by D. Rus
The Russians shot down all ballistic targets and employed electromagnetic attacks to fight the smart technology. We were good creators, but even better destroyers.
The planet’s two greatest powers were battling for the unclaimed trump card. All gentlemanly agreements had been cast aside. Details no longer mattered. Courteous smiles turned into scowls. The little white lies and flicks on the forehead were about to turn into an all-out war.
I frowned. Do we really need this? Will they run us ragged within the Kremlin walls? To go from being on the dirty streets of a bedroom district right to being a world leader is nothing more than a Cinderella story with a sad ending. We would instantly get sucked into someone else’s intrigues. The groups in power would each be pulling us in different directions, looking for different ways to influence and pressure us. These groups would be countless, from SWAT to the military to personal security councils of oligarchs and State Duma deputies. They wouldn’t let such powerful individuals as ourselves remain uncontrolled. We were influential enough to be noticed, but too weak to be independent.
And what would happen to AlterWorld within the next decade? After three million mobilized ex-soldiers will have been sent there to get to level 400? Would they return? Or would they try to dominate our long-suffering cluster, or even all of AlterWorld? After all, there were barely any people there now; one or two million at most...
Should we quit? Leave by portal and cut ourselves off? I would once again become the First after God, the head of the most powerful alliance and clan, the feudal lord and future king of my lands. I would never have to deal with any of those shady KGB and GRU generals, undercover diplomats, seasoned politicians, each with 50 years of service, or old oligarchs and oil tycoons. Some wanted us as a weapon. They would heartlessly send us to die in battle if they deemed this to be the most profitable course of action. Some wanted us as suppliers of advantageous or dangerous technology to take out their business rivals. Some saw us as a source of perfect health and immortality.
Should we flee? Get our freedom back? Most of those who had gone perma voluntarily were anarchists, escapists, visionaries, and the elderly. None of them wanted to serve in the military and live under a monarch, to be nameless bolts and cogs in a giant machine.
But what about earthmen? There were billions of humans dying at this very moment, sentenced to a painful eternity in demonic power pools. It didn’t matter what their skin color was, or which country they were from; no one deserves such post mortal existence.
These were all real problems. But these were our human problems. As long as there was a common enemy that saw our wives and children as a meaty delicacy, nothing else really mattered. Especially to me, a man who had activated the Soul Stone, giving demons access to Earth. So I silently gritted my teeth and pressed forward through the snowstorm, doing what had to be done, constantly assessing all the different options. I was responsible for the people who trusted me. Earth, AlterWorld... Which is more important, how do I defend the interests of both?
To the ceaseless beeping of the drones and the flashes of intercepted rockets exploding, we found the fallen wizard’s grave amidst blocks of ice. The lengthy resurrection cast was drowned out by the voice calling to us in English from the sky. Americans promised us respect and kindness, total forgiveness and mountains of gold as well as warm tea and their hospitality.
The major kept giving us alarmed glances, mechanically reaching for his gun. Did he have an order to shoot us should we try to surrender to a potential enemy? What a complete fool.
Dan laughed too happily, like a madman, flipping the bird to the skies. Soon, very soon, he would embrace his wife and children...
The wizard returned with a slight tremor in his limbs and a streak of gray hair, the typical attribute of all who had been to the abandoned mud box for earthly souls. Gladly patting us on the shoulders, he hurriedly activated the portal spell.
Boom! We were gone.
In Khabarovsk, we were met by people in striped uniform trousers and sunny weather which was unusual for this latitude. There were so many generals crowded in the airplane shed in which we found ourselves, that it was almost like we were in Moscow. They were all trying to make it seem as though they were a part of this successful mission, involvement in which surely guaranteed more stars for their shoulder straps. It is said for a reason that “Victory has a thousand fathers, but defeat is an orphan.”
After warily shaking a few dozen hands, I noticed a sullen lieutenant general, head of the city’s defense. He stood out like an old stray cat at an exhibition of elite kittens.
“I have an order to send you to Moscow,” he said with a twitch of his unshaven cheek.
I looked him up and down severely. You tend to get bad habits like that when you’re 6’2, broad as an ox, and a leader of 25,000 people.
“But what?” I prompted the lieutenant general.
He bared his teeth angrily. “But I need you here! We barely have enough servicemen and mobilized units to defend the city perimeter. Excluding three suburbs; we had to evict tens of thousands of families and crowd everyone into the downtown neighborhoods. There are over a 100 residential communities, small facilities, and fragmented garrisons in the area. We have ten guns for every half a mile of trenches! Every day, these territories are disappearing one by one.”
“Well, evacuate them,” I suggested the obvious.
The lieutenant general shook his head, “Not enough manpower. Any group with a weak escort will get slaughtered. Sadly, I know this from experience. And if we provide a group with a big escort, the city will be left defenseless against internal attacks. The demons have portal coordinates for all neighborhoods and human informers who’ve sold themselves out. All we can do is watch individual wrist bracelets go out on the map. Neighborhood after neighborhood. Before, we would send artillery troops to an area left defenseless. While looting, the demons started hiding behind stationary shields. In response, we bombed our own enclaves, even if they were still fighting back. Every time our troops at a location lost 70% of their personnel, we dispatched a bomber squadron, bombed those who were still alive...”
He lapsed into a mournful silence, looking absently into the distance. The chief of staff, who stood by his side, spoke, “Our superiors deemed this tactic rational and recommended it for all defended localities. It gets many objectives accomplished at once; deals maximum damage to enemy troops even with the use of cheap, inaccurate ammunition, destroys bodies of the victims, and minimizes the number of humans taken hostage by the demons.”
As I looked at these two men, battered by the unexpected and unusual war, I tried to understand, were their words sincere? Were they really grieving for those they couldn’t save? Or was it all just an attempt to ensnare us with feelings of sympathy and a sense of duty?
Oh, Fallen One, what have I become? People are dying, and I’m still on the lookout for intrigues and manipulation.
The lieutenant general sighed heavily, “If you can, stay for at least a day, help us fight our way through the enemy hordes and evacuate our people. I’ll come up with an excuse for the aircraft’s delay. We’ve already made a list of areas with the highest populations of children. If we can just get them out of the bombs’ way... My pilots don’t even go outside anymore; people shun them, and some even try to get them to rebel, to surrender to the demons. They think the demons won’t hurt everyone, only clergymen and the righteous.”
I shook my head. How familiar. This was just like the Nazis saying they wouldn’t hurt you if you gave them Jews.
Then I spoke, my mind already made up, “Don’t delay the aircraft.”
The lieutenant general involuntarily gave me an understanding yet disgusted smile. He was about to say something nasty, but I continued, “My portalist will go to Moscow; that’s enough. I’ll assemble a team of volunteers and help you evacuate your people. Come on, General, lead us to your headquarters, away from prying eyes. Man is weak and covetous, easily tempted by immortality.
Let’s go, Pyotr Alekseevich, let’s think. Give us just one communicator with a secure channel and civilian network access; one of my men needs to call Moscow.”
The county staff had excellent equipment; they had invested heavily in the army over the last few decades. Anti-radiation doors opened soundlessly, and the automated gun rings kept their barrels on us as we walked by. The latest generation AI greeted the general through its loudspeakers, then thoroughly researched our status and clearance level, asked us stupid logic questions, tried to get inside our heads, and contacted some unknown superiors for orders.
The general patiently suffered through the AI’s tedium, explaining it to us briefly, “Testing of sentient beings for demon mind control. We’ve had very unfortunate cases, such as attempts to play us off against Americans so that we would nuke each other. So now we administer regular and situational testing in the event of even slightly odd behavior.”
I nodded in agreement. I knew what mind control was from personal experience. And as for odd behavior, all I had to do was look in a mirror. No wonder the AI was alarmed; the general was about to lead weirdos that looked like Lord of the Rings characters into his sanctum.
The first thing I noticed in the operations room was the 3D interactive city map. In addition to everything else, the Fallen One’s request weighed heavily on my mind. As I listened to the general who indicated the still-inhabited enclaves on the map with a laser pointer, I kept glancing over the accidents of the ground. All right, there are a few good spots; I’ll have to inquire about their current state without arousing suspicion.
The general kept talking, “...according to our analysts, we’ve been invaded by a horde from the virtual world called Diablo. There’s about 500 of them. The average vitality of one monster equals roughly a 100 kJ. That is, it takes a round of heavy machine gun fire or two OTs-14 cartridges to kill it. The average monster respawns in about 72 hours. At least that’s for how long the Diablos cease all activity after heavy losses. They don’t do anything except recovering for that time period, then attack again.”
I estimated these demons to have 6,000 HP each. That put them at around level 50. Too much for earthmen, and too easy for us, yielding neither XP nor loot. I caught the general looking at me intently. What’s he trying to find in my face? Fear? Doubt?
I nodded reassuringly, “No problems so far. Give me a full list of these monsters, with all their skills and special abilities. I’ll bring wizards and warriors. The wizards will create portals; the warriors will seal off the defensive perimeter while you evacuate civilians. I doubt the demons will just sit back while we take away their forage reserve. But that’s their problem. If they attack, all the better for us. All you have to do is meet the refugees and provide initial transport for our portalists. Can a single helicopter make it to the surrounded area?
The general shook his head, “Let’s avoid air travel; they burn our copters on sight. It’s best if we take a few armored infantry carriers with a tank. The demons are happy to see the city defense weaken, and will gladly let these vehicles out. But they’ll never let them go back in, that’s a fact.”
I made a plan; each motorcade would get a wiz and a five-man cover group capable of holding back a low-level, one-minute zerg rush, protecting the portalist until rapid response forces arrived. The highest-risk detachment would get a 100 warriors. A 150 people in total. Totally doable!
I nodded, “Prepare the vehicles. We’ll leave in two hours. Where could the Diablos be hiding? This legend on the map is an abandoned mine, I presume?”
“Correct. But the monsters no longer hide in such obvious spots; we have raided these locations with chemical weapons. Now they come by portals from faraway locations we can’t reach. Africa, Australia, or the Arctic; can’t say for sure, satellites haven’t confirmed yet.”
“Understood. No more questions. I’ll go back to my world, assemble warriors to cover your detachments. I’m leaving my intel agent in charge. Go to him if you have any questions. Oh, and, General... I suggest you talk to my cleric; you are in very poor health. Another year or two living like this, and even a Resurrection spell won’t help you.”
I saluted him and left the dumbfounded general to his thoughts about the afterlife. Forwarding my orders to my warriors, I cast a portal spell. Impressions are worth more than money; I wanted to leave in style.
Magic also liked style. The cast was error-free, successful on the first try. In 12 seconds, I plopped into the soft, ergonomic armchair in my Super Nova chambers.
“Greetings, Sir!” Lurch said cheerfully. “The following events have occurred during your absence, listed in terms of priority: 47 tons of loot have been entered into warehouses and treasury; 16311 points of ammo distributed, over 3,000 of them having gone toward suspicious invoices and officers’ orders. The Fallen One showed up in the Temple for two milliseconds. Hellhound offspring; seven new pups, one showing a talent for magic. An apprentice dwarf tried to infiltrate the secured location and obtain a chunk of morphite. He was neutralized by the interior guard orcs. The dwarf elders paid his bail; the violator’s weight in silver. Four sentients seem to be pregnant. The youngest cook, Anastasia, was sick this morning.”
He continued to report something completely unimportant. I relaxed and smiled, Home, sweet home.
My clan mates had obviously written a script that alerted them every time I went online. The chat filled with greetings and questions. Those with access to my private chat were already contacting me.
I uploaded photos of Khabarovsk to the clan’s screenshot album, along with pictures of familiar bedroom district buildings and T-90 white camouflage tanks and their permanently dirt-stained crewmen. Squeals of delight and tears of homesickness came in reply. There would be plenty of volunteers for the Khabarovsk mission...
I made an announcement about assembling a team to help the civilians of Khabarovsk and shared the video with the general’s emotional speech. Perhaps it was excessive, but the people of AlterWorld needed to see the state the people of Earth were in.
My clan mates were moved. Their party mood turned into a burning thirst for blood.
I chose the strongest from the average clan members and also those who had relatives in the Far East. I didn’t want to take warriors away from the Inferno raid; long-lasting injuries had already weakened our main forces there. A fifth of our troops had bad alchemy poisoning and suffered mutilation in artifact traps.
It was frightening that the clerics’ magic was beginning to malfunction. The instantaneous cure for such trifles as a severed head was more like a game miracle now rather than an everyday reality.
There was some good news too, however. The garrisons of smaller castles were retreating to Asmodeus’ main citadel, where they were drawing a gigantic pictogram. They were probably making a passage to their leader. It would have been nice to slaughter him along with his entire army. A creature of his level would take years to resurrect. Asmodeus had gained an insane amount of power. He was about as strong as an average god and was confidently climbing the Stairway to Heaven.
But such power had its drawbacks. Many gods had waited thousands of years for their respawn, until a bunch of dolts created a game identical to reality and prepared the right avatar by virtue of their faith.
Time went by quickly in the Super Nova. The volunteers lined up, anticipating going to Earth with butterflies in their stomachs. A hellhound was unobtrusively snooping around, feeling the warriors’ moods in an attempt to detect traitors in case some were planning to escape. We wouldn’t keep anyone in AlterWorld against their will, but the players’ bottomless inventories and absolute memories could mean potential loss of valuables and classified information.
I sighed as I pulled another Soul Stone out of my ammo belt. A portal cast was impossible without it. A little earlier, I had to hide yet another Soul Stone on Earth, at the Khabarovsk airbase. Soul Stone supplies were dwindling insanely fast.
Wrapping myself in a Wings of Levitation spell, I
jumped out a window, gliding down to the square by the donjon. Clerics and enchanters reported to me that they had renewed buffs for the mini-raid. The heavy golem drivers exhibited first-rate skills. They signaled to us that they were ready.
I nodded and created a portal, and a scout with a hellhound went in. The spectators and warriors in the rear stretched their necks trying to catch glimpses of Earth’s scenery. Soon, the scout and the hound came back; all clear, no ambush, no surprises, no one intent on attacking us.
I felt paranoid. But you had to be paranoid to survive under such circumstances. If the demons seized the commanding officers’ minds, the latter would greet us with five ZSU-23-4 SPAAGs to strike down the division coming out of the portal. Who would resurrect us then?
We got to Earth just fine. Some of my warriors had a fit of coughing though, tugging at their collars. The air on Earth was very bad, and its low mana concentration made them feel like they were being crushed by a concrete slab.
The general was there to meet us. He looked at my diverse army in confusion. The small creatures failed to impress him, although they had enough power to make the sky fall. He was happier to see the mighty ogres and trolls. Their muscles nearly caused their armor to burst, while their weapons weighed up to a 100 pounds or more. The 110-pound hammers commanded respect.
The general showed most interest in the dwarves. Classic walking tanks – that’s something a soldier of a technogenic world could really appreciate.
Finally, the general sighed, admitting his own lack of knowledge of such an army, and spoke, “The escort is ready. The enclaves have been informed of the situation, and the chief officers at each location are expecting us. I hope you know what you are doing.”
I nodded, “I doubt bloodshed can be avoided, but we will do our best to protect your people. Because you’re not digitized, you only have one life in the virtual world, and you can’t be resurrected with magic. Only as a zombie, perhaps.”
The general shook his head, indicating that this wasn’t necessary. His collar dug into his large neck muscles. Brawny fellow, I thought, did he used to be a wrestler? My absolute memory told me that he was just an old man with flabby skin the last time I saw him.