The Ultimation (Play to Live: Book #7)

by D. Rus

Tired, I plopped down on the hot cave floor, patting the space next to me to invite Zena to sit. Then, I reloaded my overheated gun and holstered it. I just couldn’t resist the manly thrill I got from firing it all the time, and tried to pass it off as a scientific experiment.

  I had rented the piece from Dan. The bullets I had gotten from SWAT in a trade. The GSh-18 dealt pretty good damage – around a dagger stab’s worth of damage. The firing rate was a lot faster than flinging knives, but I had to account for reloading and frequent misfires; the caps often failed to ignite, the action frame kept getting jammed, the bullets got warped. My low firearm skill was probably to blame. The damage was huge due to my high level and insane stats. I really couldn’t tell if it was my strength or agility. Basically, if I wasted a thousand bullets at a shooting range, then perhaps I would be in good shape. I had to empty five clips into a monster a few minutes back, being unable to draw its aggro away from my pet, who was clearly dealing more damage than my gun.

  I ordered my assistants: “Rovers, sit!” then turned to the loyal troll, “Snowie, scout the castle, check the walls for hidden treasure, maybe get a point toward observance.”

  The albino lowered his gaze guiltily. He had missed a destroyer hiding in a recess during battle. The creature had poor camouflage and stalking skills, but dealt the leading raid squad quite a blow from behind. I almost died. To be stabbed in the back by a 400-level monster is serious stuff.

  Zena was the one who saved us, spending several precious abilities with lengthy rollback times; and also my seven pets – I didn’t have crystals for more. Soul Stones were the exact reason why we had engaged in this fight in the first place. Where else could we find enough monsters that were a match for me and weren’t labeled as uncategorized? I was way too advanced compared to the bulk of players and was now regarded as a statistical error. When generating new locations, the game algorithms no longer took my interests into account, and continued to spawn farm fields and raid zones for groups of levels 150+. The monsters still grew bigger and stronger, gaining XP. But it was happening too slowly.

  I assigned the next targets on the list to the commanders of independent detachments, then took Snowie with me as the clan’s top damager, and also Zena as a supporting healer. With jealous eyes upon us, we headed to the next unexplored area and went straight for its greatest gift – a group dungeon with the difficulty rating of ‘Nightmare.’ It was an ancient structure abandoned for at least a year, filled with treasures to the brim. The demons couldn’t conquer it, and no strangers ever got close enough to try.

  According to the game’s Wiki and the average strength of local monsters, I expected creatures of my level. That was going to be quite a challenge as I was extremely advanced. But considering my powers and Snowie with his divine gear, I knew we could take them without much effort. Yet the system disagreed; ‘Nightmare’ means ‘Nightmare.’ Hardcore players only.

  The mysterious algorithms strengthened the monsters a lot; the weakest monster we met was a level 400. I couldn’t get away with just one pet; I was forced to summon all the zombies I could. Zena was happy like a child; every half hour we could hear the sound of bells signaling her leveling up. I only gained one level, but at such heights that was truly an achievement. We received silver by the pound – in Inferno it was as valuable as gold. Pity we had no one to trade it with.

  The dungeon’s top boss dropped an artifact – a Night Diamond. It was an enchanted stone that increased a stat of your choice by 200 points. Alternatively, it could be placed on a weapon giving it a Moon Sculptor effect – a small chance that the body of a slain enemy would turn to stone, with the type of stone or other material being random, anything from sandstone to mithril being possible.

  Snowie was silent, but kept glancing at me with the eyes of a begging kitten. I couldn’t say no to my loyal bodyguard, and soon the diamond shone on his club. Snowie happily fondled the weapon, promising that the first dragon he met would be turned into a mountain of gold.

  I received 38 Soul Stones, more than I had spent. The raid still cost the demons more than it did us. By the way, how are the guys doing? I thought.

  I had no urgent messages, and the interface showed no panic alerts of the highest priority. Raid discipline suffered in the public chat; the clan relaxed in my absence. When the cat’s away, the mice will play.

  I brought this to the senior officers’ attention. The chat instantly filled with moderator warnings. The most zealous violators were temporarily muted.

  I skimmed through staff reports and target statuses. Everything was going according to the plan. Our forces were slowly drawing closer to Asmodeus’ favorite citadel, circling it like a pack of wolves and biting off pieces of the Top Demon’s lands. Where are you, you bastard? I wondered. Will you not run to the rescue of your sacred place? I still remembered the underground vault: a storage of precious silver, a bestiary filled with bodies, and massive streams of magic emitted by something very powerful, most likely an altar, a source, or an artifact.

  Well, we could wait. I conjectured that traveling from one world to another with an entire army was no easy task, even for a powerful creature like Asmodeus. Having seen the Fallen One’s careful response, I realized that the leader of the Dark Pantheon wasn’t ready to engage in an open fight with the Top Demon – especially on foreign territory, be it on Earth or Inferno.

  I opened the raid leader tab, checked the stats diagrams. We weren’t experiencing a decrease of average warrior level as usually happened during a super-difficult raid. XP for slain demons outweighed death penalties. We met almost zero true soul reapers – no arch demons, no warriors from personal legions. They had all probably gone on the expedition to Earth.

  The loot curve kept steadily climbing. According to the horribly inaccurate Kravchenko catalogue, which appraised loot based on pre-perma tables, we were three million gold richer now. It seemed like a solid sum – $300,000. But divided among all of the Alliance’s warriors, it would be a mere $100 per soldier. Minus ammo costs, equipment damage, supporter ad crafter services, clan taxes, and everything else. We’d be left with mere pennies – a mover’s fee really. Compared with tens of thousands spent on leveling up, this sum evoked tears. There was no personal gain in a raid; only the clan’s top warriors got anything, and the main reward was strategic dominance. Real money was made not during these risky events which were akin to gambling, but during depressing farming of medium-level locations, where the gold per hour ratio was guaranteed to the thousandth decimal place.

  Someone touched my shoulder. I didn’t flinch, having nerves of steel. I minimized my interfaces and squinted; it was dark in the cave, and my eyes had to readjust after the bright interface screens.

  Snowie. He piled everything he had found at my feet. The loot consisted of a few chests nearly crumbling from old age, which contained silver and gold coins with the faces of emperors who never existed; a handful of tiny crystals from deactivated traps; one Torch of True Flame; a bit of local flora. Snowie had never increased his gathering abilities, therefore the alchemic ingredients he found were random and insignificant.

  “Attaboy!” I nodded to the happy troll, going back to my interfaces.

  The timer was buzzing like a mosquito in my ear. It’s hard to be Robocop – you can’t smash the clock against the nearest wall.

  I looked at the hint that popped up. Twelve hours had passed. If everything was fine, then my wizard and his guard, Badaboom, were already in Khabarovsk. It was time to visit Alaska...

  I checked my Portal to Alpha Zone spell. It was fine; a third navigational beacon appeared in my list of available exit points. The tiny goblin succeeded. If he survived, I would give him a personal name: Amundsen, or Papanin, whoever explored the Arctic. The goblin was a traveler, and I was a dumbass. I thought I was so smart; Can’t give Soul Stones to players, so I’ll give one to an NPC. But it never occurred to me to give it to a wizard. Ouch. I would take more risks from now on, affirming the theories of forensic sc
ience textbooks: the perp always returns to the crime scene.

  “Snowie, Zena, let’s head out. We’ll rebuff, go into stealth mode, and jump to the promised land. But first, we’ll send whatever scouts we can.”

  We went as the usual team – one does not swap horses while crossing a ford. Just in case, we opened the portal directly from Inferno; if there was a US tank squadron on the other side waiting to invade AlterWorld, they would only be punishing themselves.

  The massive, pearl-colored portal arch had barely opened when a snow-covered goblin fell out of it, blue from the cold.

  “Papanin, that you?” I smiled, truly glad the little smartass was alive.

  The goblin batted his icy eyelashes in perplexity, then tried to stand to attention, “Sir, Murash has carried out your order! All’s clear on the other side. There were some steel birds scanning the area, but Murash hid in the snow, Murash is smart!”

  “Papanin. That’s your new name. You’ll be known as the great explorer of the icy plains.”

  A tender ray of light scattered into fragments. Reality laughed and nodded in agreement.

  Dan gave the goblin a friendly slap on the shoulder, activated stealth, and stepped into the portal. Trust but verify.

  Dan came back the next minute, armed with a snowball that had clearly been made by a human with a 300-point strength stat. He was excited over the long-awaited phone call to his family, and someone was about to get a boo-boo; with a cry of joy, Dan threw the icy ball at Craky’s armored head. Craky had stopped by as phantom dragons are sensitive to spatial magic and are always attracted to the echo of a newly opened portal.

  Champ! Craky adroitly caught the ball in his jaws, pensively rolled it around in his mouth, then swallowed it with pleasure and looked at Dan with anticipation, wanting more.

  I myself wouldn’t mind eating something cold in Inferno’s heat. I turned to my team, pointing at the Earth officer who was playing with his gift – a morphite blade. The weapon flowed through his fingers, taking on various shapes: dagger, universal lock pick, knuckle-duster, metal file, steel gauntlet, handcuffs, a cable with a latch hook, a harmless-looking bracelet... It was the dream of any spy or diversionist.

  “Let’s go!” I said. “Major, bring up the rear. Your new level 40 is cool and all, as well as your 500 HP, but don’t overestimate them. A Chimera can kill you with a sneeze.”

  This was his weak spot; he wanted to live, and live long and comfortably. That’s why he had allocated all of his newly acquired points toward constitution. And after an hour of hard effort, he had finally managed to make out interfaces. His eyes bled afterward, but he still did it.

  As usual, the portal shifted consciousness, distracting us from random thoughts. I looked around; snowy virgin lands everywhere. No footprints: Dan had used levitation wings while the goblin hid near the Soul Stone, which was always warm. Even if it couldn’t warm you up, it still made you happy.

  Badaboom responded instantly. The mega damager burst into an incoherent speech which wasn’t typical of him. I heard him out and realized why he was worked up; to sit in a cargo helicopter like inside some tin can and watch a group of supersonic missiles catching up to you is really frightening. And hearing them explode could make your hair turn gray. Praised be our buffs; the aircraft were okay. They had made it out of the destructive agent clouds and fled to their own territory disguised as cast-iron tanks. The dwarf-mechanic who had marked the helicopters with runes probably made mincemeat out of the pilots and SWAT.

  They’d landed half an hour ago. Their bosses were pestering them all this time: “Where is Max Nazarov?”

  Moscow wanted us. All flight paths were cleared, and the officers had already been reprimanded for the delay. Thousands of people were waiting for the leader of the AlterWorld mission who had vanished into a different reality.

  Our major was on his communicator, trying to reach the satellite, but I knew that the communicator was dead. Its durability bar was down in the dark-red section: a pitiful 3/20. AlterWorld had finished off the delicate gadget.

  I gave the go-ahead to transport Badaboom and the wiz; Let them follow the assigned course. I estimated that we would meet in about 15 minutes. But the harsh reality crushed our plans.

  The team got to their destination just fine. Invisibility concealed them from enemy eyes, and levitation allowed them to travel without leaving any tracks. But after that...

  The military pseudo-AI 51-224 was napping in power-saving mode. It would have gladly turned on the active systems and watched the outside world; curiosity and thirst for self-development had been installed on all AIs, even on the gelded 51 series. But turning on these systems would have shortened the AI’s time spent on watch and interfered with its number one priority: to monitor the perimeter and control the minefield.

  The mines were fresh. They had been dropped by an airplane a mere six hours ago at the site of the last contact with the enemy after a satellite had detected suspicious activity, a drone had observed the take-off and landing of a group of unidentified helicopters, and the officers had made arrangements to offer resistance. An air defense ship was to intercept the helicopters, and the military AI 51-224 would greet the supposed diversionists at the matching point.

  The alarm signal was sent from multiple sensors simultaneously. The analytic scripts deemed irrelevant the loud pop that came from the sound detector; a stone could have cracked or rolled off a hill somewhere. The seismic noise was ignored for that same reason, but it gave the AI a questionable excuse to switch to active mode.

  Its sensitive probes soundlessly protruded from the snow. They included a visual control system, radio scanners, and detectors of infrared, ultrasonic, radioactive, and VHF activity.

  The readings came in quickly; a thermal diagram of invisible objects; breathing sounds and deafening heartbeats; electromagnetic disturbances of VHF-waves as they met with solid objects.

  The AI would have smiled gloatingly if it could. This sly enemy had failed to fool him. Having calculated the invaders’ course, the AI waited for four seconds, allowing the invisible enemies to go deep into the minefield. Then the AI gave a short, encoded signal, and a series of explosions rent the silence.

  Boom, boom, boom!!!

  Two small antipersonnel mines should have blown off the intruders’ feet, and the M86 PDM should have sent shrapnel flying everywhere, putting an end to the unidentified subjects.

  The flame and shrapnel destroyed the intruders’ invisibility cloak, but didn’t deal much damage. The enemies looked stunned and a bit bruised, and a ghostly shroud could be seen melting around them. Looking around in confusion and trying to find a hiding place, they were nervously conversing in an aggressive-sounding language.

  The AI determined it to be Russian. It lacked a simultaneous interpretation module, but had other means to establish which side the subjects belonged to; by analyzing sounds, for instance.

  The Russians’ inactivity gave him time to reorient a few directional charges.

  Boom! Boom!

  A few M18A1 Claymore mines exploded. Each sent a 700 fragments flying, killing everything within a distance of a 164 feet. This time, the intruders were wounded. Five-millimeter holes appeared in their bodies. Blood spattered the blackened snow. The skinny diversionist in a strange, colorful robe now had a broken arm that hung limply at his side.

  The AI determined the damage as lethal with no chance of recovery. But the damn Russians didn’t even think of dying. They were now well aware of the cause of the explosions and took to their heels, racing straight into the heart of the minefield.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Explosions rang out non-stop. Fragments spurted like fountains from tiny antipersonnel mines here and there. The M86 PDMs erupted like deadly fireworks, leaving growing clouds of smoke. M18A1 shrapnel whistled through the air. Surely it was impossible to survive this hell. But the Russians, wrapped in a blue glow, emerged unscathed from deadly zones time after time.

  The AI overh
eated from indignation and incomprehension. It calibrated several sensors on the go, comparing their current functions with their factory settings. Everything seemed to be in order except for the fact that the fragile human flesh of the targets remained intact.

  Things got more fun once the odd light surrounding the Russians went out. Now, the explosions started to affect them; blood and shreds of flesh flew everywhere. But the enemies were already leaving the AI’s perimeter.

  The vexed and stunned AI 51 used a last resort weapon; a hollow-charge anti-tank projectile shell.

  The explosively formed penetrator from melted copper was capable of piercing 100 millimeter armor from a 170 feet away. It sank into the Russians’ backs. The skinny one instantly doubled over, turned into a gravestone, and fell on the snow. The stocky robust fellow clad in gilded armor survived even this time, although there was a gaping hole the size of a fist in his chest.

  The AI tested its analytical threads, saw that they were in order, but restarted the entire system nevertheless after forwarding the extremely important information on the strange intruders to superiors. This, however, disclosed the AI to the enemy, and as it rebooted, it was completely sure that it would not wake up again.

  The AI was right. A hypersonic death was approaching it from the distant Gray Swan...

  Chapter Sixteen

  The minefield made things harder for us. We had to run for over six miles to retrieve the wizard’s dead body, trying to calm Badaboom via chat on the way. We cast an antithermal veil and invisibility on ourselves, as well as levitation to help us get there faster. Meanwhile, a battle raged in the skies and in the world’s political arena over who would get to keep the AlterWorld guests.

  There were flashes and peals of thunder up ahead; rockets kept striking the perimeter. Americans were trying to cut us off from the landing site and stall until the truce envoys arrived, accompanied by a paratrooper regiment.