet to get you. By the way, please meet Captain Sichyov. He’s in charge of our escort.”
The major nodded at the athletic fellow. The latter took off his three-fingered glove and extended a hand in a Kevlar tactical gauntlet. “Call me Sich,” he briefly introduced himself, stating his call signal.
I smiled. The captain must have allowed the nickname to replace his real name, as that was what the system labeled him as:
‘Sich,’ Vladimir Sichyov. Human. Warrior-assassin. Level 38 (117).
Health: 142/190.
Specialization: ???
Main skills and abilities: ???
Perks: ???
“Laith,” I said, gently shaking his hand.
The man wasn’t a milksop, but I now had a grip that could rival a pneumatic press. Plus, the Fallen One’s spell allowed me to crumple metal like silly putty. I was like a freakin’ self-taught blacksmith. And I really wanted to conduct a certain experiment.
“Captain, could you lay your machine gun down on the snow for just a moment?” I asked. “I would like to test something.”
Sich pretended not to hear me, deciding to ignore the request of some obscure weirdo of questionable authority. I smiled understandingly and cast a pleading glance at the major. The latter didn’t refuse; it looked like he had an order to be as friendly and helpful to us as possible. This indicated that things were really bad on Earth. They probably needed us like a drowning man needs air.
“Sichyov, carry on. Haven’t you seen what they can do? Your iron is practically useless.”
The captain pulled a face, but didn’t dare disobey the direct order of a superior. He carefully placed his AK on the snow, then just stood there like a statue, ready to roll away at any moment in case I suddenly attacked him. He would grab his gun on the way and open fire.
I checked the captain’s stats; his armament index had dropped by 40. Of course, I could have continued to pester the captain, making him put down his handgun, grenades, then his knife, one by one. But I decided not to. My theory was confirmed, and I could always get the stats later.
I nodded gratefully and gestured for him to pick up his weapon, then turned to the major, “What’s our route?”
“Anadir-Khabarovsk-Moscow. With transfers and refueling. The main objective is to get out of Alaska. Of course, it’s a war, but it is still extremely rude of us to be here.”
I grinned, “Yep, and we had to take out an Apache along the way. The bastard fired non-guided missiles.”
The captain looked at us with growing interest, while the major just stared.
“Holy...” he breathed, then jerked up his head. “All right, screw it. We’ll address our problems as they arise. In about an hour and a half, a spare vehicle will arrive from the base. Our flying cow got slaughtered; the dragon spat some sort of organic acid, burning almost half the chassis... Can you cover us till the vehicle gets here? We’re stuck here, just us three... What if a star-spangled assault team comes after us? It’s their right...”
“We’ll give them a proper welcome,” promised the captain, his eyes flashing. Clearly he had his own score to settle.
I made myself think. “Maybe we can use a Veil of Silence. It’s an artifact, usually installed in castles. Doesn’t provide invisibility, but can get our transparency setting down to zero.”
The major frowned. “I don’t know which is worse. If Americans see this outrage, they’ll drop something big on us. At least I think they will. That’s what we would do; respond with tactical ballistic missiles at least, an explosives group weighing half a ton.”
“We can put up a Minor Dome Shield. But it only has a 100,000 HP. I doubt it’ll hold.”
The major grew pensive, then nodded at Chimera’s corpse: “How many of these HPs does the ghost have?”
“This is a Chimera. Its HP is about 40 to 50K, depending on the level. I’ve never farmed Ice Wastelands, so I can’t say for sure.”
The major looked happy. “Great! Ballistic missiles can’t take her, and neither can the BM-21 "Grad" multiple rocket launcher – we’ve tried. That means your dome should survive a ballistic missile attack as well.”
I shook my head, “That’s different. Chimera just had an immunity to physical damage. I still don’t get how you’ve managed to injure it.”
The pilot from the crashed helicopter limped over to us and said grimly, “The copter has a special BK-rifle. The bullets have 23-karat silver cores. The copter itself has been blessed by the metropolitan from the Holy Mountains Lavra, and painted with icons and prayers. I don’t know which of these factors helps, but at least one definitely does. I, um... I wanted to... Can your, ahem... magician take a look at my partner? He’s badly hurt. Ribs, lungs – all busted. He’s coughing up blood. I’m afraid he won’t make it back to base.”
I glanced at Zena who shone with magic. She was taking her time. Five wounded plus the pilot, one healing spell per person – that should’ve taken 40 seconds maximum. The warriors should have already been throwing the tiny she-goblin up in the air in gratitude, but they were still on their backs.
I said pensively, “She’ll definitely take a look at your partner. But things are a bit complicated, it seems.” I hollered, “Zena! Updates?”
“Hold on!” the self-appointed doctor called back, the sparks of her Regeneration-III spell filling the air.
This spell ensured a 40-HP increase per person every second for 15 minutes. For an ordinary earthman with his pathetic 100 HP, this was a super cheat. Were they hurt that bad?
A sanitary officer by one of the helicopters ran up to us. Ignoring the major, he hastily reported to Sich: “Sir, she’s doing it! Lyoshka is already recovering; she stretched him out, and now he’s breathing on his own! The autodoc gave him a good prognosis, whereas just five minutes earlier, it was suggesting an Easy Death injection. It’s real magic, sir! Broken bones are healing as we speak, burns and shards are disappearing, the wounds are skinning over. They look as if they already had a month of postsurgical therapy. A short confinement to bed, then some time in a health resort, and they’ll be back in service!”
The captain heaved a sigh of relief. His tightly sealed lips finally relaxed. To lose soldiers he had personally nurtured would have been unbearably painful.
Zena walked over to us, tired and a bit haggard. Her hands were covered with blood �
� real blood, not game blood. She didn’t realize it, but there were tears on her cheeks. Her gaze was absent. Truly, she wasn’t a professional doctor, and the sight of a twenty-year-old with broken bones crusted over with black chemical burns can unnerve even the most unfeeling cynic.
“That’s all I can do,” Zena whispered. “Thirty percent HP. Can’t restore the rest. Those boys are just lying there, in bloody bandages, bone shards poking out... I wanted to fix the head of one of the boys, but my fingers broke through his skull... He’s calling for his mother. He just fell asleep, feeling slightly better. Max, they need to go to AlterWorld! I can almost certainly have them back on their feet in a minute if we take them there.”
I nodded and looked closely at the cascade of open interfaces. Fuck the deceptions and conspiracies! We’ll take the boys to our side to save them! Hell, none of the earthmen present had a full life bar. Not even the pilots and Special Forces guys, the healthiest of the healthy, the ones who regularly passed medical inspections and always took care of themselves like they were invaluable operating tools. Life on Earth is a poison. It damages the body no matter how careful you are.
“Zena, take a look at the pilot. He’s over there, orange parachute. I’ll get you a portal. Major, land that second helicopter and camouflage it. We’ll wait a few hours on our side, for safety’s sake. Captain, why is your wounded soldier running around like a decapitated chicken instead of asking for medical help and lying quietly like everyone else?”
“Who?” the captain frowned, looking at the few soldiers left standing.
I pointed to an Asian soldier – either a Tatar or a Buryat, it was hard to see. He was wielding a shovel, briskly covering up his parachute with snow. His HP bar was dangerously orange, and the black pictogram of a long-lasting DOT was sucking it dry.
“Avas, get over here!” the captain ordered in alarm.
The shortish, broad-shouldered young man ran over to us, stopped within three paces and froze, awaiting orders.
“Sergeant, are you wounded?”
“No, sir, they missed!” replied Jackie, a hint of surprise in his voice.
I bent down—my height of 6’2” and huge shoulders were intimidating for Earth dwellers—and looked into the sergeant’s eyes. “Kid, judging by the amount of HP you have left and the frequency of those DOT strikes, you will die in 49 days. Are you sure nothing is bothering you?”
The captain grabbed the sergeant by the shoulders and shook him: “Avas, cut the crap! I saw with my own eyes as you downed painkillers, so quit bullshitting about toothaches. What’s going on?!”
The sergeant swallowed nervously: “Well, a couple weeks back, I got this pain in my side... I thought it would go away, but it got worse. I didn’t want to go to the medical unit. We barely have enough boys to keep watch as it is. We’re short on manpower.”
I looked at Zena: “What’s the prognosis?”
She shook her head and, stepping forward, gently took Avas by the hand: “Don’t scare the boy! It’ll be all right, my dear. We’ll open a portal, do magic for about seven seconds, and you’ll be just like new, a lady-killer! Easy as pie. Cancer, kidney failure – doesn’t matter. We’ve cured far worse, put mincemeat back together into sentient beings!”
The sergeant recoiled, pulling his hand out of the strong grip of the tiny green-skinned monster that barely reached to his waist and was clad in armor that looked like it belonged in a museum. Zena smiled understandingly with a hint of sadness in her eyes, then spoke in a different tone – a harsh and angry one: “Dumbass, do you want to live or not? Stand still!”
I grinned, showing my Elven fangs and making the young man freeze in shock again. Well, earthlings sure lack the racial tolerance of AlterWorld inhabitants. Scared of an ordinary goblin! As for Snowie and the hellhound, earthmen wouldn’t even dare to come near them. Only the snow leopard received admiring glances and was occasionally petted through the gaps between his armor. Yes, kitties are always the objects of cooing adoration.
The major and captain stepped aside the moment I started casting the portal spell. The shadow of a future portal arch appeared on the snow. The spell gave me no trouble this time. It was a normal scroll: ‘Permanent portal to point X.’ The parchment was in great shape: ‘Grade AAA+’ and filled with its creator’s mana – 5,000 points. It was the best option for long-distance and group travel. An arch like that could last 24 hours in AlterWorld, and 15 minutes on Earth. It was enough for our purposes.
As usual, Dan was the first to dive into the fuzzy opening. He came back the next minute, bringing Durin and ten goblins with him to carry the wounded.
The dwarf gave me a respectful bow, then carefully scanned the area in search of loot. He picked at the snow with his foot and frowned: Useless frozen liquid. He quickly pounded his tiny hammer on every single rock around us and spat. He looked very intently at the damaged helicopters and the extra fuel tanks on the ground. Then he walked over to me, ignoring the already-existing tracks and pushing the snow out of the way with his chest.
“Max,” he asked, “who killed Chimera? Our guys? We ought to loot it then; she’s got about 10 gold plus Fog Vials. They make good invisibility potions. Oh, and...” the dwarf hesitated. “Does the metal junk have an owner? The alloy’s super-interesting. I’d love to examine it.”
I sighed with admiration. He’s the best supply manager ever! I’ll never promote him. Let him be the model ensign. No wonder other soldiers called them ‘bits.’ They always wanted to steal an extra bit wherever they went. How does that joke go? Americans threatened to nuke us, and we retaliated by dispatching a strategic reserve landing party of a thousand ensigns to their territory; the ensigns ripped off the country’s economy in a week!
I inquired: “Major, what are your plans for the crashed helicopters?”
He shrugged: “Follow the emergency landing on foreign lands protocol. I’ll extract the loggers and processing unit, use thermite to destroy the friend-or-foe recognition system, the radars, and the rest of its innards. Then the aircraft will be detonated.”
“I have a better idea. Would you mind if we took the copters with us? To display them as a memorial to the valiant pilots, or find some other use for them. They have great guns. We might use those.”
The major didn’t hide behind bureaucratic directives. He wasn’t afraid to assume responsibility and therefore decided without hesitation, “Take them. It’s better than if they become souvenirs for Americans. But I will still destroy all communications. Sorry, must be done.”
I nodded; that stuff won’t be missed. What interested me was installing the helicopter’s quick-firing gun on Hummungus for some badass steampunk action.
The major had an idea, “Um... Can we also bring the intact one with us? So we can use it later? Because disguising it as a pile of snow won’t fool a blind man.”
I had to disappoint him, “I wouldn’t do that. Technology deteriorates quickly in our world. I doubt it’ll fly after staying there. Instead, let’s cover it with a force field, then cast a Veil of Silence to hide it from prying eyes. That way we’ll also find out if concealment magic can hide objects from satellites. I’m sure some curious folks are watching us from space right now.”
The major thought about it, then started rattling off orders. “Offer accepted! Filiminov – stay here to greet our troops. You’re on the walkie-talkie, working according to schedule. Captain, leave a few soldiers to cover him. Do not reveal yourself; stay behind the force field and do not stand out! We’ll be back in... um... an hour twenty minutes! Is that doable, Max?” Bastard knows my name, I thought, then nodded, “I think so. Let me check something first.”
I stepped aside, disappearing behind a hummock for a moment, and shoved a Soul Stone into one of the cracks between some ice blocks. I covered it up by stuffing the crack with snow, pushing the crystal in deeper and deeper until was no longer noticeable. Then I opened my spell book and smiled with satisfaction; it worked. The ‘Portal to Alpha Zone’ section
now had a drop-down window with an optional list of coordinates of arrival locations. Attaboy, Max!
I came back out, adjusting my fly to make it look like I had to take a piss. The soldiers understood, but Zena and Dan looked at me in astonishment. I’ll explain later, guys. Right now, we need to concentrate on evacuating the wounded and the helicopters. We also had to give the soldiers a proper welcome; after all, this was going to be the Russians’ first semi-official visit to our world.
Major Nechaev – an analyst from the recently established 13th GRU department of magic technologies – stood side by side with the captain and slowly puffed on a damp cigarette. Every time he drew on it, he covered his mouth with his hand so that no one could read his lips. The throat microphone on his neck and the tiny earphone allowed him to talk almost inaudibly, “Vladimir, what do you think about our guests?”
The captain watched pensively as a giant troll easily dragged the 12-ton Alligator into the portal. Spitting tobacco crumbs with irritation, Sich whispered, “Wizards. Damn wizards! Just like those monsters that turned Omsk into one big burial ground.”
The major gnashed his teeth. It pained his heart to recall the destruction of a city with millions of civilians, the biggest catastrophe of the current war. Yet he found the strength to answer,
“That’s right, wizards... But these are our damn wizards! They speak Russian, not Eredun. They came to our aid, they’re offering to heal our soldiers. They can change the outcome of this war. Or at least provide us with evacuation territory. Stop fidgeting! You know that headquarters are considering all possible outcomes, even the gravest ones.”
The major was doing a good job at acting out the cheerful staff officer. But he stopped mid-sentence. About ten paces away, a shortish assassin with a weary yet cold gaze appeared out of thin air.
The major remembered the dossier that had been sent to him from Moscow in a rush:
“Captain Stanislav Ivolgin, age 39. Previous duty station: company commander at the 56th special assault brigade. Highest achievements in both combat and politics. Multiple Afghanistan missions. Nine medals, four stripes for combat wounds. The last wound was serious. Spinal injury, paralysis, disability pension. A young, beautiful wife and three kids. Self-searching, looking for a place in life, gone perma voluntarily. A stable, constantly increasing cash flow from the virtual world to the real one. A major change of plans last month; family was getting ready to be digitized. They didn’t make it in time.”